Hat Trick! (25 page)

The best bowling figures in a Test match are held by Jim Laker of England. Playing against Australia in Manchester in 1956, he took all 10 wickets in Australia’s second innings (and nine in the first). He bowled 51.2 overs in that innings, with 23 maidens and 10 wickets for 53 runs.

Saturday—morning

‘
IT
’
S
a boiler,’ Dad sighed, strolling into the kitchen the following morning. ‘It’s going to be an absolute belter. Toby, get Benchley Park out nice and quick, you hear me?’

‘You bet, Dad.’ I searched his face for any clues that he suspected anything was up after last night. But he padded about in his bare feet, boxer shorts and straggly hair, as on most other mornings, totally focused on getting his breakfast organised.

‘Hey, Dad. There’s a new virtual reality machine down at the shopping centre. Can we go and check it out sometime?’

‘Virtual what?’ he asked, attending to the toaster.

‘Virtual reality. You know—real, but not real.’

‘Real, but not real?’ he repeated slowly.

‘Well, yeah. Almost real. Virtually real. You know.’

‘Hmm, not exactly, but I guess I’m going to find out soon enough, aren’t I?’ He winced as his finger touched the hot edge of the toaster.

‘Thanks, Dad.’ I looked at the clock. ‘Ten minutes and we’re out of here, okay?’ I called, getting up.

‘Ten minutes,’ he said, licking his finger.

I couldn’t believe the heat. The air was still, and it was hard to breathe. Even at 8.20 in the morning the temperature was 27 degrees, and Dad said it was expected to climb to 42 degrees. You could smell the dryness as well as a faint hint of smoke.

‘Let’s hope we don’t have to worry about a bushfire,’ Dad said, sniffing the air as we got out of the car. ‘Total fire bans bring out the total idiots.’ He looked at me. ‘Sounds dumb, I know, but make sure you do a proper stretch.’ Dad hauled out his deckchair and the enormous Saturday newspaper, and settled down in the shade of a large gum tree.

I grabbed my gear and walked over to Mr Pasquali’s car to help him with the kit.

‘It’s a hotty, Mr P,’ I said, pulling out the stumps.

‘Short spells today, Toby. Hats and zinc too,’ he added, looking up at the sky. ‘Thanks for helping.’

More cars arrived and soon the team was in the outfield tossing a ball around. I went to measure my run-up, though I could easily see where I’d scuffed a mark in the grass lots of other times during the season.

I strolled in to the middle and rolled my arm over
a few times until Mr Pasquali called us together for the traditional pre-game pep talk.

‘Now I don’t need to tell you to be sensible out here today. I want you to wear hats, sunscreen, even sunglasses if you’ve got them,’ he began. Already there were beads of sweat on his face. ‘It’ll be hard work for their batters too, but we must support our bowlers. Short spells, Jono,’ he said, turning to our captain. Jono nodded.

‘I’m not going to interfere with bowling changes or fielding positions,’ Mr Pasquali continued, ‘but I’ll say this. Any suggestions should go through the captain, and I want there to be suggestions. I want you to be alert to what the batters are doing, alert to any weaknesses you see, alert to anything at all.’ He paused, looking around at each of us in turn.

‘I’ve coached a few Riverwall teams in my time, but none quite as good as this one. Let’s show the parents, and the opposition, what sort of a team you are.’

Jono tossed me the new ball. How would our bowling line-up rate now that Scott Craven wasn’t a part of it? Time would tell. I had to stand up and take over the responsibility for leading the attack. I’d been in Scott’s shadow all season—now was my big chance to lead from the front.

My start couldn’t have been worse. I should have pulled out of my run-up, but instead I stuttered up to the crease, my rhythm and strides all over the place. I overstepped the popping crease by a mile and bowled
a wayward delivery that Ivo took in front of Jono at first slip.

I slowed down for the rest of the over and wasn’t even thinking of taking wickets; I just wanted to put the ball in the right spot.

‘Okay, you’ve got that one under your belt, Toby. You’ve got to attack now,’ Jimbo said. He’d jogged all the way over from the covers to fire me up.

‘It felt shocking,’ I told him.

‘Mate, it looked shocking. But that’s because you weren’t relaxed. Next over, just let it go and see what happens.’ I nodded, feeling better for the advice.

