When I was about eleven or twelve I did have a brief stint playing with Sandy Bay Cricket Club women’s team. Here I received coaching from the men, and began to practise in earnest with my straight bat, and line and length with my bowling. But once my friend Libby quit cricket, my option of lifts to training and games dried up. Because I was just starting out at the all-girls school at the time, unlike at co-ed state primary school, there was no cricket on offer, so my desire for playing the sport competitively had a lid firmly shut on it.
Throughout my teenage years, every day after high school I played in our bricked carport with my brother, converting cricket into our own version of a kind of cricket–squash. In that house in the up-and-coming suburb, many a tennis ball bore the brunt of my teenage frustrations and longing to be out on the farm with my horse as I bowled full pelt over and over at chalked stumps on a brick wall. My life lifted during school holidays, when we had more space to play, in paddocks at the farm or on beaches, particularly on Christmas Day with a cluster of once-a-year cousins and beery-cheery uncles who would not put down their stubbies for love nor money, even when fielding. It could just be the memory of it, a blaze of glory-days nostalgia, but in recent years, watching the skill level in my son develop as he bowls, fields and bats, I can see the fire in the belly I used to have for cricket. I can’t help but think that if there had been a clearer path forward for young girls in schools, I may have played at club or state level in women’s cricket . . . and if I’d worked hard enough, even beyond. Who’s to say? The days are gone, but my love of cricket hasn’t.
As I faced my second summer in the flystrike-green rental, I braced myself for the long haul of holidays when the kids go to stay with their dad. It’s here when the agony within would rise up in me again – a choking sensation. I knew I would be missing my favourite summertime activities on the farm – shearing, haymaking, barbecues with the rellies in a paddock cooking on a plough disc hot plate, swimming the dogs in the dam at sunset. But it wasn’t so much that – it was that I wasn’t there by my children’s side to impart to them all I had learned and loved about working human, dog and beast within a healthy landscape.
Thankfully the universe delivered me a brilliant distraction at that moment and I was offered a dream job through December and January promoting limited-over cricket to women and children for the Hobart Hurricanes, who play in the raucous, fast-paced Big Bash League of 20-over cricket. It was also the very first year the Hurricanes were introducing a women’s side to play alongside the men’s in the same purple colours. For the first match I went to as their writer, Hobart couldn’t have turned it on better. The frequently chill winds blown over kunanyi and up the River Derwent from the Antarctic were blissfully still. The night was warm and a Christmas moon shaped like the belly of Santa, promising fullness in a few days, was rising in a lavender sky beside the looming light towers of Blundstone Arena.
I’d been asked to invite ‘cricket virgins’ to attend the matches with me, to spread via word of mouth the thrilling experience of the game in this format. I settled my guests in with a seafood box, a Bundy and a beer, and instructed them on how to use their ‘four’ and ‘six’ signs, and with purple Hurricanes Santa hats on, we were ready to roll. My inner-yobbo child from those seventies days was ready to come out to play. I love cricket in all forms of the game. Whether it’s at Lord’s with players in Test whites or on a bracken-fern-covered bush block beside a caravan, with me wearing board shorts and Crocs, and with a garbage bin as wicket, cricket is heaven to me no matter when, where or how.
