by Ron Elliott
When they were seated with a pot of tea and toast and a bun at the railway station cafeteria, David asked, ‘Are you a teacher?’
‘A teacher?’
‘Sometimes you talk like a teacher.’
‘Oh dear. Sorry.’ His uncle was smiling with his eyes and not sorry at all.
‘Other times you talk like a swagman, I suppose. Rough. And other times you talk like...’ David struggled to place what he meant, but then found it. ‘Like someone on the wireless. A wireless person being funny.’
‘You think altogether way too much. If you think too much your head breaks in half. Did you know that?’
‘Yes, sir, I do. Then I just stop thinking and look at things.’
David saw surprise on his uncle’s face. It was the first time he’d seen such an expression on Uncle Mike. Perhaps he’d given the wrong kind of answer. He stopped looking at the man and concentrated on the good taste of the bun. A bit of jam would have been good if they’d had the money.
‘That’s a good trick that,’ said Michael. ‘I do the same but it takes a fair amount of grog to get there.’
David looked up, ready to smile, but his uncle was not looking at him.
They finished their breakfast in silence. David thought of his grandfather. It was easy to make him angry because he had high standards and was a hard taskmaster. But the rules were there, plain and clear. You could predict what would please and displease the old man. Every time he thought he had worked out how his uncle wanted things, it would all go sideways again. Like a leggie on a dusty pitch, thought David, smiling at his own joke.
After breakfast, they walked to the WACA ground, seeing as David ‘had eaten their tram fare.’
Just inside a back gate, Uncle Mike stopped and took a couple of cricket balls from his cricket bag. He then stowed both their bags behind the empty gatekeeper’s box.
David looked around with pleasure. ‘This is where Grandad used to play.’
Michael led David past a grandstand and around the ground towards the scoreboard. The ground was green and grassy. It looked even and flat, watered and cut. David wanted to go out to the middle just to touch the turf wicket. The grass was rolled and cut and rolled again so that it was as nearly as hard as cement, but also soft enough to take spin.
David heard a bat hitting a cricket ball. Down past the scoreboard, behind some seating, there was another grassed area. Nets had been suspended from big poles, surrounding two coir-matted pitches and two turf pitches. A bowler was bowling to a batsman, while two older men watched and talked.
Michael handed David the cricket balls. ‘Bowl these down on that spare wicket there, matey. Make sure you hit the wickets every time. All right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m just going to talk to Dunny there.’
‘Dunny?’
‘Bob Dunne. You heard of him?’
‘Yes. He’s the West Australian Combined coach. Like Grandad was.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe nothing like Grandad was. He’s also a bit of an unofficial national talent scout. Tells ’em who’s worth a look from the bush.’
David had more questions, but his uncle was already walking on ahead to greet the older man in the loose grey suit. Bob Dunne looked to Michael in a wary kind of way, then over to David for a moment. Michael talked into his ear.
David went to the near vacant nets and started to loosen his shoulders and wrist, spinning one of the balls in nice little arcs over his little finger. The ball was torn and weathered and easy to grip.
In the next nets the bowler ran in fast and bowled. The batsman brought his bat down hard and neat on the rising ball, and hit it back down into the pitch. ‘Nice nut, Cracker.’ The batsman used his bat to flick the ball back to Cracker, then caught sight of David watching, and winked.
David nodded, then turned to bowl a ball at the wickets at the other end of his nets. He bowled a bad ball. It was flat and spun uselessly away down leg side. David closed his eyes. He hadn’t thought about the delivery at all. He had not thought about what he would bowl, had not considered the pitch or imagined who he might be bowling to.
He took off his cap and pullover and made himself prepare to bowl properly. He made himself think out loud. ‘Okay, so what kind of pitch is this? The ball spun, so there’s something in the wicket. Looks like there’s some bounce too.’
David went to retrieve the ball he’d just bowled. He looked down at the wicket where a batsman would stand. These were nets, so there were no foot holes down this end where a bowler would run through on a real pitch. But there were worn patches where batsmen had stood, and it was greener in some places and drier in others. The grass smelled of water and good dirt.