Our top four bowlers—Cameron, Jono, Rahul and me—were in the top six of the batting line-up as well. We were a team that fell away quickly. Ivo was a really good keeper. He had won his spot back from Ally, who had filled in for most of the season after Ivo’s bad accident, when his bike collided with a car. Ally was an awesome softballer with great reflexes and a strong throwing arm, but she didn’t appear very comfortable without the keeper’s gloves on.

Georgie, Jay, Gavin (who was really grumpy now that his best mate, Scott Craven, had left the team) and Jason loved their cricket but were really just filling up the numbers.

I looked over at Jimbo as I took the ball for my next over. He gave me the thumbs up. I tried to clear all the negative thoughts from my mind. I’d run in to bowl a thousand times without ever thinking of my stride pattern, yet suddenly I was feeling like a total loser.

‘C’mon Tobes,’ Jimbo called from the covers, clapping his hands. A few others joined in. ‘Time for some action.’ The batter nonchalantly looked around the field, then settled down over his bat.

I took a deep breath, made one final check that the small plastic disc I use to mark my run-up was exactly where it should be, then steamed in. Somewhere, someone was clapping but I pressed on, striding out, my paces lengthening as I approached the pitch.

This time it felt perfect. The seam of the ball stayed upright and the ball cut back fractionally from the off side, thudding into the batsman’s pads. It was probably 15 kilometres per hour faster than any ball from the previous over.

‘Howzat!’ I screamed, jumping in the air and turning to the umpire. I could tell straight away by his grim look that he was going to put up his finger. And he did.

‘Yeah!’ I roared, turning round and charging down to the slips.

‘Bloody beauty!’ Jono cried, clapping me on the shoulder. The rest of the team charged in.

‘That’s more like it, Toby Jones,’ Jimbo said, his fists clenched.

The rest of the over played out uneventfully—the kid who went in for Benchley at first drop, a guy called Edison Rocker, was easily their best batter—but I felt much better. Every ball was on target.

It’s amazing what a wicket can do for your confidence. Suddenly I was feeling on top of the world again, desperate to get another crack at the batsmen.

‘Two more overs, Toby, maybe three if you snag another wicket,’ Jono called as we changed ends. And then the day improved even more when I noticed Jim sitting in Dad’s chair with Dad nowhere to be seen. He was probably off scrounging another chair. I gave Jim a wave and he waved back.

I didn’t take another wicket in that spell. By the first drinks break Benchley Park had still only lost the one batsman and were looking settled, though they weren’t scoring quickly.

‘We’ve just got to dry them up,’ Jono said, guzzling down some ice-cold cordial. ‘It’s really important that we keep the runs down. No wides, no misfields.’

‘And we need to back up in the field,’ Jimbo said. ‘They’re probably going to start looking for the quick singles to break things up a bit.’

It was great how Jimbo was getting more involved. This was only his third game for us. Years earlier his dad had banned him from playing cricket because he’d walked away from the game himself after being hit by a vicious ball. His anger had carried through to poor Jimbo, but luckily Mr Temple, Jimbo’s dad, had had a change of heart. Lucky for us too. Jimbo was a brilliant batter and his knowledge of cricket was amazing.

And he was right about backing up too. During the second over after drinks, the batters sprinted through for a single. Jimbo charged in, scooped up the ball and took a shot at the stumps at the bowler’s end, missing by centimetres. Cameron tried to gather in the ball, but it flew past him.

‘Again!’ Edison Rocker screamed, not realising that I had actually stopped Jimbo’s throw from going to the boundary with an enormous dive to my left. I flicked the ball back to Cameron, who was still by the stumps at the bowler’s end.

Edison’s batting partner was run out by about eight metres.

‘I’m going to call you Prophet,’ I laughed at Jimbo. He’d predicted exactly what had just happened.

But as the morning grew hotter, some of us started to drag our feet. Two catches went down, and several misfields and sloppy throws crept into our game.

Jono, Jimbo and I tried to keep everyone positive and motivated but it was an effort, particularly because Benchley Park didn’t really look like a threat.

Edison Rocker got his 40, but there weren’t any other quality batters in the team. And although Jay and Jason were belted for a couple of fours each, it was just a matter of time before Benchley collapsed.

With ten overs left Jono tossed the ball to me.

I decided to put the heat out of my mind and concentrate on line and length. There was a chance
for some wickets as the batsmen were starting to play loose shots to up the scoring rate.