It runs in the family too. My mum is a volunteer at the Blundstone Arena Cricket Museum and gives tours to the people who drift through there to gaze at bats and hats behind glass. On match days she sits in the members’ area with her friend Lindsay, covered in sunscreen or blankets or both, for the first ball delivery of a five-day Test match, depending on the fickle Hobart weather. Test matches are the style of cricket that showcases the refinement of gentlemen in white and long-held traditions that are clutched close to purists’ hearts. While I love the buzz of BBL, Test cricket is my sound of summer. It’s the commentary and consistency over days that kept me going during harvest time in western New South Wales or skirting fleeces in the shed until the last sheep was shorn on a sweltering day. In the ute in after-school traffic, it keeps me calm. But because society has changed, with flashing screens and three-second sound grabs, if we are to lure children away from their electrified, buzzy, virtual and far-too-often sedentary worlds, the limited-over style of cricket is the way to do it. BBL is the hook to catch the next generation of cricket fans – particularly girls – with its colour and zing and quick pace. Once the administrators and marketers of Test cricket embrace women into the sport, I believe Test cricket is less likely to die a slow, painful death. The contrast couldn’t be greater between Mum’s friend Lindsay, doing her crosswords or crochet with her glasses elegantly sitting on the end of her nose whilst watching a Test, and the BBL buzz of firestacks fizzing, thumping music and a 15 000-strong crowd of roaring fans. In BBL, the stadium takes on the quality of a big-league baseball match. White balls tonked over heads against a blue sky, zinger bails sparking and there are catches, fumbles, tumbles, swings, misses, leaps and dives. My guests didn’t understand it all, but they didn’t need to. They were caught up in the atmosphere of purple passion.
I don’t think it was an accident that the very year I was asked to work for the Hobart Hurricanes was the same time the women were being given a crack, albeit with reduced televised matches and salaries that were only a fraction of the men’s earnings. The women players had to cram their matches into weekends as most of them were working full-time jobs – unlike many of their male cricketing counterparts, who were paid to play. Again I reiterate if we diminish one half of our community we diminish us all, so thankfully we are on the cusp of sweeping change where we are enjoying a feminine awakening . . . which is vastly different to a feminist uprising. The movement is coming from the core place of a woman . . . a place of peace, love and power, and it is also coming from the feminine awakening within men. I was discovering some wonderful male administrators within the sport who were championing the cause for both-gender cricket competitions, as they knew it would further the sport and bring benefits to families as a whole. It was exciting to be meeting our new brotherhood of gentle men in high-level sports administration.
In the midst of the buzz I spotted a living goddess in the crowd – West Indian heroine Hayley Matthews – fresh from her 77 runs during a 51-ball knock for the Canes.
‘That’s the future!’ I said to my guests. ‘Soon we’ll get to see women like that paid and celebrated as much as the men! Just like the tennis stars.’
As my ten-year-old son leant over the fence hoping for Ms Matthews’ autograph, my mates were beginning to see the bigger picture. Sport feeds our nation’s psyche, and yes, the BBL offers rip-roaring entertainment, but it also offers a celebration of life and the freedom of Aussie larrikinism away from daily pressures and a level of intellectualism that keeps us so serious. And it also offers us a chance for women to find inspiration in others, so we have the belief we can claim our right to share the turf on the sports field as well as on our farmland.
The next match I hosted guests was kicked off on New Year’s Day, when the women’s Hurricanes team claimed their place on the Blundstone Arena paddock as a first in history. Move aside, bulls, I thought gleefully, we have jumped the fence! My cricket wingmen hailed from the Derwent Valley, Huon region, Orielton and even as distant as Coleraine in far western Victoria. Throw into the mix a few cricket crazy kids and a couple of vet friends, and we thunder-sticked our way into a night that was more sparkly than a Sydney skyline putting on a fireworks show.
My longtime stockman buddy George, who was taking rare time off from his business as a livestock contractor on the mainland, had never been to a BBL event, and being a dyed-in-the-wool country lad, set about comparing human behaviour wi
th livestock flow. We were, after all, a group of friends fascinated with animal psychology. In our minds, the main entrance to Blundstone Arena turnstiles became drafting gates, the curved walls of the stadium became bugle yards to help livestock flow, the inflatable thunder sticks became ‘sheep shifters’, even though in George’s stock camp low-stress stock handling would never see them used.
My working-dog trainer friend Sandra noticed how, like sheep, we followed leaders with an unseen synergy. Like a big mob, we take on a mob mentality when we gather in our human herd, and that’s what I loved so much about that year’s BBL. The organisers were giving the women a crack at being as big-time as the blokes and I could see that what that does to human mob mentality is invaluable to us as a society, in terms of restoring masculine–feminine balance in our psyche. What that does to mob mentality is invaluable to us as a society.
