Howzat!

by Brett Lee

  ‘Yeah? It was too big an event for you to keep your cool, Scott. Great job you did for the team.’ I held my ground, knowing I’d gone too far. We stood there, both breathing hard, toe to toe.

  ‘Toby, just toss me a couple out here, would you?’ Jimbo called. ‘Or someone.’

  ‘Give me the ball, Scott,’ I said, holding out my hand.

  ‘No way, Jones. Not this one. It reverse swings a mile.’ Scott had apparently forgotten my outburst, or chosen to ignore my words. Perhaps he needed his ego stroked. ‘Watch this.’ He trotted back a few paces, turned and jogged in. The ball he bowled swung viciously from outside Jimbo’s off-stump, clipping him on the pads and crashing into the net behind. Was he wishing the ball to swing like that? Surely not.

  ‘Here, Jimbo!’ I called, sticking up my right hand and walking down the wicket towards him. I felt a shove from behind.

  ‘No way, Jones,’ Scott sneered, pushing me out of the way as Jimbo tossed the ball towards us. ‘This is my ball, mate.’

  ‘You ready, Jimbo?’ someone called from the doorway. I shrugged my shoulders at Jimbo, wished him good luck and set off after Scott.

  ‘Scott, wait up!’ I shouted. He’d gone into the far net. ‘Can I just take a look at that ball?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well actually, it’s my ball.’ Scott glared at me and I realised how pathetic I sounded. I wasn’t about to tell him about the Cricket Lords and what the ball could actually do. ‘Um, it was a gift and it’s just special, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t see anything on it that tells me it’s your ball, Jones.’

  ‘Everything okay there?’ Tom, one of the coaches, called, as he packed up the other balls and equipment.

  ‘All good,’ I replied, never taking my eyes off the ball. I sighed. ‘Okay, Scott. I’ll play you for it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He was interested, I could tell.

  ‘Two overs each. No protection for the batter. Indoor cricket scoring plus any runs you can make.’

  ‘And I get to use this ball?’

  ‘As long as I get to use it too. And the winner gets the ball.’

  ‘Forever?’ A small grin slowly broke out on his face. I nodded. ‘Toss you to bat first. Tom?’ he called, not even turning around. ‘Can you umpire this game for us?’ Tom paused by the door.

  ‘Sure, explain the rules,’ he said, walking towards us.

  I won the toss and chose to bat.

  ‘Yeah, well that suits me,’ Scott laughed. ‘I was going to bowl anyway.’

  ‘Toby, you’ll need to put on a helmet and a box,’ said Tom, as I walked into the net with nothing but my bat.

  ‘No way,’ Scott cried. ‘That’s what we agreed on.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have asked me to umpire. Do you think I’m that stupid to let either of you face up to the other without at least some protection? Now, I know there’s no love lost between you, which is a real shame as you’re two of the most talented cricketers we’ve had at these camps.’

  ‘We agreed…’

  ‘Scott, wait for Toby to put on his gear or get out of here,’ said Tom. I grabbed a box, slammed on a helmet and took guard.

  ‘Twelve balls only,’ Tom said, taking up position at the bowler’s end. ‘And you want lbw?’

  ‘Not for the first 12 balls,’ I grinned. Tom winked.

  ‘Hang on,’ Scott bellowed. ‘That’s not fair.’ I rolled my eyes.

  ‘Joking!’

  I knew Scott was thinking swing, reverse or otherwise. Hopefully that’s all I would have to try and play for. Expecting a big in-swinger first up, I eased back, conscious of keeping my bat and pad as close together as possible. But instead, he bowled a huge out-swinger. I missed it by a mile.

  I was rapped on the pads three times with his next five balls, but each was swinging too much for Tom to give the lbw decision.

  ‘It’s beautiful bowling, Scott,’ Tom called. A couple of coaches and players had wandered in to watch. I noticed Tom glance up above me. Two men wearing ties and jackets were sitting in the coaching booth on the next level.

  I ran a single off the next ball and edged his eighth delivery into the back net. Scott yelled his appeal but it had travelled along the ground. Before he realised, I had snuck another two runs.

  Four balls to go. Should I go for the slog and try and add some valuable runs but also risk a five-run penalty for getting out? Or should I try and sneak a couple more ones and twos?

