Hat Trick! (5 page)

On 15 March 1877 a player gained a record that may never be broken. He represented England in the first official Test match played against Australia. He holds the record for being the oldest player to ever represent his or her country on debut. His name was J. Southerton—he was an off-spin bowler and he was 49 years and 119 days old.

Wednesday—evening

WE
dropped off Rahul and Jay. Georgie had picked up on my weird behaviour—unlike Dad, who was sometimes a bit vague about things around him.

This time Georgie’s approach was different. She got all efficient. She knew me as well as anyone, and sensed that something had been going on in the MCC library that afternoon.

We headed for the computer. Georgie opened up a new document and started to type up a summary of all the important facts.

We figured the only solution was for us to head down to the MCG on Friday after school and, once and for all, get to the bottom of the whole thing with Jim.

‘And what? We just walk through the gate and straight up to the library?’ Georgie asked.

I pulled out the little card that Dad had read aloud on Monday.

‘I think taking this means that you’re allowed to go up and do cricket research,’ I said.

‘Okay, bring it. And bring the poem too,’ she added.

Thursday—morning

At recess I headed for the gym hoping to catch Jimbo there. I still wanted to ask him why he hadn’t played in the game on Saturday.

Once again he looked at me without saying anything. For a moment I thought he wouldn’t reply. Finally he said, ‘Too busy.’

‘Geez, it’s a pity. You’re such a good bat.’

‘Thanks, Toby. You’re a great bowler. No, my dad’s trying to teach me that there’s more to life than just cricket. I do other things on a Saturday.’

‘More to life than cricket?’ I shook my head.

Jimbo smiled. ‘We have weekend projects. At the moment we’re clearing out the garage.’ I must have been looking a bit sorry for Jimbo. Not being able to play cricket on a Saturday sounded pretty disastrous to me. Cleaning out a garage just made it worse.

‘It’s okay, Toby. One day I’ll play in real games.’

‘Well I hope we’re on the same side when you do.’

‘Yeah, me too.’

‘You want to come over to the nets with the others then?’ I asked him.

Jimbo looked at his watch.

‘The bell’s going pretty soon. Another time, maybe?’

I was halfway over to the nets when the bell did go. I turned back to look at Jimbo.

‘See you at training,’ he called.

Thursday—afternoon

We were in the nets. Mr Pasquali took one of the nets himself and threw ball after ball at a couple of batters who he said were sluggish with their feet. Mr Pasquali was a great coach. He took the time to talk to you about your batting and bowling. And fielding too. As I padded up for my turn, I watched him working on Jono’s front foot, on-side attacking shots. He made you feel like a real cricketer.

We hung around after practice, waiting for the team to get put up on the notice board, but Mr Pasquali, who had been on the phone, came out of the gym and said we’d have to wait till tomorrow. He looked worried.

Martian wasn’t at training, and I wondered if that had anything to do with Mr Pasquali’s behaviour. Whatever it was, it didn’t look like good news.

That night I lay in bed for a long time thinking about Jimbo cleaning out the garage, about Mr Pasquali looking worried, and about Jim in the library. Perhaps this was my chance to see some other cricket matches. Maybe some famous ones. Maybe the World Cup. My mind drifted to stories that Dad told me
about amazing cricket games. Like the time he lay on his mum’s and dad’s bed listening to the radio, not daring to move as Allan Border and Jeff Thomson got closer and closer to achieving an incredible victory. It was in the early ’80s. Dad said that he lay totally still on the bed. He thought that if he moved, the spell would be broken and one of the batters would be dismissed, leaving England as the winners.

They were the last pair. I can remember the scores easily. Thomson came in on the fourth day, when the score was 218. Australia needed 292 to win—74 runs. England only needed one wicket. And they had a whole day and a bit to get it. But by the end of that day Australia had knocked off 37 of the runs. Which was exactly half the runs they needed to make.

