Hat Trick! (12 page)

Three Test players have taken four wickets in five balls. M.J.C. Allom achieved this in his first-ever Test match for England, against New Zealand in the 1929/1930 season. When another Englishman, Chris Old, managed the feat, in 1978 against Pakistan, he took two wickets, then bowled a no ball, then took another two wickets. Wasim Akram, for Pakistan, took his four wickets against India in the 1990/1991 series.

Thursday—afternoon

I
still couldn’t get the thought of the mystery man out of my head as we drove to the ground after school the next day. I had dreamed of him again the previous night. I couldn’t work out why he’d been after me.
Was
he after me? Maybe I’d just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Still, I didn’t have to worry about it any more. And right now, there was a game of cricket to be played. Maybe my nerves were because of the game, and not the time travel stuff.

After all, it was the Scorpions we were up against. I thought we were going to be able to handle the other four teams—Motherwell, TCC, Benchley Park and St Mary’s. But the Scorpions were an unknown.

Jono won the toss and decided to bat. Mr Pasquali told us that we were totally on our own today. We would be responsible for the batting and bowling
order, the fielding positions and all other decisions. It was a 30-over game, batters retiring at 30, and with a maximum of four overs per bowler.

Of course Scott Craven opened the batting, along with Jono. Five balls and two fours later, Scott was walking back to us, caught behind, for eight. The very next ball, Cameron was bowled. We were 2 for 8.

Rahul had only just managed to get his gear on. Normally he had a routine of tapping the ball up on the edge of his bat to get his eye in. There were some tense moments as Georgie, Jay and I scrambled to get our pads on.

The other opening bowler was even quicker, but maybe not as accurate. His first two balls were wides, but his third smashed into Jono’s pads. There was a loud appeal from every player on the ground, and even some of the dads standing in a group away to our left.

The umpire looked hard, then raised his finger.

‘Oh, no,’ groaned Jay. ‘Hey, I’m not ready. Georgie, you go in, can you?’

‘Get out there, you wimp!’ roared Scott.

‘But I can’t find my box!’ he wailed.

‘I’ll go,’ I said. I gathered up my helmet and gloves, adjusted my thigh pad, and strode out to the wicket, trying to look confident. Rahul met me halfway.

‘Toby, we’ve got to stay in until these two fast bowlers have finished their spell. Don’t worry about the runs. Okay?’

That was easy for him to say. He was a regular top-order batter, and he wasn’t on strike. I took guard, had a look around the field, then settled over my bat and waited.

A split second later the ball was flying past my head and through to the keeper. I danced on the spot, trying to get some spark into my body. Five minutes ago the openers were walking out to bat and already I was in the firing line. I could see Dad, the newspaper dropped to the ground beside him, leaning forwards in his deck chair, concentrating on the game.

I managed to survive the rest of the over, only having to play at one delivery. Rahul scored a single off the first ball of the next over and I was back on strike. I wasn’t as nervous now, having played a few deliveries already.

The next ball changed all that. It rose from just short of a length and crashed into the top half of my bat. There was a huge cracking noise as leather struck wood. The ball sailed away over slips and down to the boundary for four. The bat—all except the handle—fell onto the pitch.

There were hoots of laughter from the kids around me. Even the bowler was smiling. A moment later, Craven rushed out, offering me his bat.

‘Are you sure?’ I asked.

‘Course. Just don’t snick any or I’ll make you lick off the cherry. You hear?’

The bat weighed a tonne. It was all I could do to lift it just as the bowler delivered the ball. But when
I connected, which I did twice more in the over, with a nicer cracking sound, the ball raced away for four.

It’s amazing what a few fours can do for your confidence. I swung and missed a few times, and Rahul and I kept on reminding ourselves that it would get easier once the two opening bowlers had finished their spells, but I still managed to find a few gaps, and after eight overs we had pushed the score along to 3 for 31.

Mr Pasquali was nodding in approval from square leg as we started to pile on the runs. Craven’s bat was incredible. Between balls, I let it rest against me, not picking it up until I absolutely had to.