  Moving slightly out of my crease, I settled over my bat and waited. He dug the next ball in short. No time to swing, I hoped, getting quickly inside the line and belting it into the side netting. I set off for a single, and turned it into another two as Scott fumbled with the ball in the netting. He hurled it at the stumps but I’d made my ground. I snuck yet another single. I had now scored eight runs. I managed another two runs off his next two deliveries but was clean-bowled by a massively swinging ball on his last. Ten runs had suddenly turned into five runs in the space of one ball.

  ‘Scott!’ I yelled, rushing towards him. He had placed the ball on the ground, and while Tom’s attention was diverted, I was convinced he was about to tread on it. His spikes would have made a mess of the ball. He looked up all innocent.

  ‘What?’ he glared at me, then picked up the ball and hurled it at me.

  ‘Stop!’ I yelled, staring in horror as the ball headed for my face. I threw up a hand, more in self-defence than in an attempt to catch it. But I needn’t have bothered. To my utter amazement, the ball hung in the air, frozen in front of my face. I quickly snatched the ball, pretending nothing had happened, and desperately hoping that none of the bystanders had seen it either.

  ‘What the—?’ Scott began, his mouth open.

  ‘What?’ I eyed him suspiciously. ‘Just good reflexes, that’s all.’

  ‘No, that ball…’

  ‘Come on, Scott. We should be out there watching the game.’ I walked past him, and called to Tom, who was chatting with a couple of guys near the doorway. The two men upstairs had left the booth. Perhaps that was a good thing.

  Scott took his time getting himself organised, but finally after a stern word from Tom, who probably thought we should also be back upstairs with the team, he finally settled over his bat.

  ‘Hit the stumps,’ I whispered softly, the ball near my mouth. It tingled and felt good in my hand; bright white stitching and a deep cherry red colour with one side so shiny I could almost see my reflection. Scott’s two overs with the ball hadn’t dulled the shine at all.

  The ball swung back sharply from outside Scott’s off-stump, deflecting off the inside edge of his bat and cannoning into the stumps. Scott swore loudly, swinging his bat at the stumps. Kicking the ball back to me, Scott adjusted his helmet.

  ‘I can’t see out of this,’ he snapped. I didn’t reply.

  ‘Find the edge of the bat,’ I said quietly, as I walked back to the top of my mark. The next ball swung hard again, crashing into Scott’s pads. I didn’t detect a nick but Scott looked anxiously at Tom before once again kicking the ball in my direction.

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you appeal?’ Tom asked, as I brushed past him.

  ‘He hit it, didn’t he?’

  Tom raised an eyebrow. ‘Did he? I’d make a hopeless umpire.’

  I bowled Scott out twice more. I sensed his final score of minus four could have been a lot worse. But I’d decided that he was still a part of the Aussie team and would be a better player if his confidence wasn’t shredded by being dismissed by Toby Jones six times in two overs.

  Scott threw me the ball, still muttering about the helmet. It seemed a perfect fit to me.

  ‘Thanks, Tom,’ I said, trying to shove the ball into my pocket.

  ‘You were playing for that?’ Tom asked, holding out a hand for the ball. I tossed it to him.

  ‘It has special value to me,’ I said, watching him nervously as he turned the ball over in his hand.

  ‘It talks, Toby,’ he
grinned, lobbing it back to me. ‘Fast bowlers love a ball that talks.’

  ‘You can say that again.’ I smiled to myself.

  We’d made another solid start with Jimbo and Cam both on 13 not out. I noticed that Jaimi Clayton, our number 8, had the pads on.

  ‘Nightwatchman?’ I asked, sitting down next to him. He nodded, not taking his eyes off the play. A nightwatchman is used near the end of the day’s play when you need to protect your main batters. If a wicket falls, the captain can choose to send in one of the bowlers. Jaimi was the designated nightwatchman.

  Freddy was standing at second slip, his hands on his hips. I watched him carefully during the last few overs of the day, looking for any sign that he might be behaving a bit differently from how he should be, but there was nothing about him that made him stand out from the rest of his team.

  He walked slowly between the change of overs, often looking up into the stands and at the scoreboard. But then, we all did that. It wasn’t every day that you got to play on the MCG.