My first two balls were off target, but the third was spot on. Aimed at off-stump, it caught the seam and deviated left, catching the bat’s outside edge. Martian took a ripper catch low down in front of Jono.

I slowed up the next two deliveries and the new guy played them easily enough. Ambling in for the last ball of the over, I was hoping the batter was expecting the same again, but I swung my arm over quickly, pitching the ball on a shorter length.

At the last moment he hoicked his bat to keep the ball off his chest. The ball ballooned away to my left and I dived, catching it just centimetres from the ground.

The game died quickly after that. The Benchley Park coach made sure all his team got a brief hit, retiring a couple of the batters early. One kid was so annoyed that he swore then threw his bat about five metres into the air.

Benchley Park had fallen short of our total by just under 70 runs, but our celebrations were pretty subdued. Maybe it was the weather. Maybe it was the fact that we hadn’t really won anything—yet. Scott Craven and the Scorpions were on most people’s minds as we packed up the gear, folded away the chairs and headed off to our cars.

‘Dad,’ I said, ‘can Jim come around to our place this arvo?’ But as I spoke I saw a taxi turn into the ground and Jim wave an arm at it.

‘I already asked, Tobes. But he said he’d come around tonight if he can.’ Dad smiled, ruffling my hair. ‘You’re really very fond of him, aren’t you?’

‘He’s shown me some very interesting things,’ I said, watching Jim walk towards us.

‘Well played, Toby. Your bowling is most impressive,’ Jim said.

‘Not my first over,’ I mumbled.

‘No, indeed. But that too was impressive. You were able to put it behind you and bowl from then on with good pace and rhythm.’

Jim said goodbye and walked slowly over to the taxi. Watching him, I remembered that he really was an old man.

‘Toby?’ Ally called, holding up a bottle. ‘You want the last drink?’

I didn’t, but I headed over to her anyway. ‘Um—er, Toby?’ she asked quietly, looking up at me from beside the Esky. ‘You reckon I can go on another cricket trip?’

‘Well, I guess,’ I said, cautiously. My experiences of taking friends to faraway places weren’t all good. Rahul in India was the scariest: he’d paid me no attention at all, wanting to go off on his own. It was like he’d been possessed.

‘You don’t look so sure,’ she said, eyeing me closely.

‘Well, it’s just that—’

‘You think Georgie’d get a bit upset?’ Her voice had risen slightly. I looked around but nearly everyone had gone or was in their car about to leave.

‘You see, I took Rahul to the Tied Test—’

‘The Tied Test? Cool, that would have been exciting. Did you see the run-out?’

‘Run-out?’ I asked.

‘There’s that famous photo of the West Indian dude who did that amazing run-out,’ Ally said.

We were talking about different games. She was thinking about the Test match between Australia and the West Indies in 1960, played in Brisbane. It was another of Dad’s favourites. And he had that
Wisden…

‘Toby?’

‘What?’ My mind had wandered. ‘Sorry?’

‘The Tied Test?’

‘Oh, yeah. Well, I took Rahul back to India. To 1986 and the game in Madras where Dean Jones made 210 runs and almost died doing it. But you know what? That Brisbane game’s a possibility,’ I said, nodding slowly.

‘Yeah?’

‘What are you doing this afternoon?’ I asked, helping her tip the mostly melted ice out of the Esky.

Ally shrugged. ‘Maybe going back to 1960 with you?’ she suggested, her face brightening. ‘Hang on!’ She jogged over to her car, had a few words with her dad and came back grinning. ‘We’re on! Dad’s gonna drop me around later. He’s got to go and pick up my brother. About three?’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘See you then.’

George Lohmann, playing for England against South Africa in 1896, managed these amazing bowling figures: 14.2 overs, 6 maidens and 9 wickets for 28 runs in Johannesburg; 9.4 overs, 5 maidens and 7 wickets for 8 runs in Port Elizabeth. He took 35 wickets in three Tests with a bowling average of 5.80! (That’s a wicket for every 5.8 runs scored off his bowling.)

Saturday—afternoon

‘
IT
’
S
got to be cooler than this in Brisbane,’ Ally said, when I opened the door to greet her.

‘I forgot to mention about fashion and stuff,’ I said, letting her in.

‘Fashion?’

‘Shut the door, Tobes!’ Dad called. The heat outside was like that in a furnace and Dad must have felt the temperature rise a few degrees in the kitchen.

