Cricket memories — as summer as cicadas

Officially, summer starts in Australia on December 1, but to me it’s when the first ball is bowled in the first cricket test.

To mark the occasion, here are some of my random childhood cricket memories.

“Don’t rub ’em, count ’em” — Balls of Steel circa 1980

*Watching two blokes carry a polystyrene esky chock-full of beer bottles (KB?) in front of The Hill at the Sydney Cricket Ground in 1975, when the arse fell out of it. The beer shattered, they were shattered. The crowd roared, the players laughed.

*Foraging in a box of washing powder (OMO?) to discover a cricket card. That smell has stayed with me for forty years.

*The religious experience of buying a brand new Kookaburra cricket ball. Opening the box, unwrapping the paper, gently taking it out. Earnestly polishing (one side) until you could see your beaming face, and never letting it touch the ground.

*My World Series Cricket t-shirt that I wore until it had to retire hurt.

*Tony Greig walking out to bat wearing a motorbike helmet to much laughter. Later sticking his car keys in the pitch while solemnly discussing the mythical “player comfort level” off the high-tech “weather wall”.

*Getting that first “cherry” on your new cricket bat.

*The body-trembling / mind-numbing nervousness of approaching your favourite cricket player on the fence for an autograph, then the exalted glee as you float away gazing at the scrawled signature. I felt exactly the same way meeting Viv Richards when I was 37.

*Missing seeing a test hat-trick. A day at the cricket with dad, who wanted to leave early because the car park “is a shitfight”. We heard the crowd erupt — three times — from said car park.
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*The terror of facing a “rep” fast bowler who started his run-up in the next suburb, and was so fast he had to stop and rest before he actually unleashed the red missile.

*Inventing day / night cricket as a kid in 1977: playing backyard cricket until mum called you in for dinner, then resuming after turning on the single Portaflood light, until mum called “stumps”.

*The voice of Alan McGilvray.

*The “Balls of Steel incident” of 1980. Bowling in a school cricket match, the ball slipped out of my hand and hit the batsmen on the full, in the, er, groinal region. He didn’t flinch. I raced down the pitch “Sorry, mate, are you ok? Good thing you’re wearing a protector.” — “I’m not.”

*Getting into fights for supporting the West Indies instead of Australia (I just preferred the way they played the game). Coruba rum is still a beverage of choice.

*The sound of the stitching of that new Kookaburra cricket ball whizzing past your nose as you missed a hoik over cow corner.

*The image of Dennis Lillee flicking sweat off his brow at the top of his run-up, then that bouncing gold chain as he thundered into bowl.

*Walking into bat, being handed a still-warm protector the just-dismissed batsman had just removed. Talk about player comfort levels.

C’mon Aussie, c’mon…

©Steve Williams 2013

Boy of Summer

Having spent the last eight years living in a country with only one season — ok, one and a bit at a stretch — it was a refreshing and welcome assault on the senses to recently spend two weeks back in a Sydney summer.

Balmoral Beach sky the colour of ” ” (via iPhone)

I always find it fascinating how sights, sounds and smells can conjure up images in your mind, like one of those old clattering film projectors you had in school several lifetimes ago.
That was when you felt totally trapped in a sweaty, sweltering demountable classroom with no air conditioning, willing the bell to ring while fidgetingly-enduring some tedious nature documentary you’d probably find quite interesting now almost forty years later — but I digress.

The first flashback of summers past was triggered by that truly unique fragrance of wet beach towels, then in no particular order the smell of a real Christmas tree, coconut oil, and sights of kids riding their new bikes from Santa with the pristine paint glinting — but not for long after a few inevitable “stacks”.

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and sadly the threat and devastating reality of bushfires, which evoked memories of still-smouldering Eucalyptus leaves falling out of a ominously smoke-hazed sky at Palm Beach years ago.

On a slightly brighter note, who can forget that valiant quest for a parking spot in a shopping centre or at the beach — with the moment of unbridled joy when you see the magnificent white aura of reversing lights appear before you.

In case I needed any reminding I was smack bang back in the middle of a glorious Sydney summer, this announcement was made on the ferry to Watson’s Bay, “If anyone’s interested in the cricket, Australia are 4 for 251”.

Words and image ©Steve Williams 2012