  He was the last to leave the ground at the close of play, walking off alone about a minute after the rest of the team.

  After congratulating Jimbo and Cam for their stand, I walked quickly towards the library. I wanted to find out if David had managed to discover any more news about cricketers playing their last Test match here. But when I arrived, the door to the library was locked; the area outside it deserted.

  When I got back upstairs, the England players and coaches had all joined our team. I grabbed a bottle of water and immediately made a line towards Freddy, who was sitting on his own.

  ‘Hey, well batted today.’ He looked at me. His eyes looked pale and red—as if he’d been crying.

  ‘It’s a harsh sun you have out here.’ His head moved slowly as he turned to look at me. It was the last thing I’d expected him to say.

  ‘Yeah, well we’ve been lucky with the cloud cover. Sometimes in February and March it gets over 40 here.’

  ‘Forty?’ he looked puzzled. Maybe they used Fahrenheit in England, like they did in America.

  ‘Um, very, very hot.’ He leaned back and sighed, a slight smile on his face.

  ‘What’s your highest score?’ I asked. I thought he mustn’t have heard me. I was about to repeat the question but Freddy stood up suddenly, glancing about the room as if searching for something.

  ‘Where you heading, Fred?’ one of the England coaches asked, his face showing concern. Perhaps they had noticed some odd behaviour. Freddy muttered something incoherent and pushed his way out of the room. I got up and followed.

  ‘Toby?’ I almost crashed into Ally, who was standing outside the doorway with Rahul and Jay.

  ‘Hey, guys, did you see which way that kid went?’

  ‘Toby, there’s something wrong,’ Jay said, grabbing my arm. I shrugged it off.

  ‘Guys, this is important.’ I broke away and headed up the ramp, looking right and left.

  ‘Listen, Toby.’ There was a sense of urgency in Ally’s voice that made me stop. ‘Something’s happened to Georgie. We can’t find her.’

  ‘What do you mean, you can’t find her? Have you tried her phone? Didn’t she say where she was going?’

  ‘Of course we have,’ Ally snapped.

  I had to think fast. I was worried that Freddy might do something crazy. I wasn’t sure exactly why, but I didn’t trust the Grubber and I was the only person who could help him.

  ‘Listen. Go in and grab Jimbo. Get him to get my phone and ring David, the MCC librarian. His number’s on my phone.’

  ‘What will he do?’ Jay asked, looking sceptical.

  ‘More than I can do,’ I snapped back. ‘He knows this place. He knows the security people.’

  ‘I thought she was your best friend?’ Ally said, eyeing me keenly.

  ‘And, Toby, you were the last one to see her. Did she say anything? Where she was going?’ Rahul sounded anxious.

  ‘What do you mean I was the last one to see her?’ And then I stopped. ‘Oh no,’ I said, my stomach tightening suddenly. Ally stepped forward.

  ‘What is it, Toby?’ She looked worried.

  ‘Go and see David,’ I snapped. It came out harsher than I meant it, but my words had the desired effect and they moved off to find David. I turned and ran before any of them could change my mind. I wasn’t sure I could do this on my own.

  The MCG was an enormous space, and although it was virtually empty, hunting Freddy down would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  ‘Freddy!’ I shouted, bounding down the escalators in the Members area four steps at a time. A few people turned to look. ‘Have you seen a guy, um, a kid wearing cricket gear go past this way?’ I asked a group of adults. One of them looked me up and down, frowning.

  ‘Well, ten minutes ago there was a group of them on the oval playing cricket.’ The others laughed. I smiled, pretending to find his joke funny. The oval. Maybe that’s where Freddy, or should I say the Grubber inside him, would go. Back to the place he knows best: the MCG pitch.

  I was on the lower level but still had access to the ground. Sure enough, on the far side of the oval, walking around the perimeter beneath the Southern Stand, was the lone figure of Freddy.

  There was no gate at the bottom, so I hurdled the fence and ran onto the ground, then stopped suddenly. Maybe it would be best if I sneaked around the stands so he didn’t see me, though what if I couldn’t get all the way around?