‘Davey. David.’
David looked up. His uncle was standing at the open end of the nets with Bob Dunne and the young man who had been batting in the next net. ‘Come on. Mr Dunne wants you to bowl at young Hasluck here.’
The batsman headed down to take his guard, saying, ‘Come on chappie, can you be quick about it? I really need to practise.’
Other players had begun to arrive on the other side of the nets.
David noticed the derby hat first. It was Jack Tanner from Northam. Before David had time to think more about that his uncle touched him on the shoulder.
‘Davey, it’s time to concentrate, mate.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now it’d be good if you could get this young bloke out. I haven’t seen him bat.’
‘I have. He was batting when we got here.’
‘All right. I’ve used up my last favours in all of Perth for this, so we probably don’t have many goes.’
David wasn’t sure what his uncle meant or what the goes were for. Michael must have seen the confusion because he said, ‘Naw, just have some fun and get him out. All right?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘What’s this, boss?’ Jack Tanner called out. ‘Haven’t we got training this morning?’
Bob Dunne held up a quieting hand.
‘David,’ warned Uncle Michael, and just pointed to the batsman.
David stood at the top of his mark. Hasluck had been batting quite well against speed. He seemed to like to cut and play on the off side. David decided on off spin, but with a little flight to entice him into a shot. He stepped in and bowled.
The batsman saw the ball well in the air, but was very casual with his footwork, and merely dangled the bat outside the line. The ball spun inwards and took middle and off stumps. He looked back at his stumps, then angrily at his own feet. Some jeers came from the other men. Tanner yelled, ‘Hit him out of the park, Lucky.’ Hasluck righted his wickets and tossed the ball back, scowling at his team mates. Bob Dunne and Michael said nothing.
David stood at the top of his mark watching Hasluck take guard. He was hitting the bat down on the crease, solidly and repeatedly. ‘He’s angry,’ said David to himself, ‘really angry, and really ready to hit me as hard as he can.’ David knew exactly what to do.
David ran in and bowled a looping delivery, with some back spin. Hasluck saw it early, and hit early too. The ball dipped in the air and then held up a little when it hit the wicket so that Hasluck was partly through his shot as the ball arrived. It took the bat high, ballooning easily back to David. He caught it with both hands against his chest.
‘Live grenade,’ said David, not quite believing he’d caught the ball.
‘Good ball, David,’ said Uncle Michael.
Hasluck was looking at his bat as though it had a crack in it. Dunne was scratching his chin.
‘Bowl me another one. I got it now,’ yelled Hasluck.
But Dunne called out to one of the other players. ‘Derrick, would you mind having a look at this young fella here?’
Michael said, ‘Derrick Jarvis.’
David said, ‘Opening batsman for Guildford and Western Australia. Tight defence. Scores on the on side mainly.’
Michael opened his eyes, in his pleased surprise look. ‘Y
es, that’s the one. You sleep with a radio next to your ear or something?’
‘The newspaper,’ said David. ‘Grandad and me always read the sporting results and discuss the players.’
Jarvis nodded a smile to David as he entered the nets. Other players cuffed and pushed Hasluck as he came out. An older player had moved behind the rear of the nets, directly behind the batsman, to get a better look at the bowling from there. He pulled a cigarette paper from a packet and started to sprinkle tobacco onto it as he watched.
Jack Tanner said loudly, ‘Last time I saw this kid, he was taking pennies off folk at a county fair. That was a sideshow too.’
Jarvis took his guard. ‘All right then, son.’
Michael stood with David at the top of his run. ‘He’s not the sort of player who will go after you, so don’t think you have to get him out straight away.’
‘Yes, sir.’ David decided on trying to set up a trap for Jarvis.
The comfortable silence of concentrated attention fell over the nets.
David’s first ball was flatter than usual and pitched outside off stump, spinning in towards the wicket. Jarvis stepped back, and straightened, the bat held steady to keep the ball off his wicket. Jarvis blocked it, saying nothing, but nodding at what he’d seen.