As a ‘Hurricanes ambassador’, I’d been offered a place for my guests in the Chairman’s room, but my country crowd was too happy with the rest of the herd to be yarded like that. They wanted to remain in the main mob in our informal denim dress with our offspring by our sides, preferring to run with the Hurricanes herd in general admission – and run we did. As we watched the awesome women cricketers become national heroes before our very eyes, my heart sang when my son excitedly cried out, ‘Veronica’s bowling!’ His former Milo Cricket coach from little east coast town Orford, Veronica Pyke promptly went on to take three Brisbane Heat wickets in several goosebump-filled moments.
My boy then said, ‘Mummy, in a few years’ time, this stadium will be packed when people realise the women are this good!’ To educate a young bull like my son in his formative years about the power and place of women is invaluable to me as a mother. I heard my friend Maria sigh, ‘It’s just so nice to see women out there.’ Both of us are mums who met through our daughters’ participation at Riding for the Disabled, Kingborough. Here at the cricket we not only got to spend ‘mum time’ with our beautiful sons, who set aside many of their own needs for the sake of their siblings, but we also got to reevaluate our own self-worth in society. We were proudly witness to the next generation of women and their right to stand alongside the men on the cricket pitch. Under a sky that we all swore had purple hues in the clouded sunset, we cheered the girls to victory, and deep within me I knew that the little cricket-crazy girl on the hill in the seventies would be doing cartwheels in excitement, knowing how the world has turned!
It was like a scene out of a rural romance novel that morphed into a comedy, or at least that’s how it ran in my creative writer’s head. There I was on a hot, windswept, dry, summer-ravaged hill on my buckskin horse, the view of farmland and mountains sweeping around me for 360 degrees with two wedge-tailed eagles to the west soaring in the hazy blue sky. Beside me an Argentine cowboy in a Wrangler shirt, blue jeans and dusty boots was sitting astride a chunky bay horse, looking as if they both belonged in a Harlequin outback romance novel. As I turned my face to the winds I’d said in passing that my lips had blistered, and there he was, swivelling in his saddle, reaching his long tanned fingertips into his jeans pocket and taking out his ChapStick. In his knee-wobbling Latino accent, I heard him say, ‘Would you like some, Rachael?’, stretching out his arm and waving the small tube of lip balm at me. My imagined heroine looked at his handsome face beneath his broad-brimmed hat, his hazel eyes catching the sunlight, and I found her saying in a husky soap-opera voice, ‘Why, yes, Carlos, I would like some. Why don’t you apply it to your lips first and then simply kiss me?’
My imagined novelist scenes rarely, if ever, play out in real life for me, and the truth was I was on that hill with a bunch of other women, all gaining insight and skills from one of the most mindful and respected teachers I’ve ever had the honour of knowing, Carlos Tabernaberri. Instead, in my ocker fashion, I replied, ‘Thanks, mate,’ as I took the tube from Carlos. ‘That’d be great. My lips are caning.’
This kind of ‘head play’, where I construct scenes for possible future stories, happens often to me at any given time and it was truly novelist gold riding out with a bloke like Carlos Tabernaberri and my new posse of horsey women. Much like my truffle girls, they were strong, vibrant, brilliant women. And oh so funny, not to mention beautiful. They were the kind of women who, when standing in the yards, provided me with classic comedy dialogue like, ‘I’m going to look like an adolescent boy by the end of the day cos this bloody dust is sticking to my mo.’
Despite the fun I was having, the reality was I was so challenged by what I was learning from this extremely clever and philosophical horseman that I was using all kinds of self-diversion tactics. Humour was my way of dealing with the gravity of what I had been uncovering during my five-day clinic with him about my very shutdown, self-doubting self and the impact it had had on my horse, Archie. As I sat upon my horse on that hill, I wondered if the other women were going through the same self-esteem wobblies like I was. I had come to the realisation that when I entered my horse’s paddock I was not only putting my saddle on his back, but also saddling him up with my life’s grief, disappointment and loss, and, most of all, the deep psychological belief in my disempowerment as a woman, and the inner doubt that I was not a fit or worthy leader.