We had got the score to 72 before a guy bowled a quicker, more pitched-up delivery—a yorker. I couldn’t jam the bat down quickly enough and the ball slammed into the base of my leg stump. I was out for 29.

I got plenty of cheers and applause as I trudged off.

‘Bloody lucky I gave you the bat. You wouldn’t have got past 10 without it,’ Scott chuckled. He seemed to be in a good frame of mind, considering he’d had two failures in a row with the bat.

‘Guess not,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

We went on to score 174, with some good hitting from everyone else—including Jason Vo, playing his first game for us. Georgie and Ally belted the bowlers around a bit and made 32 between them.

Our opponents had made the mistake of using up their two best bowlers too early. I wondered if Jono would do the same. I was in for a surprise.

He threw the new ball to me.

‘You’re up, Toby. Hit the spot.’

I was fired up after my batting. We set an attacking field. My first ball dropped a bit short and in a flash the batter was in behind it, belting it over mid-wicket for four. Jono clapped his hands, yelling encouragement. Craven groaned.

I bowled flatter and faster for the rest of the over but they took seven off me. Craven bowled a maiden from the other end, the batters not really looking troubled by his pace. Maybe they were used to it, with the practice they got facing their own opening bowlers.

I was on again. Probably for only one more over if it went like the first. My first ball was whacked out over mid-on for four. It was a bit of a slog, but it was four. Jono kept the fielders in, though, which was good. I liked it when the batter was having a go.

I sent the next ball (pitched a bit shorter) down much quicker. It fizzed past the bat and Ally took it neatly. One to the bowler. I pitched the third delivery slightly wider outside off-stump. The batter’s eyes lit up. He danced out of his crease, took a huge swing, but this time it caught the edge of his bat and Ally completed the catch.

Things settled down after that. I completed my four overs, not taking another wicket, but not giving away too many runs either.

Jono kept Craven back for the final overs, and when he came on to bowl his last, they needed four runs to win. They had lost nine wickets. It was a tough field to set. You could sense the tension around the ground. Players, umpires and parents were all on edge.

‘It’s Madras!’ Rahul called to me from mid-off. ‘This is exactly the same as Madras: one over left, one wicket left and four runs to get.’

I clapped my hands together, urging everyone on.

I walked in from my position in the covers as Craven charged in to the wicket. It was a good-length ball, a bit slower, and the batter blocked it. He slashed at the next delivery and carved it out to my left. I dived full stretch and got a hand on it. The batters had assumed it would get through. It had ‘four’ written all over it. I fumbled around, picked up the ball and hurled it to Ally, who had run up to the stumps.

She whipped the bails off. Appeals were screamed from everywhere, even from the other side of the boundary. The umpire stared for a moment at the broken stumps, then shook his head.

Three runs needed for the Scorpions to win the game.

The batter chopped the next ball away between the slip and gully fielders for two more runs. I looked across at Rahul. But it was the two figures behind him that caught my attention. I stared in amazement.

I turned back only when Craven was about to bowl his fourth ball of the over. It thudded into the
batter’s pads. Craven was on his knees, appealing for lbw. Mr Pasquali shook his head.

‘This next one, Scott,’ Rahul called across from mid-on.

The scores were level. You could feel the tension. No one was moving. I looked again at the two figures, still and silent, watching from a spot away from the other spectators.

Jono brought everyone in. A single run would win it for them, so we might as well try to prevent that.

It was the second-last delivery of the over. Scott bowled a slower ball. It was bang on target. It caught the batter right back on his crease and smacked into his pads. Craven didn’t even appeal. He just kept on running towards the batter, his arms in the air.

The batters were running a leg bye. There were screams and shouts from everywhere.

Finally Rahul, out at mid-off, yelled an appeal. By then, the runners had completed a run, and were scampering away, waving their bats and shouting and cheering. We all raced over to Mr Pasquali. Even Scott had turned around. Mr Pasquali shook his head and headed across to the other umpire. They met at mid-pitch, chatted for a moment, then shook hands and walked off together.