David’s next delivery was a leg break. It pitched on-line with leg stump where Jarvis liked it, but moved swiftly towards his off stump. He didn’t get his bat there in time. The ball sailed over the wicket.
‘What did you reckon about that one then, Wally?’ said Jarvis to the man behind the nets.
‘That was a leggie. Nice variation. I didn’t see it coming. Seems to be a leg spinner who can bowl offies. What was that last one he gave you, Lucky?’
‘Dunno. Held up on me, sudden. Maybe a flipper.’
Jack Tanner spat a decent sized chunk of chewing tobacco onto the ground.
David was now ready to spring his trap. If it looked the same as the first, the batsman would think he recognised it, only it would really be much faster. When Jarvis saw it land, he started to go back again, ready to hit it on the off side. But this time it beat the bat and crashed into the stumps, the perfect wrong-un.
‘There you go Bob. I told you the kid could bowl. A prodigy. George Baker trained him.’
‘George Baker. Wow.’
The man behind the nets called out to David, ‘So how is old George?’
‘He’s good. He’s my grandad.’
‘George Baker’s grandson!’
‘There’s pedigree for you.’
Bob Dunne turned to David too. ‘That means your dad was Ernie Donald.’
Jarvis chimed in, arriving at the bowler’s end, ‘Now that man could bat a bit.’
David held himself still, waiting for them to talk about his father.
Jack Tanner spoke from the cricket bags. ‘He’s proved nothing ’cept there’s some soft-hearted dills want to make a kid happy. This lad might be the grandson of George Baker but he’s the nephew of Michael Donald. You forgotten why Michael left the WA team?’
Michael spoke to Dunne and Jarvis. ‘It’s personal with Jack. Nothing was ever proved and it cost me my cricket.’
Tanner grabbed his bat and strode towards them as though he might hit Michael with it. ‘He got thrown out of the side for taking bets ... against his own team.’
Michael continued to talk more quietly to Dunne. ‘Suspected, not proved. But this isn’t about me. It’s about the kid, and what he can do for your cricket side. Come on Bob, since Sean O’Leary did his shoulder, you got no spinner worth twopence.’
‘No team in the whole country has a spinner worth a zack,’ called the man from behind the nets.
Jack Tanner stood with Michael, Dunne and Jarvis. ‘He’s got the coward’s wound.’
‘Now he’s going to attack my war record.’
‘Enough of that, thank you, Jack,’ said Jarvis.
Tanner turned and went to the wicket where David was bowling, talking all the way. ‘When will you blokes learn? He doesn’t want me facing the boy cos I know how to play him. Part of the trick, I reckon, is how he looks. You see this gormless little scarecrow with those long arms and longer fingers, and you feel sorry for him. And you get yourself out. If you act like a batsman facing a real bowler then he’s easy.’
‘Now he’s cruelly insulting the poor lad just to put him off,’ appealed Michael. ‘I don’t have to stand for this. We’ll come back later Bob and you can have a look at him when things aren’t so ... heated.’
‘Uncle Mike,’ said David quietly, ‘I can bowl him.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve seen him bat. A lot. I thought about what I did wrong at the show.’
Michael led David off a little. ‘You sure? He smacked you a fair bit.’
‘I was thinking about all the people. They ... all the looks. All the poppy eyes and ... I started thinking about the people and what they were calling, and what he was calling.’
‘What’s different now?’
‘It’s cricket nets. Cricket players who I’ve read about and ... It’s cricket nets.’
‘Well, we’ll have to sort that out some time, but for now...’ Uncle Mike looked at Tanner then over at the other cricketers and to Dunne. He shrugged. ‘You’re right. Just cricket nets. Just some chaps from the paper.’
‘Just practice.’
Michael patted David’s shoulder. He stood and called, ‘All right Jack. If it’ll shut up ya whingeing.’
David went to the top of his mark. He decided that a dipping, well-flighted ball should beat Tanner in the air. He ran in. Tanner suddenly stepped away from the crease, not taking his guard, as though not ready to bat. David had to pull up and not let go of the ball. Tanner smiled then waved at the air. ‘Flies are bad.’ There was laughter.