Here it was being clearly reflected back at me during the first few days of the clinic via my very shutdown horse. Horses are such a strong reflection of where you are at with your energy. I’d not risen to the task of taking on Archie’s leadership as I was so unsteady in my confidence. Instead I’d leant on others to take him on for me, but I knew I needed to take the reins in my own life. Over the years I’d already reached out to a few trainers to help me with building my horsemanship skills, which seemed stuck in gear from childhood. I didn’t just want instruction, I wanted mindfulness and horsemanship that, like my dog training, was all about using the creature’s language and bypassing human ego. Our animals are a reflection of ourselves. I’ve seen it over and over. Good self-esteem in the handler, and the animals reflect it. Loving heart, and the animal reflects it. Calmness – again, that animal mirror shows us the truth of what’s within us. I had lost my belief in myself and with it I had not been able to be the best leader to my horse that I wanted to be . . . until Carlos came cantering into my life as a mentor. I’d been to other trainers – all with important lessons, all mindful, but never had I set five whole days aside for myself and my horse. I’d always given and given to those around me and put myself last. To step out of my routine of children and work to just be with myself and my horse was terrifying, but I knew I would be in good hands and in good company. Carlos is a man who has changed lives – many of them human, many of them horses. In his line of work, he has to be therapist for both equine and human souls. Not an easy thing when modern living leaves us so frazzled and detached and, for me, time-poor with horses.
It was the first time off I’d had to myself in over twelve years, away from my kids and my work commitments. Instead of booking a beach holiday like a normal person would, I of course chose a trip that would include my ‘fur kids’ . . . my dogs and horses. It felt odd that I didn’t have to wake up and focus on what school uniforms were needed for the day and what could be packed into the school lunches, and how many emails I needed to respond to. I’d felt more than a huge twinge of guilt that I’d set aside these five days right on the Australia Day long weekend and had turned down rural community requests for appearances. It felt terrible shutting the door to everyone else, but I needed to just go and be with my horse.
Little did I know it would be a life-changing experience, hanging out with the funniest bunch of women I’d ever met, all taking the mickey out of each other, ourselves and our Latino teacher – who, yes, could be a ‘love interest’ in a rural romance, but who is also incredibly professional and committed to the welfare and wellbeing of the horse. It’s his life calling and he’s fallen on his sword many times in his career to defend the rights of horses.
I’d met Carlos several years earlier
and had a couple of one-hour sessions with him and completed a one-day clinic with my beloved, gentle but cheeky Dreams. Not long after, she was tragically killed in a road accident during a time of turmoil for Tasmania, when bushfires razed the Peninsula. I hadn’t grieved or healed enough for my next horse, so I hadn’t yet found the heart or the courage to bond with Archie, let alone be the leader he needed me to be. I’d put my all into being a leader for my children, so with Archie I needed outside help. But the right kind of help. Help that was gentle, slow and empathetic. Not harsh or cruel, neither to me nor the horse. It took all my bravery to face that horse as his leader, and face myself for the stillness of five full days of just me and him. The first night I checked into the historic Man O’ Ross Hotel in Midlands Tasmania with my two kelpie dogs, Rousie and Connie, I was giddy from nerves after a health scare with my daughter that day. She was okay in the end, but it almost stopped me from leaving, and after a day of doctors and scans, and then finally getting the all-clear that her spleen wasn’t rupturing, I realised as I rolled into Ross with the float that I hadn’t eaten all day. Just on dusk I’d unloaded Archie and his little pony mate Gemma, whom I’d brought along for the ride, as without Archie she escapes out of any kind of fence to find company or fresher food. I left them to sniff and whinny at the other horses that would be joining us on the course and said a quick hello to Carlos and the girls. They were enjoying the la-di-da comforts of one of the participants who had borrowed the Taj Mahal of trailers from her dad, sitting on an outdoor furniture setting on a patterned mat beneath an awning. They were a riot of humour already, but I was exhausted and being the introvert I am, made worse by writing isolation and ‘solo mumdom’, I beat a retreat.
Down the Dirt Roads Page 21