The next morning, according to Dad, radios were on everywhere. Cars had pulled over. Maybe the drivers were getting stressed out with the tension. People were hanging around in shops listening to the game. Dad said that they let people in for free on that final morning. They were expecting a couple of thousand people. Eighteen thousand turned out to watch the game. I reckon I would have too.

Border and Thomson (he was a fast bowler and the number 11 batsman) batted on and on. They refused to take singles. They got to 288—only four runs from victory—when Thomson edged a ball into the slips. The first guy got his hands to it, and managed to bump it up so that the second slip fielder caught the ball just before it hit the ground.

Dad said he cried.

And then there was Hobart. The Test match against Pakistan when Adam Gilchrist and Justin Langer put on an amazing partnership to first rescue Australia, who were 5 for 126 in their second innings, and then take them on to victory. They had a partnership of over 340 runs!

Dad also talked about a fast bowler from New Zealand called Richard Hadlee. He’s a knight now. I sure would like to see him bowl. Dad said that in one Test match he totally cleaned up Australia, taking eight wickets in an innings.

Actually, Dad’s a bit like Mr Pasquali. He’s a guy who loves his cricket. I wonder if Dad’s all-time dream was to play for his country. This got me wondering about all the cricketers who had played for Australia. Did Don Bradman have the dream? What about all the players now? Did they lie in bed at night staring at their bedroom walls thinking of 60,000 people roaring and cheering as they walked out to play?

My last thought before falling asleep was that there was no way I was going to miss out on what Jim and the
Wisden
books were possibly offering. Didn’t Jim say that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity?

Friday—afternoon

Georgie and I had no trouble getting permission to visit the library at the MCG. We caught the tram and were going to be picked up later. I was beginning to feel at
home there. This was only my third visit, but the quiet and the calm in the little library gave it an almost magical feel. It almost seemed wrong to speak in there.

The man with glasses was there again, this time reading a book. He looked up as we entered, smiled briefly, then went back to his reading.

A moment later Jim appeared, hobbling slowly towards us from behind a table.

‘Hello, Toby, Georgie.’

‘Hello, Jim.’

I thought back to last night. To the cricket matches I’d recalled Dad talking about. And to the many more I’d dreamed about.

‘I’m ready,’ I told him, firmly.

‘Yes, I know you are.’ Jim walked over to the glass cabinet and pulled down a
Wisden
from the shelf. It was the 2000 edition.

‘The 1999 World Cup, Toby. That’s what you’re studying, isn’t it?’

I nodded, keeping my eyes on the book Jim was thumbing through.

Georgie hadn’t said a word, which was surprising for her. But now she was reaching into her pocket, and yanking out a creased copy of the poem I had emailed to her.

‘Great poem, Mr Oldfield,’ she said to him.

Jim paused from his browsing and looked at Georgie.

‘My father wrote that many years ago. Actually, they are the words of my grandfather.’

‘Yes, well I was just wondering about the word “dead”.’

Jim winced.

‘Whose lives are dead?’ she asked.

‘I wonder, my dear, would you mind hopping along to the kitchen and getting me a glass of water? It’s just down the hall to your right.’

Georgie and I stared at him.

‘Excuse me?’ Georgie said.

‘I just wondered…’

With a sigh, Georgie walked to the door.

‘Toby,’ said Jim firmly when she had gone. ‘It’s now or never. Come on.’

Jim passed Georgie’s copy of the poem to me. He gestured for me to follow him. We moved to a place behind the shelves, slightly around the corner from the main part of the library, and hidden from the front section where the big oval table stood.

The man in the chair hadn’t moved.

‘Toby, look at me. If this should work, and you find yourself in a strange place, read aloud two lines from the poem. Straight away. Do you understand? Straight away. You only ever have two hours, anyway—the time it takes to complete a session of cricket. Toby, how long?’

‘Two hours,’ I breathed, startled at Jim’s urgency and energy. He nodded.