‘Looks like everyone’s a winner today, Mr Pasquali!’ I said to him, picking up the ball. He smiled.

There were two other figures walking away from the ground.

‘Jimbo!’ I called. He stopped, and turned. His father had an arm around his shoulders. Jimbo nodded a few times, gave me the thumbs up, then turned and walked away.

I turned to Mr Pasquali and said, ‘What happened about the cricket kit? Was the bat really a Gray Nicholls?’

‘It was, Toby, and the kit was in fantastic condition. But when I went over to check it out, Richard opened up the bag and decided at the last moment to keep it for Jimbo, which I thought was a great idea.’

‘That’s excellent news!’ I exclaimed. I could hardly believe my plan had worked. Maybe time travel could be useful, after all.

‘We just need that little extra something in the team to get us over the line,’ Mr Pasquali told us a few minutes later. He looked over at a car that was backing away from the oval. ‘And I think we might just have the ingredient we’re looking for.’

‘But who won?’ Gavin asked.

‘I think Rahul can give us the answer. He seems to know what happened.’

Everyone looked at Rahul.

‘It was a tie,’ he said. ‘Just like the Madras game.’

Monday—afternoon

The moment had finally arrived for the presentations. I couldn’t wait to hear what the others had done, as
we had all put plenty of effort into our cricket projects.

I sat there listening to all the others, feeling a bit nervous, but enjoying the talks all the same. Mr Pasquali had put me last.

When my moment came. I walked out to the front and opened up the file on the computer that Mr Pasquali had set up.

The first slide appeared on the big screen and I began my talk.

I looked across at the sea of faces in front of me. No one said a word.

‘Really, I felt as if I was there,’ I said to them.

‘Well, it certainly came across that way, Toby. Well done.’ Mr Pasquali was nodding and started to clap. The rest of the class joined in enthusiastically.

‘Tell me,’ asked Mr Pasquali, after the clapping had stopped. ‘Where did you get all that detailed information, Toby?’

I bent down and took out a
Wisden
from my bag beneath the table. I held it up to the class.

‘Toby!’ cried Jimbo, Georgie and Rahul, almost in unison.

Mr Pasquali turned to look at them. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.

‘No, no,’ they all said at once. Mr Pasquali turned back to me.

‘Toby, you were saying?’

‘Well, these
Wisden
books, Mr Pasquali, are filled
with all the information you could ever wish for. They have reports on all the games played for the year just passed. They choose the five cricketers of the year. Plus, they have this amazing section where all the records are listed.’ I could have kept on going for ages.

‘I know. There’s always one beside my bed! I’ll see if the library can buy some.’

Rahul and Jimbo were staring at me. I looked across at Mr Pasquali. He was jotting down a note in his book. Maybe it was my score for the talk I’d just presented.

‘Great,’ I said, looking over at Georgie. She smiled.

Mr Pasquali looked up. ‘So these
Wisden
books inspired you, Toby?’

Yes, you could say that, I thought to myself as I smiled at him.

There have been 23 tied one-day internationals played since 1984. In only one of these games were the actual scores different. This happened in the 2003 World Cup game when Sri Lanka, chasing South Africa’s score of 9/268, got to 6/229 after 45 overs before having to leave the field because of heavy rain. Their innings couldn’t be resumed, and the game was declared a tie under the Duckworth-Lewis method.

IT’S NOT JUST A GAME—IT’S TIME TRAVEL!

Monday—afternoon

IT
was raining. But our cricket coach, Mr Pasquali, who was also our teacher, wasn’t going to let that get in the way of cricket practice.

‘I’ll meet you outside the gym at a quarter to four,’ he said to Jay and me as we left the classroom at lunchtime. ‘See if you can find Ally and the others too,’ he added.

‘That shouldn’t be difficult for you, Toby,’ Jay laughed. Mr Pasquali had gone but I knew my face was turning red. Jay was always matching me up with some girl.

Only Martian was missing when Mr Pasquali led us into the gym. He had been our wicket keeper until he’d had an accident on his bike. But he was out of hospital now and getting better. His wicket-keeping had been taken over by Ally after the accident. I think Mr Pasquali, our coach, was going to have a tricky time when Martian was ready to return.