‘You know,’ I looked at her, ‘blending in. Not standing out in a crowd.’ I paused, then shouted into the living room. ‘Ally’s here!’ Dad was settled in watching the cricket on TV in the only airconditioned room in the house, while Mum and Nat were shopping in comfort down at the supermarket.

‘Hi, Ally,’ he called, as we headed for the stairs. ‘Are you guys coming in to watch?’

‘Nah, we’ll listen in on the Net.’ I signalled Ally to follow me upstairs.

Although Mum had closed my window and pulled down the blind, it was still hot in my room. ‘Maybe watching the cricket with Dad would be better,’ I suggested, suddenly nervous as I stood in the middle of my bedroom while Ally hovered at the door.

‘No way, stupid.’ She smiled. ‘We won’t be here, remember?’

‘That’s all very well until someone comes looking for us.’ I headed over to the bookshelf to find the 1962
Wisden
.

‘So, we’ll just say we stepped outside for an icecream,’ Ally said, walking over to me. ‘Now what’s this about clothes?’

‘It probably doesn’t matter. We’ll just have a quick visit, okay?’ I thought back to India and Rahul’s dramatic behaviour when he ran off to see the brother he’d never met. And then pictured Jay, in Hobart, trying to tell a kid the result of the game and who’d win the AFL Grand Final the following year.

‘Ally, you’ve got to promise me one thing, okay?’

‘Of course, Toby. What is it?’ She looked at me expectantly.

‘The trouble is, it’s really easy
now
for you to say, “Sure, Toby. No worries.” But when we get there, it’ll all change.’

‘Toby, I’m a girl. I’m totally trustworthy. Don’t doubt me on this, okay? Now, what is it?’ She was
looking at me challengingly. I shrugged. I knew how easily it could all go wrong.

‘Ally, when I say it’s time to go, we go straight away. Have you got that?’

‘Sure, Toby. No worries.’ She grinned.

‘Okay. Time will tell.’ I picked up the
Wisden
and offered it to her. ‘You’ll have to look for the section called “West Indians in Australia”. It’ll be towards the back.’

Ally flicked through the book. ‘Got it. Now, we want the First Test, yeah?’

‘Has Georgie told you about this?’ I asked. Ally seemed pretty confident with what she was doing.

‘A bit,’ she said. ‘Here we go: page 842. Wow! They’re fat books, hey?’ She looked up, smiling. She was so cool about it all.

‘Right. What you’ve got to do—’

‘I know. Find a date, place or score, hopefully one that’s near the end of the game.’ Ally muttered to herself, her head buried in the text. ‘Will any number do?’

‘I think so.’ I felt the familiar adrenalin and excitement surge through me with the thought of more time travel. Dad often spoke about this game; he’d only bought this particular edition of
Wisden
for this series and Richie Benaud’s Aussies reclaiming the Ashes from England in 1961. Dad said that both series were awesome, especially because there’d been heaps of boring cricket during the 1950s.

‘Ally, go to the scorecard. It’s easy to see all the scores there.’

She gently turned the page. ‘Ah, okay. So, Australia were batting at the end. Here you go.’

I followed her finger into the wash of numbers and letters spilling and swirling on the page.

‘Quick,’ I whispered, reaching out a hand as numbers appeared, then retreated again. ‘Which one?’ I breathed.

‘There. Look at one of those twos.’

Sure enough, a ‘2’ emerged from the mess and I latched onto it with all the concentration I could muster. A drop of sweat fell from my forehead and landed in the swirl beneath me. I felt the squeeze of Ally’s hand as I heard her gasp.

‘Two…two…’ I said over and over—and we were gone.

We ‘landed’ on a hill of grass, slightly away from the arena itself. I immediately sensed the tension in the crowd, although the number of people was amazingly small. Everyone’s attention was hooked on the drama unfolding out in the middle of the ground 80 metres away.

I turned to Ally. There was a look of wonder on her face. I wasn’t sure how she’d react, but she didn’t seem too fazed by the fact she’d just travelled back in time over 40 years, as well as more than a thousand kilometres north in the space of a few seconds. Perhaps Georgie had told her more than just a bit
about the wonders of time travel. And she had taken a quick trip to 1930s England.

‘Ally?’