‘Now, I want you to focus hard on the page here and try to stop the words and numbers moving.’

He passed the book across to me. Everything was happening in a rush. Georgie would be back in a
moment, but for some reason I didn’t want her to return. Not yet, anyway. I looked down at the open book that Jim was holding. The swirl of black and white was no different from last time.

‘The top of the page, Toby. Concentrate. Try to make the words settle. Force the letters to stop moving. Then say the word that appears.’

I shook my head and lifted my eyes to the top of the page. There was less black here, but still the swirly effect continued. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be doing, but as I thought of asking Jim, I sensed the page settling. I hadn’t looked at a
Wisden
page yet for as long as this. For a moment, I thought I could make out a word. Then it went washy again.

‘Keep at it, Toby. Keep going,’ Jim urged.

Another word drifted in, then away, but this time I could read the word. ‘South.’ I didn’t dare look down the page, where I still sensed a flurry of black marks swishing and surging like ants in cream.

‘What can you see, Toby? Can you read to me?’

‘S-S-South Africa,’ I stammered, peering into the mess. ‘Oh, hang on. It’s a date, June, I think, and there’s a…’

Someone was speaking.

Something about a glass of water…

I looked up. A roar surrounded me. I stood, transfixed.

Utterly confused.

I thumped myself, to feel my own body, and swung around. I was surrounded by people, but no
one was paying me the slightest attention. There was no carpet beneath me. Just grey concrete.

The bright light was glaring. There was a gasp from the crowd and then applause. I couldn’t help myself. I looked out towards the players. Someone had just belted a four.

I took another glance around me. There was a lot of noise and chatter. I noticed some empty seats about 10 metres away. Nervously I walked to them and sat down. I felt as if everyone should be looking at me, but when I turned to check, people were just concentrating on the cricket.

I checked the scoreboard. Australia were batting. South Africa were in the field. I was in England, in the year 1999, watching the World Cup semi-final! Steve Waugh and Michael Bevan were in. The score was 4 for 86. Bevan was on six and Steve Waugh was on 13. I suddenly realised that no one here knew what was going to happen. They didn’t know that they were going to see one of the most exciting finishes to a cricket game ever—well, that’s what Dad and I thought.

I opened my mouth to speak, then quickly closed it again. Maybe now wasn’t the right time to be showing off my knowledge.

I looked around at the people beside me.

‘They’re struggling, aren’t they?’ A lady was speaking to me from two seats away. She was the first person who appeared to have noticed me.

I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

‘You alright then, love?’ she asked. She had an English accent.

I nodded.

‘Where are you from then?’

‘Australia.’ The word came out a bit garbled, but she’d heard me.

‘Oooh, really? Well, you’d better hope that Bevan and Waugh put on a partnership, otherwise you’re done for.’

Someone started talking to her and she turned away. I turned back to the cricket. I felt calmer when I was watching it. I took a few deep breaths then closed and opened my eyes a few times. Nothing changed.

A surge of excitement and exhilaration charged through me. Jim was right. I had travelled in time. I really was here at the World Cup! It was the most awesome and spectacular thing imaginable.

But then a thought occurred to me. How long had I been away? Was the time I was spending here the same as the time that Jim and Georgie were spending at the library?

I decided to give it one more over. That couldn’t hurt. Allan Donald was bowling and Bevan was facing. He didn’t look in any hurry to score. But that was okay. He actually let the third ball go through to the keeper, but he scored a run off the second-last ball and then Steve Waugh scored a single off the last.

‘Not your seat, I don’t think, lad.’

I turned around. A couple of men were standing over me. The first guy was holding three plastic cups.
I stood up and scuttled past them and back to the spot where I’d arrived. I took out the scrap of paper with the poem on it and read out the first two lines I saw:

Now, hide your home, your age, your soul

To roam this place and seek your goal.

‘What?’ someone was saying loudly, close by me.

‘Georgie?’ I gasped.