Mr Pasquali explained some rules for the indoor cricket game then quickly divided us into two teams.

‘Jono, Georgie, Rahul, Martian, Minh, Gavin, Jason and you Toby. Go over to that corner there and work out your batting order.’

‘Can I open?’ Georgie asked almost straight away.

‘Scott’ll be bowling,’ someone said.

‘I know,’ she replied, firmly.

Scott Craven was our number one strike bowler and all-round mean guy. I was glad we were on the same team, though even being team-mates hadn’t stopped Scott and me from crossing each other a couple of times already this season.

No one else seemed to be jumping up and down to take Georgie’s spot.

‘Okay, who wants to open with Georgie?’ I said. No one spoke. ‘Rahul?’ I asked.

Rahul sighed, but nodded.

I watched Georgie as she strode out to open the batting.

‘Have I gotta bowl slow to the girls?’ Scott asked.

‘Bowl as fast as you like,’ Georgie called out to him before Mr Pasquali had time to reply.

‘A tennis ball can’t hurt too much,’ I muttered to Jono, our captain for the Saturday games.

He smiled. ‘Depends where it gets you,’ he said, trying on a pair of batting gloves. ‘I’ll go in next, then you, Tobes, then Jason.’

We settled down on the benches along the far wall as the fielders took up their positions. There was a
sense of excitement in the air as Scott yelled out his instructions.

‘Not that far!’ he shouted to Jay, who was now standing against the back wall. Jay smirked and moved in half a step.

‘Right then, everyone ready? Play!’ Mr Pasquali called.

Scott ambled in off a few paces then hurled the ball down to Georgie. She took a step back and swung at it. The ball raced towards the back wall, bisecting two fielders on the way. Georgie and Rahul walked through for the bonus run.

‘Whoa! Way to go, George!’ Ally called from behind the stumps. Ally was awesome. She played softball for a State league team and had amazing reflexes. She’d fitted into the team really well.

‘You
don’t
encourage people in the other team,’ Scott sneered, snatching at the ball that Jimbo tossed back to him.

‘Oh, lighten up, Scott,’ Ally muttered, crouching down to wait for the next delivery.

‘That’s enough!’ Mr Pasquali barked, clapping his hands. ‘Focus on your job, all of you.’

After that the game settled down. Scott brought himself back on to bowl when it was my turn to bat. That didn’t surprise me. Neither did the fact that Mr Pasquali no-balled three of his six deliveries for being too high. He was aiming for my head. I hooked the third of his no-balls and was neatly caught off the wall by Jimbo. Scott’s yell of triumph was
shortlived, though, when he noticed Mr Pasquali’s arm outstretched to indicate another no ball.

Maybe the only assignment tougher than facing Scott Craven at full speed was bowling to Jimbo. His dad hadn’t let him play for the first three games of the season, but after last week’s game, when we’d seen Jimbo watching with his father, it looked like that might change.

Jimbo was a natural. He never seemed to rush. His timing and placement were perfect. During his four overs at the crease, he scored a massive 27 runs; and he hadn’t hogged the strike. Unlike Scott, Jimbo would be the last person to do that. We finished up with a score of 75 and won the game by 12 runs.

During the last part of the session, we did some short fielding drills. Mr Pasquali yelled out instructions and encouragement to everyone. He made you want to try again, even if you made a mistake. As usual, I felt tired but excited when the training session was over.

I stood behind the grandstand and looked left then right for the nearest drink stand. A deafening roar filled my ears. A six? Or maybe a wicket? But the thought vanished as the noise of the crowd dulled. I took a quick glance behind me. A terrifying figure was closing in on me, its long dark cloak billowing.

Where was everyone? Where were all the people who a moment ago were jostling and bumping me?

On the other side of the stand thousands of people sat transfixed, watching a game of cricket. But on this side, there was only the hooded figure and me. I edged away, my hands feeling behind me for the brick wall I was about to bump into. The figure advanced. I turned and ran, speeding off to my right, tearing around the outer perimeter of the grandstand. I plunged into a set of stairs, but immediately fell back, blocked by some invisible force. I struggled to my feet. The creature got closer.

