Hat Trick! (30 page)

Charlie Turner holds the record for the most first-class wickets in an Australian season. Playing for New South Wales and Australia in 1887/1888, he took an incredible 106 wickets in only 12 games. That’s an average of almost nine wickets a game!

Friday—afternoon

‘
THE
letter is on your bed,’ Jim whispered to me in the kitchen that afternoon, a few minutes after Georgie and I had arrived back at my home from school. No one had missed us that morning and there’d obviously been no calls from Mr Smale or his neighbour about any funny things going on. Georgie and I grabbed a snack from the fridge and raced up to my bedroom.

I’m pleased that you have made contact, Geoff. We shall depart from the Scorpion clubrooms at 9.00 p.m. this Saturday. We shall be gone no longer than an hour. I trust that you have been, and will continue to remain, fully discreet in this matter.

Please wear comfortable, light clothing as befitting an Australian test-goer of the 1960s.

Phillip Smale

(Manager)

Timeless Travel Tours

‘It doesn’t say much,’ I muttered, handing the letter over to Georgie.

‘No, only where and when Smale is planning his little tour party,’ Georgie said sarcastically. ‘What did you expect?’

‘I dunno.’ I was starting to get nervous about the final, worried that I hadn’t been thinking about it enough—though maybe that was a good thing. Probably the more I thought about it, the more worried I’d get.

‘Georgie?’

She looked up sharply, noting something in my voice.

‘We’ve got the grand final tomorrow. I reckon we should forget about this for a bit and, you know, focus on the game tomorrow. Do you want to set a field or maybe work out a batting order?’

Georgie folded the letter. ‘Yeah, Toby. Good idea.’

We spent the next hour working on fielding positions and the batting order. I’d come up with a 6–3 fielding setup: six fielders on the off side and

three on the on side. We could use it when I was bowling to a right-hander—though not necessarily to Scott Craven. The field would have to be spread more when he was batting.

Georgie and I had a long argument about Martian’s position at silly mid-off. I would also have really liked to have a short leg, like they do in the Tests, but in our games no one is allowed to field closer to the batsman than a half-pitch length, unless you are the keeper or in the slips or gully.

‘You’re giving away runs down through third man,’ Georgie argued, pointing to the big open area behind the slips.

‘Well, if I’m finding the edge of the bat then that’s good. With those two slips and a gully I might be getting a few wickets.’

‘Not if their shots are going along the ground,’ she replied.

‘But I’m still finding the edge.’

‘We might only have a few runs to play with,’ she said, folding her arms.

We were going around in circles.

We finally agreed that the fielding positions depended entirely on the situation of the game. Maybe at the start of the innings, when we were on the attack, we could have this sort of field.

‘Yeah, but what if we’d been bowled out for only 53?’ Georgie said, as we headed into the kitchen for some food.

‘We still attack,’ I said loudly. ‘Like Danny said: we’ve got to look and play like winners, whatever the situation.’

‘He didn’t say that—’

‘One more sleep to the final, guys,’ Dad called out from the next room, hearing us in the kitchen.

I grabbed a couple of nectarines from a bowl on the kitchen table and headed into the lounge. Georgie followed me in.

‘Cup of tea, Jim?’ Dad asked, passing us in the doorway.

I noticed Jim was also in the lounge, reading a book. ‘We’re going to focus on the game this weekend, Jim,’ I explained, passing him the envelope with Smale’s letter inside.

‘Good, good,’ he nodded, closing his book. ‘An excellent decision. The last thing you need is this sort of distraction.’ He slipped the letter into the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘Will you be doing anything?’ Georgie whispered to Jim as I gave her a nectarine.

Jim looked at me. ‘Perhaps I’ll go and have a talk with Phillip, though I fear his heart is set.’

‘We have to get the scorecard back,’ I said.

‘Not yet, Toby. You have other cricket matters to attend to. Let’s think about all of this after the weekend—after the grand final, hmm? What do you think?’

I looked at Georgie. She shrugged, looking thoughtful.

Four more people were finding out about the time travel, I thought as I lay in bed trying to sleep, wondering where Mr Smale was going to take the group that had signed up for his trip.

How many people knew about it now? Me and Jim. Then Georgie, Rahul, Jay, Jimbo and, of course, Ally. Also Scott and his uncle, Phillip Smale. Maybe Gavin, Scott’s friend—and who knew how many others Scott might have told?

And now four complete strangers. Four adults. What would go through their heads when they were transported back through time to a cricket match in the past? They would freak out completely. There was no way they would be able to keep that sort of experience secret.

In a week’s time it could be all over the town. All over the news. On everyone’s lips. But Mr Smale didn’t want that. He wanted secrecy. To what lengths would he go to ensure that time travel by means of the scorecard and the
Wisden
s remained a secret?

