I Am A Club Cricketer

It has been 21 years since I last played a turf cricket match.

But I move like a gazelle. I have the eyes of a hawk and the reflexes of a cat.

Club cricket needs me.

This week, after an absence of one score year and one (google that young people), I returned to my former club Old Haileybury.

I played my last game for them in 1994. Some in this current team were not even born then.

This band of brothers is as foreign to me as I am to them. I have never trained with them. I have never met them. Instead, I have simply turned up on match day with brand new everything.

My whites still have those new clothing creases in them. My kit bag shines like it is a swimwear model. My bat is yet to display any cherries or signs of battle. There are no grass stains or scuff marks on my pads. They are still wrapped in plastic.

I start today as that club cricketer who has all the brand new kit, bats at 10, makes a duck, doesn’t bowl and field at fine leg.

My mission is to finish the day somewhat better than that.

For I move like a gazelle. I have the eyes of a hawk and the reflexes of a cat.

Club cricket needs me.

The skipper wins the toss and bats. I can’t remember his name, but he is a friendly gentle soul who gives us a pep talk prior to the openers heading out.

I can’t recall what he said.  I was too busy concentrating on whether I should tuck or untuck my shirt. After a quick count, I decide to remain tucked. Eight of us dress properly. I am still cool.

The team has only four old boys. One left school in 2012, two in 2011 and me in 1993.

“We were waiting for an old fat guy to show up”

Should I feel happy or sad at that remark?

I think most of the team are Sri Lankan. Although we do have Omar who is referred to as both Afghan and Persian throughout the day. These boys really should have studied geography a little harder.

Omar can bowl fast. He dazzles in his long sleeved white compression top peaking out from under his team shirt. I’m sure if given the opportunity, I could bowl as fast as he can.

For I move like a gazelle. I have the eyes of a hawk and the reflexes of a cat.

Club cricket needs me.

Our openers pile on 100 or so. The truth is that they are ripping this Melbourne University team a new one.

They are mainly Pakistani students. They seems like nice guys too. Everyone is laughing, clapping and sledging their own.

No one is sledging the opposition. Well I am.

I am told that I will bat at 7. This is a fatal mistake from the skipper.

Little does he know that I am more Chris Rogers than James Faulkner. But he will soon learn.

My technique has been finely tuned in the nets of indoor cricket over the past few years. I’m a poker and a prodder. I push into the gaps. I run singles and twos. I wouldn’t know how to hit a maximum. They didn’t exist in my day.

As Don Bradman said, “you can’t get caught if you hit it along the ground.”

When I finally do make it to the crease, there are only a few overs left.

I can’t see properly through this bloody helmet. I’ve never worn a helmet before. Perhaps I have it on back to front? Not one ball has risen above stump height for the match. Why am I wearing this bloody helmet?

My bat is also brand new. 2.9 ounces. Grade 1 English willow. Brilliantly light pick-up. Superbly weighted. It’s like a feather in my hand, but I intend to use it like Thor does his hammer. I hope I’ve knocked it in enough? It has never been struck by a ball, only a mallet.

My bat is nervous.

My first ball is on a good length and outside off stump. It passes through at a blistering 100 kph. Maybe it was 90 kpm?

My feet move forward but not across to the line.

Play and miss. Well, more poke and miss.

The 2nd ball was a carbon copy of the first.

Rinse and repeat. I am cricketing shampoo.

My 3rd ball is straighter. I jam it onto my pads and we scamper a single.

Go to hell goose egg, for today I am your conquerer.

As I move like a gazelle. I have the eyes of a hawk and the reflexes of a cat.

Club cricket needs me.

After a few more balls I get my eye in, although my batting parter, the skipper, has already told me to push for singles so he can swing out.

He thinks I’m rubbish. He gets bowled next ball.

He got what was coming to him.

Our keeper Dylan joins me to lash out at these Shoaib Akhtar wannabes. I wonder how many of them have missed a game due to genital warts?

Dylan is a chirper. A thinker. Dylan can bat. But I see him off once he gets caught top edging.

The bowling is not troubling me. A nudge for a single here, a late cut for 3 there. The young boys are all swinging harder, but that’s not my game.

What is my game?

A quick glance at my bat shows that I finally have some marks on it. The base is covered in grass. Two red circles appear near the outside edge. One appears near the back of the bat. How did that get there?

With only five balls left in the innings, I decide to hit a six. Except I missed it and now I need to depart the arena, bowled for nine.

The scorebook shows:

D Freedman: 1,2,1,1,3,1 >> Bowled Raza – 9

Rob Quiney would have been proud of me. Objective minds will rate my nine better than his.

The team has over 200 on the board. My contribution cannot be overplayed. I have swung the game into our favour.

I am Old Haileybury’s alpha and omega.

I move like a gazelle. I have the eyes of a hawk and the reflexes of a cat.

Club cricket needs me.

We take the field. The skipper puts me at mid off. Not much is happening. I high five everyone as I jog through between overs.

What’s your name again?

Somewhere through the journey, I’m told to switch places with the skipper.

He takes mid off. I go to mid on.

He thinks I’m crap.

It’s like being given the Wing Defence bib in netball.

One ball later and I’m standing under a skied lofted drive. It is swirling around in the wind, but I manage to hold on, falling backwards in the process.

Take that skipper.

The usual congratulatory stuff happens. I’m no longer an outsider, but a tolerated new bloke who can probably catch.

A few overs later, Dylan chirps at me from behind the stumps.

Good catch “Vibe”

He’s pulled a line from the classic Australian comedy ‘The Castle’.

Dennis Denuto.

Something about Mabo and a photocopier that doesn’t work.

I liked it and gave him 5 stars.

It really only deserved 3 of them.

I don’t get a bowl. I don’t get to take the gloves. I don’t get to take another catch.

Fast forward to the end and Old Haileybury win comfortably by 80 runs.

My contribution of 9 cannot be overstated.

For I move like a gazelle. I have the eyes of a hawk and the reflexes of a cat.

Club cricket needs me.

The President tells me to download WhatsApp. This is how the team communicates.

I wonder if I can go all KP and send a sneaky message to Graeme Smith. KP tells me this is how he got into trouble with TextGate.

“It was bloody WhatsApp and not a text message.”

Or did he say it was Blackberry messenger? I can’t remember.

I also discover that Old Haileybury have a hashtag

#BloodsCricket

I use the hashtag in a tweet and then search to see what else that hashtag represents.

I am the only person to have ever used #BloodsCricket in a tweet. Ever. In the whole world. In the long and illustrious history of mankind.

I’m a pioneer.

I now have a team. I am one of them.

An older, better version, but one of them nonetheless.

For I move like a gazelle. I have the eyes of a hawk and the reflexes of a cat.

Club cricket needs me.

My knees hurt.

A bunch of misfits. Round 1 vs. MUCC in the MCC Club XI Comp. A shoutout and welcome to Sachin Varadarajan (Old Melbournian 2012) and Dennis Freedman (OHA 1993)#bringthenoise #bloodscricket

A photo posted by OHA Cricket (@oha_cricket) on Oct 18, 2015 at 10:47pm PDT

Reproduced at First PostFollow @denniscricket_