‘You afraid to face him are ya, Jack?’ said Michael.
David ignored them. He just thought about Jack Tanner in his batting stance. The same ball would do. He ran in to bowl. Again Tanner started to step away, but it was later in David’s delivery. He bowled the ball, but dragged his arm down too far. As the ball came out, Tanner stepped back in. He’d just been pretending. He leaned back and launched the bat with his powerful shoulders, catching the ball on the full. Whack. It flew back over David’s head and over some sheds towards the wall surrounding the ground. Tanner started bowing. There were cheers from his team mates. ‘Like shellin’ peas, gentlemen.’
David yelled, ‘That wasn’t fair.’
‘Fair game, I reckon,’ said Tanner. ‘Now are we done?’
‘That wasn’t fair, Mr Dunne,’ repeated David.
‘Things aren’t always fair, son,’ replied Dunne.
‘Yes it is. It’s cricket. It has to be fair.’
‘I bet ya twenty quid that David gets you out next ball,’ yelled Michael suddenly.
‘Twenty quid?’
‘Twenty quid. And if he doesn’t, we’ll leave.’
Tanner smiled as he exaggerated taking his guard.
David looked at his uncle with growing alarm. David wasn’t so sure any more that he could bowl at the unreadable Tanner. Uncle Mike was coming towards him, holding out a cricket ball.
‘Do you have twenty pounds?’
‘Will soon, I reckon.’ He smiled the good smile, his best smile, the one with all the sparkling in his eyes.
David tried to resist it. ‘That’s not right, Uncle Mike.’
‘This Tanner bloke deserves to get his comeuppance, wouldn’t you say?’
David turned to look at Jack Tanner. The big man was looking at the tightly wound string around his bat handle as though David and his uncle weren’t even there.
Uncle Mike talked quietly. ‘I reckon he’s going to just block you.’
‘What? But he always hits me way over. That’s how he shows off.’
‘But he hates me more. So, my thinking is this. He knows you’ve seen him go for you. But here’s the picture I think he’s starting to get
in his mind. Tanner will just block the ball back, with nothing on it, then look at me, and hold his hand out to get the twenty pounds. He won’t even smile. Take the money, and show me that he’ll never think about me for a moment ever again. I’m nothing to him, and this next shot is going to show everyone, but mostly me, that that’s what he thinks. Not even worth the energy of hitting hard.’
David looked at his uncle. He had just told a whole story about what was going to happen inside Jack Tanner’s mind. David looked down to his hands. He had the cricket ball there. It was scuffed and torn with a frayed stitch, but the leather was still firm.
Michael took the ball from him. ‘Do you understand, David?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Let me put it this way. He is going to block you. He is absolutely definitely one hundred per cent going to block you. Do you believe that?’
David looked at his uncle. He was trying to believe him.
‘Now get him out.’ Michael gave him the ball and walked back to the others.
Tanner stood tall and loose like he was going to smash the ball out of the ground. He did not look like he was going to block it. But he often changed his stance late. He often tricked David into thinking the wrong thing. From where he was standing, it would be very difficult to get down to block one kind of ball.
‘David Donald prepares to bowl. Jack Tanner, on ninety-nine, looks set. Donald comes in.’ David ran in and bowled a shooter. The shooter was like the skidder, but did not hold up when it hit the wicket. The ball flew in a temptingly slow arc through the air but when it hit the pitch it sped up, also keeping low. Tanner was caught by surprise. Just as his uncle had predicted, Tanner had moved back to block the ball, but didn’t bring his bat down low enough or quickly enough to block the ball. It spun forwards fast and hit his pads, directly in front of the wickets.
‘Not out,’ yelled Tanner.
Dunne’s finger was up in the umpire’s sign for out.
The man behind the stumps had his finger up too. ‘He’s got a shooter. Lad’s got a shooter. Takes ten years to work up a decent shooter, I thought. Old George musta had him practising before he was born.’