I glanced at the red numbers on the clock next to my bed: 10:34. In 10 hours I would be playing in the most important game of my cricket career and here I was lying in bed worrying about Phillip Smale,
Wisden
s, scorecards and four complete strangers about to go on the journey of their lives.

I bet Scott Craven was sound asleep, dreaming of cartwheeling stumps and high fives…

The most balls bowled in a Test match by one bowler is 774 by Sonny Ramadhin of the West Indies. Playing against England at Birmingham in 1957, he bowled 31 overs in the first innings, taking 7 for 49. In the second innings he bowled a whopping 98 overs, taking 2 for 179.

Saturday—morning

IT
was another warm day. There were already plenty of people about when we arrived at the ground, setting up rugs, portable chairs and even barbecues.

‘Finals atmosphere, son,’ Dad said, looking excited. ‘Come on, Nat. Help me out with all this gear. Toby,’ he said, looking at me and holding out his hand. ‘Best wishes, mate. Enjoy yourself. The result will look after itself.’

‘Thanks, Dad,’ I said, feeling nervous. I got a kiss from Mum and Nat, who also wanted to shake my hand.

Jim also gave me a handshake. ‘I’m looking forward to the game, Toby. But remember, that’s all it is—a game. A wonderful game, perhaps the greatest of them all, but still just a game.’

Mum, Dad, Jim and Nat watched me head across to the team area. I turned around once, halfway
across the oval with my cricket bag hanging over my shoulder, and waved. They all waved back.

‘We’re batting,’ Jono called, walking over to the team from the coin toss in the middle. I felt a tingly feeling in my stomach, especially on seeing Scott Craven warming up off a run-up that took him almost to the boundary line.

Positive, stay positive
, I told myself. ‘Great day for batting,’ I said.

‘Who won the toss, Jono?’ Rahul asked.

‘Scorpions.’

I looked over at Mr Pasquali for a reaction, but he was writing something into his scorebook.

‘Jono, bring everyone over to the small scoreboard here, please, and I’ll announce the team. Then you can read the batting order. After that I’d like you all together for the team photo and a quick chat, okay?’

All 12 of us, the squad Mr Pasquali had announced and introduced at our school assembly, followed him across to where a big magnetic scoreboard leaned against a wooden table that the scorers would use. One of us would also be sitting there, watching, ready to field if one of the team got injured.

Gavin, Georgie, Jay, Jason and even Ally and Martian would all be feeling nervous right now. No one spoke.

‘It’s been a long and successful season, regardless of what happens today and tomorrow,’ Mr Pasquali
said, rubbing sunblock into his arms. ‘I said last week that you were a fine team. We agreed at the start of the season that you were happy for me to pick the inform 12 for this game, and that’s what I’ve done. Unfortunately, I have been faced with the difficult task of appointing one of you as 12th man, or woman, as the case may be.’

I glanced at Georgie. She was kicking at something and avoiding all eye contact.

‘I wish it was a game for 12 or even 15 players. But it’s not—cricket is played between two teams of 11. And this is the team of 11 that will take the field in this year’s grand final.’

Mr Pasquali paused, looked up at us, then down at his clipboard again.

‘Jono: captain. Toby: vice-captain.’

A shiver swept through me, this time of excitement. We’d never had a vice-captain before.

‘Then in alphabetical order by first name, because that’s how I know you all…’ Poor Mr Pasquali was finding this difficult. He hated the thought of someone missing out. And someone was about to not play in a grand final. He looked up. ‘Ally, Cameron, Gavin, Georgie, Ivo, Jason, Jimbo, Minh and Rahul. Jay, you are our 12th man for this game.’

Jay was making a brave effort to hide his disappointment. Georgie, Martian and even Gavin weren’t showing any signs of delight, though each would be feeling relieved.

Jono stepped forwards into the circle. ‘It’s pretty well the same as last week,’ he said, unfolding a piece of paper that he’d pulled from his pocket. ‘Cameron and I will be opening, then Jimbo, Rahul, Toby, Martian, Georgie, Minh, Ally, Gavin and Jason.’

We turned back to Mr Pasquali.

‘We have all the time in the world. I will be very disappointed if there are any run-outs or wasted wickets. But keep the runs ticking along, let’s not get bogged down. If the top order can see off Scott Craven, then I’m sure there are plenty of runs for the taking. Remember, there are no limits on batters or bowlers in a grand final.
But
we have to win the game. The Scorpions finished on top of the ladder so a draw is good enough for them to win the cup.’

I tossed a few deliveries at Cameron then went over to console Jay, who was sitting at the scorers’ table with the Scorpions’ 12th man and a couple of parents.

‘You’re a part of this team, Jay, and you’ll be with us for the celebrations after we’ve won too,’ I said, patting him on the back.

‘Yeah, whatever,’ he mumbled, not looking up.

‘C’mon, Jay. At least you don’t have to face Scott,’ said Georgie, who had joined us.