She turned to me, her smile dazzling, and with a squeal of delight she kissed me on the cheek. ‘Toby, this is brilliant,’ she gasped, clapping her hands as she took in the scene around her. ‘Let’s get closer and watch—’

‘Ally? Remember your promise?’

‘What promise?’

I groaned.

‘Kidding,’ she said, weaving a path towards the action.

‘There’s Richie Benaud,’ I whispered, awestruck with the thought that we were seeing Channel Nine’s master commentator batting.

‘What’s going to happen?’ Ally asked as we watched an enormously tall West Indian walk back to the top of his run-up.

‘I
don’t
know,’ I said pointedly.

Ally turned at the tone of my voice. ‘Oh yeah. Sorry,’ she said sheepishly, hunching her shoulders. She turned back to the cricket, and I checked the scoreboard. The Aussies were doing okay: Richie Benaud and Alan Davidson had added over 100 runs to the total and were going strong.

‘How much…’ Ally started. ‘No, it doesn’t matter. I’ll just shut up and enjoy the cricket.’

‘Good idea.’

We watched a couple of overs. The situation was getting more tense with every delivery. Davidson
and Benaud had piled on a massive partnership and the crowd was sensing that something special was about to happen. From a hopeless 6 for 92, the two batsmen had steered the Aussies to 6 for 226. They were only seven runs short of pulling off a stunning turnaround.

But then disaster. There was a shout from the pitch.

‘He’s run out, Toby,’ Ally said. We watched Alan Davidson walk back towards the dressing room.

A man pushed past me, snacks in hand. ‘Bloody awesome, isn’t it, mate?’ he said, and then moved closer to the fence.

One over left and seven runs to win.

‘Okay, Ally. It’s time,’ I said, expecting some excuse from her. She didn’t move. ‘Ally?’ I said more firmly as we watched Alan Davidson walk back towards the dressing room. He’d just been run out by a direct hit from one of the West Indians. The people around us seemed shocked, but still confident.

‘Hmm, what’s that?’ she said, vaguely. She was enthralled, like everyone else.

‘I think it’s time.’

This time Ally turned to face me. ‘Toby,’ she said evenly. ‘I am in total control here…’

‘Ssh,’ I hissed, although no one seemed to be paying us the slightest attention.

‘…and we are about to see the most amazing over.’ There was a dreamy look on her face.

‘Ally?’

She turned her head from side to side, looking dazed.

‘Ally? What is it?’ I cried, alarmed, as she grabbed onto a post she had been leaning against.

‘Nothing,’ she sighed, shaking her head. She was looking behind her every few seconds. ‘Just feeling a bit in awe of what’s going on. One more over and then vamoosh, okay?’ There was sweat on her forehead, and her knuckles were white from gripping the pole.

‘Yep, okay. But relax.’

Gritting her teeth, Ally nodded, turning to look behind her.

I looked out to the ground. The West Indies were setting up for the last over. It was to be an eight-ball over, but three wickets going in the one over—as I knew was about to happen—was still incredible.

Australia was six runs from levelling the scores, and needed seven to win. Even though I knew the result I still felt the electric atmosphere of a close game. You often got this situation in a one-dayer, but in a Test match it was very rare for the teams to be so close after five days of cricket.

‘Who’s bowling?’ Ally asked.

I checked the scoreboard, even though I already knew the answer. ‘It’s Wes Hall. He’s the fastest bowler going around at the moment,’ I replied as I watched him charging in to bowl. The ball hit the
Aussie batter high on the leg and they raced through for a single. The crowd roared in approval; they knew exactly what was required for victory.

Ally had her head down, one hand covering her eyes. ‘Toby? I think someone’s calling my name.’

It was the tone of her voice that told me it was definitely time to go. Something was really freaking her out.

‘C’mon, Ally,’ I said, unhooking her hands from the pole. For a moment it seemed like she wanted to pull away from me, but I hung on firmly.

Once more she turned, her mouth gaping as though she’d just seen a ghost.

What wonders abound, dear boy, don’t fear
These shimmering pages, never clear.

I quickly said the first two lines of the poem as I pushed through the spectators and into some space away from the crowd. I heard screams and groans, and I turned for one last look at the field. Richie Benaud had just been caught by the keeper, attempting a big hit.

When we arrived back in my bedroom, Ally thanked me, though she wasn’t as excited as she’d been before we left.

‘I told you weird things happen.’

‘Yeah, something strange
was
going on. But I’m glad I went.’