  But it was too late; he’d seen me. He started jogging. I sprinted after him, angling myself across the ground so I’d intercept him—as long as he kept running in the same direction. But he stopped, and darted up into the outer. Veering right so I would avoid the pitch and the groundsmen out there working on it, I ran across the ground, trying to keep track of his movements.

  By the time I’d got to the other side, he was out of sight again. I ran through the open gate and turned left, just managing to catch a glimpse of him as he headed towards the stairs at the back of the stand.

  Pulling the cricket ball out of my pocket, I slowed momentarily, took aim and hurled it at Freddy. It missed him by millimetres, smacking into the top of the stairs and rebounding back towards me. Grabbing it, I stumbled up the steps after him.

  ‘Freddy!’ I panted, looking up. ‘You’ve got to stop!’ From somewhere above came a horrible screaming sound. ‘Freddy!’

  I could hear him still climbing the steps, but his footsteps were getting slower. I threw the ball again as he was climbing the next flight of stairs, this time hitting him on the back leg. He slowed briefly, but then regained his balance, and struggled on.

  ‘The curse,’ I hissed, angrily. I’d forgotten to say the four words. I scampered up the next flight of stairs, hoping that Freddy wasn’t going all the way to the top deck of the Southern Stand. But as I rounded the corner, I knew straight away that he wasn’t.

  With a grim smile on his face, Freddy was slowly walking backwards towards the edge of the second level.

  ‘No, Freddy!’ I called, frozen to the spot. ‘Stop!’ But he kept on moving. I could just make out the top of the huge sheet of material with my name splashed all over it. So this is where they had all sat, I thought, then shook my head, surprised that I could be thinking such a thing at a moment like this.

  Freddy’s face was bright red and his body was heaving up and down, his mouth gulping desperately as he tried to suck air into his lungs.

  ‘You will destroy us both,’ he wheezed, continuing to walk backwards towards the edge.

  I’m close enough to hit him, I thought, rotating the ball carefully in my hand so that the seam was over my index and big finger. From somewhere to our left a voice cried out. There was another scream. I looked across and almost fell over with shock. I was up on the big screen, along with Freddy. Someone was filming us now. I dropped my hand, suddenly nervous that there were people watching me. I paused, wondering if I’d get as good an opportunity again. In a flash the decision was clear; there would be tim
e for explanations later.

  Suddenly my arm was up and the ball was fizzing towards Freddy.

  ‘You’ve been caught out!’ I screamed. The ball made a whooshing noise as it spun through the air before connecting with Freddy’s neck. He stumbled back, his fingers frantically reaching for air as he lost his balance and fell onto the edge of the stand.

  ‘No!’ I yelled, rushing forwards. But it was too late. As if in slow motion, he toppled over. I watched in horror as he plunged over the edge, at the last moment clutching the sheet. There was a great ripping noise as his fingers caught onto the enormous piece of cloth.

  I grabbed a hunk of rope and material still attached to the stand. For a split second nothing happened, then suddenly I was jerked forward, my stomach smashing into the concrete wall, forcing the air out of my lungs. I hung onto the thin rope tied to the ledge, praying that it wouldn’t give way. Every muscle in my body strained with the exertion of holding him steady. How far was he from the ground below?

  There were more screams then the sound of feet and voices.

  ‘Hold on!’ I heard someone yell. And then, ‘Let go, son. We’ll catch you!’ But the weight I was fighting against didn’t budge. I felt a pair of hands, and then another pair, press in close and slowly I let go.

  ‘The kid’s paralysed with fear,’ someone shouted.

  ‘Freddy! It’s me. You’re okay,’ one of his teammates called from below. They must have seen what was happening on the scoreboard or on the monitors inside the dressing rooms, and all rushed over.

  ‘Jesus, Freddy, come on!’ Freddy’s knuckles grasping the torn sheet were white, and his face was frozen in terror. He was in total shock. He was only a few metres above a mass of outstretched arms, waiting to receive him.

  I bent down, picked up the ball, and aimed at the small section of sheet just above his hands.

  ‘He’s coming down now,’ I yelled. ‘Hit his hands,’ I whispered to the ball, then threw it firmly at his outstretched fingers. The ball hit him directly on the knuckles and he immediately lost his grip. Freddy was caught by eight pairs of arms and gently lowered to the ground.