My breath was coming in gasps as I focused on the path ahead. My strength was fading. I screamed in terror, realising I couldn’t outrun the figure.

Hot, foul breath steamed over my left shoulder. I gagged, gasped again for breath, then collapsed.

For a moment there was silence. Even the crowd had calmed.

Then I felt his bony hand on my shoulder, trying to turn me over.

‘Nooooooooooo!’ I screamed. ‘Heeeeeeeeeeelp!’

‘Look at me,’ the creature hissed. I gagged again as another blast of putrid breath spread over me.

I was shaking uncontrollably. But I obeyed. I turned my head slightly and opened my eyes.

‘Aaaaaaaaaagggggggggghhhhhhhhh!’

The scaly remains of a face glared down at me, blotched and red, with parts of bone protruding, scabby flesh dripping and hollow eye sockets.

With a burst of energy I jumped to my feet and tore off in the opposite direction, desperately searching for an opening to escape.

Suddenly the scene changed. Ghostly people slowly materialised before my eyes. For a few moments I charged straight through them, until I was bumped off course by a big guy with a beard and tattoos.

‘Oi! Look out, feller! Bloody idiot!’

I had just run straight into him and the four drinks he was carrying. We were both splashed.

‘S-s-sorry,’ I panted, easing up.

There were people everywhere now, talking, laughing. Kids were playing cricket on the grass down near the fence and there was a delicious smell of hot dogs, pies and chips. I bounded up the steps and looked out across the oval. Then I took one last fearful look behind me. It was as if I’d stepped into another world.

‘Toby!’ came a familiar voice. ‘C’mon, boy. Let’s have some lunch. I’ve got some great sandwiches up there, but I thought we’d do a bucket of chips each too. What do you say?’

‘Great idea, Dad.’ Tears welled in my eyes.

‘You okay, lad?’

‘Yep. I’m fine…now.’

‘C’mon. It used to get to me too when we lost a wicket last ball before lunch. But I’ll take three for 261 any day.’ Dad smiled and put a hand on my shoulder.

The hand felt bony. I jumped back and looked up into his face. Dad’s skin was cracking and shedding layer after layer, I saw the bones beginning to break through and…

‘Noooooooooo!’

Tuesday—morning

I woke with a start. The familiarity of my bedroom washed over me: the Brett Lee poster, the collection of bats, racquets and other sporting things behind the door, the cricket ball on my desk. My nerves settled. Then I glanced at the old brown
Wisden
that Jim Oldfield had given me and my heart started to race again. Gently I pulled it down from the shelf. The feel of the book calmed me. It was heavy and strong. It was like a reliable friend. My thumb brushed its dull brown cover. I could open it now and be transported anywhere. These
Wisden
s were a free ticket to any game of cricket from the past. It was the most unbelievable gift. But it was also dangerous. I’d vowed never to travel again. I knew life would be safer, and a whole lot simpler if I just left these
Wisden
s alone. Then again…Shutting my eyes, I opened the book.

‘Toby?’

With relief, I closed the pages. ‘Dad?’ my voice croaked.

He opened the door. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or dreamed about one. C’mon, you bludger, you promised me half an hour in the garage before school, remember? You said you wanted a go at soldering something too, didn’t you?’

I hopped in the shower quickly, threw my school clothes on and joined Dad in the garage.

‘So, did you have a bad dream?’ Dad asked, putting the soldering iron down and walking over to
the boxes of books. I looked at his face. There wasn’t any cracking or peeling happening. But I held back all the same.

‘It was spooky—batting collapse. And I was a part of it.’

‘Ooh. Nasty. They’re the worst sort of dreams.’ Dad paused. ‘But
spooky
?’

‘Yeah, well, these strange creatures were bowling. They were wearing black clothes and had six arms and you couldn’t tell which hand had the ball.’