‘You wanna swap then? Here, you sit on your arse here and do nothing—’

‘Hey, young feller,’ one of the men at the table said, ‘that’s no way to talk. As it is, you’ve got your
part to play. Now, let’s get this batting order into the book.’

I walked around to my usual spot, right behind the bowler’s arm, to watch the start of the game. For a moment I was the closest person in the world to Scott Craven at the top of his mark.

‘Good luck, Scott,’ I called, sitting down on the bank.

He turned around and looked at me in amazement. ‘Well, Toby Jones,’ he drawled, ‘luck doesn’t come into it, mate.’ He sniggered, spun around and headed off to bowl to Cameron.

We survived the first five overs before disaster struck. None of us expected the other opening bowler to do much damage; maybe our batters were a bit too relaxed when Scott wasn’t bowling.

First to go was Cameron, caught at mid-off by none other than Scott Craven, who hurled the ball high into the air. Then Jimbo went, caught off the last ball of the same over, and I was making my way back to the group to put on my batting gear.

‘C’mon, Rahul,’ I called. ‘Big knock from you.’ At least give me time to get my gear on, I thought to myself, watching him stride out onto the pitch.

Jason managed to toss me a couple of balls before there was another shout from the field. Scott Craven had just got his first wicket, clean-bowling Rahul. We’d lost three of our top four batters in the space of about six deliveries.

I hadn’t thought I’d be walking out to the middle so soon, and I felt flustered with the rush and the panic that had come over the team. Taking a few deep breaths to try and calm my nerves, I arrived at the wicket and paused to adjust my pads and tighten my gloves.

‘Take your time,’ I muttered to myself.

‘Come on, Scott, let’s have him,’ a voice called.

I glanced up to see Mr Smale pacing about down near the third-man boundary. I turned away quickly.

I had one ball to face to see off Scott’s over. I expected a bouncer and was ducking almost before he’d bowled it. The ball flew past my head.

‘Toby, I don’t care how slow we go, we’ve just got to survive, okay?’ Jono said when we met mid-pitch at the end of the over.

‘Okay. Just don’t shield me from Craven,’ I said over my shoulder.

‘I have no intention of doing that,’ he replied.

We survived the next six overs without too much drama, though Scott beat me twice in a row with two beautiful deliveries that moved away from me. After the second one, he came down the wicket a few paces and mouthed some swear words in my direction. I turned my back on him, just like some of the international players do when the heat is on.

I looked out past square leg to see Dad chatting excitedly with Jim, who was nodding as though in agreement. I then gazed at our players—they all
looked a bit dejected with the way the first hour had gone. The scoreboard read ‘Riverwall 3/38’.

‘It’s better than 3 for 19,’ Jono said at our first drinks break. Mr Pasquali watched from a distance. He was chatting politely to the other umpire but inside he would be feeling the disappointment.

Scott continued bowling after the break. I played his first two deliveries back up the pitch. He’d slowed down a fraction; maybe he was beginning to tire. His third ball, however, spat and flew from just short of a length. I fended it off my body. A short leg would have gobbled it up. Scott stood and stared, shook his head slowly and wheeled around.

‘Stay focused, Toby,’ Jono called from the other end.

‘Stay alive, more like,’ I muttered, tapping the crease.

The next ball was shorter. I was inside it in a flash, flaying it high and wide over deep backward square leg. I didn’t even leave my crease. Car horns blared and the umpire raised both arms. I presumed Scott was glaring at me, but I ignored him and walked up to get a pat on the back from Jono.

Scott bowled another short one, though this time further outside the off-stump. But I was on fire. Again I tried to get inside the line, but the ball was onto me too quickly. It caught the top edge, flew over the slips and down to the boundary for four.

Ten runs in two balls. I stole a glance at Mr Pasquali out at square leg. Slowly he raised a hand.
Don’t get carried away
, he seemed to be saying.

Where would Scott pitch this last delivery? Would it be another short one? I heard some clapping from the Riverwall supporters as he steamed in and bowled a fast in-swinging yorker. I jammed the bat down on it. Bat, ball and pitch all collided. The ball stopped dead and I kicked it away.

The umpire called the end of over and I headed up the pitch.

‘I want one more,’ Scott yelled at his captain, who was standing in the slips. He got his extra over. Jono glided the first ball down through the gully for a single and then I was clean-bowled with the next delivery. I hardly even saw it.

We had been five balls away from seeing out Scott’s first spell and I’d blown it. I walked off the ground dejected and angry. I didn’t speak to anyone and no one attempted to talk to me. I didn’t care that I’d been bowled by maybe the best ball of the match so far. No ball is too good once you’ve spent some time at the crease, once you’ve nailed a few in the middle and hit the boundary two or three times.

Martian top-edged Scott’s fourth ball over slips for six, but was caught in the gully on the next ball, fending off another short one.

Georgie survived Scott’s last ball, but was out lbw for a duck in the next over. Three for 38 had turned into a disastrous 6 for 55.

How could you stay positive in a situation like this?