For The Love Of Cricket

Baz

I've just come from a suburban ground not far from home. Its just an average ground you might find in large country towns or even the major cities anywhere around Australia. The outfield had lost the green buds of early spring, was burnt off and thirsty for any rain. All that was left was brown and flat. It was hot, even in three quarter shorts, Hawaiian shirt and a hat Roebuck would have cherished. The sun, impatient for official recognition of summer, was spending the day hurrying it along.

I don't often walk away from the chance to watch Test cricket but I'd come to the ground for a reason.

In the middle, young boys called to each other in encouragement. These were lads for whom puberty was still beyond the horizon. Spin and cutters and swing were less important to them as getting the ball to the other end and reasonably straight. Batsmen practised shots missed, just like older boys do and tried to play  them when given the chance next ball. They had listened at training and in the moments during the day when their coaches had the chance to speak. They played straight, took their singles, ran the first one hard, watched the ball, watched the ball, watched the ball.

Dressed not in tribal colours but the rather gentler camaraderie of the school sports uniform, these two teams had come together across distance because they were both successful. Today, only one would win but yet again, they'd both be successful.

Yet it wasn't the boys I noticed.

Along the boundaries, parents stood with cameras, drink bottles, hats and encouragement. No doubt, some were riding every ball as though the twenty years between then and now was gone and the bat or ball was in their hands. They were the louder ones. Among the rest, the bulk, they just stood there with chests that wished to burst with a pride they would never be able to express adequately and a quiet wish that their boy might be thrilled by something today.

I didn't notice them much either.

I talked with a bloke I know about rights and wrongs , batting orders and tactics. I explained some possibilities he might not have thought of, taking the line of his thought to broader brush strokes of the game. He's a good bloke. He loves his son and perhaps that was the weakness in his argument.

I nodded recognition to someone I admire professionally. Team photo taken, joy flooding her as it often does, her smile had the width that only proud parents can muster and almost blinded her to my subtle presence.

I wasn't noticing them either.

I didn't come to my local ground in the early afternoon on this hot Friday to watch a school boy game.

Conno

A couple of my old mates were at the ground. Both teachers, they were the coaches of the opposing sides. I watched them do their work, both obsessed, both living every delivery. Every ball was pressure but unlike their playing days when both were NSW Country players, they couldn't pick up the bat or the ball to change that pressure. How could I not notice them now, both men I admire for how they carried themselves in life, what they achieved in sport and work and the manner in which they managed these boys now. These blokes knew that today was part of a process and their responsibility was to train the future guardians just as they had been trained when all their teeth were first timers.

I watched them speak softly when spirits were low and quickly when redirection was imperative. They both employed the gift of second sight and diffused issues before they burped. It didn't matter if the boy they spoke to wore different colours because the soft touch of champions has no tribal boundaries.

These men treasure that vital interface between teacher and student. Its the place where they are most comfortable, where no thought is needed to guide them. Combing this instinct with men who have have cherished the game, held it close to them, loved it and had it love them in return ... well, the consequences were available for these lucky young boys.

A short while ago, Gideon Haigh spoke, during his Bradman Oration, of the local club as the building block of Australian cricket. Its a hard case to argue against but perhaps there is an earlier one. Kids play cricket anywhere there is a space to separate the two ends. They'll bat with palings and bowl with sox bound with sticky tape but its when they arrive at school that they are first organised and begin the corporate responsibility of being a team mate. The twenty five youngsters I saw down the road this afternoon are lucky their experiential base will include my two mates.

Love is an over used word. Men have traditionally been painted as incapable of expressing it beyond flowers and chocolate. We are told we are emotional imbeciles. Its not true of course and neither is the myth of the hard man. Today, love was obvious between parent and child but the discerning would have noticed the two men guiding events, still giddy in love with cricket and introducing her to new suitors.

I'm still in love myself.

Thanks Conno. Thanks Baz. Right men, right place, right time.