I was making it up as I went but luckily Dad was distracted by the
Wisden
s in the boxes. He flicked one of them open to the contents page, mumbled a few words, then thumbed through to the back.

‘He took nine wickets, you know. Not eight.’

‘Who?’

‘Richard Hadlee.
Sir
Richard Hadlee. And the 10th wicket?’

‘Run out?’

‘Nope,’ Dad said. ‘Caught Hadlee, bowled Brown.’

Dad had often talked about this game—the First Test match between Australia and New Zealand in Brisbane in 1985.

‘Here we are. Australia were 2 for 72. Struggling a bit, but not a
bad
position to be in at lunch.’

‘And?’

‘Well, even at 4 for 146 the Aussies would have been thinking 300, which in the conditions would have been a good, solid score. But Mr Hadlee had other ideas. We lost our last six wickets for 31 runs.
Hadlee’s bowling analysis? Here you go, Toby, you read it out.’

I reached out to grab the book, then realised what would happen if I started to read the numbers.

‘Nah, you read it, Dad. You make it sound like you’re a commentator.’

‘I do?’

Dad looked a bit confused, but turned the book around and started reading.

‘23.4 overs, four maidens, 9 for 52.’

‘Is that the best Test bowling effort ever, Dad?’

He was just about to launch into a long spiel when Natalie, my younger sister, appeared at the door to tell him he had a phone call. Dad dropped the
Wisden
into my lap, picked up the box with all the other
Wisden
s in it and headed out.

‘Why don’t you see if you can find out,’ he called. ‘Then we’ll compare stories.’

Which was all very well except that I found it hard to read
Wisden
s. When I opened a
Wisden
I didn’t see a neat page of words and numbers; I saw a sea of blur. A spinning swirl of dairy-whip ice-cream; the words and numbers like little bits of chocolate chip, spinning in front of my eyes. I had ‘the gift’.

Jim, the old guy I met at the Melbourne Cricket Club library on our school excursion to the Melbourne Cricket Ground, the MCG, also had the gift. It was Jim who had guided me and helped me understand how to time travel. And who’d made me learn by heart the poem I needed to quote from to
bring me back. He’d also warned me about the dangers involved. Like only being able to stay out of your own time for two hours before you had to return. And the danger of ‘carrying’: taking someone along with you. Jim had said that carrying could make you vulnerable to other presences and forces. I thought of the hooded figure in my dreams, and the one Jimbo and I had encountered when I took him back to see his father playing cricket as a young man. But I wouldn’t be carrying if I took a quick trip now.

‘Toby?’

I looked at my sister standing in the doorway. I knew what she was going to ask.

‘You want a game of corridor cricket? You can bat first.’

Natalie is nine years old and already a good tennis player with a mean double-handed backhand. She also loved playing cricket.

‘I still haven’t had breakfast,’ I said. ‘Maybe if we’ve got time later, okay?’

It would be the quickest trip I’d ever taken. What harm could it do? Five minutes, then back inside for breakfast and corridor cricket.

I waited for the door to close behind Natalie then opened the
Wisden
to the place my thumb had been resting in. I dog-eared the page as I watched the letters swirl around in front of me.

This was the moment. This was the amazing gift that somehow I had inherited. While almost everyone else in the world who reads a
Wisden
sees words and
numbers on the page, when I opened the book a sliding, swirling mess of letters and numbers swam giddily in front of my eyes, spiralling in a vortex towards the middle of the page but never quite disappearing. But with instruction from Jim, I’d learned to eventually slow and finally stop the movement. And when that happened, when the letters finally formed into the words that everyone else sees straight away, the real adventure began…

I scanned down the page a little. The letters were small and hard to focus on, but in a few moments words started to appear. I was looking for a date, a place or any score. ‘No bowler to match…’ drifted into my vision, like a fish suddenly appearing just under the surface of the water, ‘…demolished the Australian innings…’ Suddenly, from nowhere, ‘Brisbane’ swept across the page.

A familiar rushing noise like wind and fast-flowing water grew inside my head as more words settled on the page. Although it was never painful, it reached a point where I knew something had to give…