The Shorter Wisden 2013 (14 page)

Bankstown bat first, scoring 186. Sometime before play the pitch, uncovered, was gently rained on. When the ball bounces, it puts a dent in the mud-like surface, and as the mud slowly dries
these dents are effectively cemented in, which is the recipe for a pitch that’s pockmarked and lumpy, but later on in the afternoon, not yet. Thomson, the No. 8, crouches bent-kneed and
fidgety, hacking his bat up and down in readiness like a weed-cutter’s rusty shears. Yet his 29 out of 186 is Bankstown’s second-top score. One swing of Thomson’s sends the ball
orbiting high above the fieldsmen, 20 metres beyond the fence and into the nearby high school, a furious swipe.

Reasons for annoyance centre on an October evening when the New South Wales XI for the season’s opening interstate match was about to be announced. Leg-spinner Kerry O’Keeffe told
Thomson you’re not in it, “oh, that’d be bullshit,” Thomson replied, but then the selectors confirmed it. Thomson’s previous first-class game had been for his country
against Pakistan. None for 100, he’d taken; with a broken left foot, he’d bowled. Now he was considered not good enough for the state. Thomson carries inside him an urgent sense of
right and wrong. Sometimes he leaps wrongly to the conclusion he’s been wronged; this time, no doubt, he’d been wronged, right? He rang his Bankstown captain Dion Bourne to say meet me
down at Bankstown Sports Club.

“The pricks,” said Thomson. He talked about how upset he felt, about knocking people’s arms, legs, heads flying. He said it again. “Pricks.”

When Thomson bowls, the climax of a weird shuffling trot that verges on pony-like, his feet perform a last-second cross-shoe slide, then his right leg tilts and braces, his elongated left leg
kicks out horizontally at the batsman, and his left arm points skywards, fingers and thumb at full stretch – so completing his temporary self-transformation into a human slingshot – and
by this stage his long hair is standing up on end, his white flannels tend to be flapping out around his backside, and his eyes fix so insistently on their target that the muscular torsion this
involves is visible when freeze-framed, hollowing out his cheeks and sending a crooked leer ripping across his face. It is – no other word works – beautiful. Here is one subsidiary word
– eerie: the ball, dangling low, behind his back, is almost but never quite within the batsman’s sight line.

A cricket player’s physicality expresses itself mysteriously.

Behind every cricketer is another cricketer.

Thomson’s dad, Don, bowled with the same action. Years away Thomson’s own boy, Matt, will have the same action. Two other sons do not bowl often but when they do it is with the same
action.

Imagine adding annoyance and a miscarriage of justice and a simmering two-month thirst for vengeance to that action. At Coogee, Drummoyne and Marrickville ovals, the wickets and casualties
mounted. Against Balmain, he clipped a chunk of Balmain wicketkeeper Kerry Thompson’s ear off and the ball kept going. “A little piece of your ear’s missing,” Dion Bourne
offered helpfully, “down near the fence with the ball.”

The Pym ball was an inswinging yorker. Next in is Billy King. “Same ball to Kingy,” silly mid-off Barry Thebridge wanders over to tell Thomson. “He won’t get behind
’em.” Thomson does not really need to be told. People have been underestimating Thomson’s IQ for years. They still underestimate it. But he ranked in the top five students at
Condell Park Primary and had his pick of high schools – and one day in the future, in Perth, he will win not only the Fastest Bowler in the World competition but the $A1,000 bonus prize for
most accurate
.

Thomson bowls the same ball again. This time it is off stump that’s cartwheeling.

Greg Bush, the non-striker, who overheard the Thebridge–Thomson conversation, smiles at Thomson: “Pretty impressive.”

The hat-trick ball climbs off one of the dents in the pitch and misses Barry Hyland’s shoulder. Hyland is batting at five instead of his regular three because he is wearing new glasses.
When Thomson’s next over begins it is Bush on strike. Bush turns and peers round. Something he has never seen: the slips and wicketkeeper are stationed nearer to the sightscreen than the
pitch. This is Bush’s sixth first-grade match. At 18 he balances studying law with playing cricket, the thing that he loves, and 14 years from this day he will encounter the massive Barbadian
Wayne Daniel on a wet Manly Oval wicket. Daniel will rifle a ball up his armpit, and he will hear Daniel’s mouth in his ear, “Hey, man, what you get behind the ball for, man,
you’re mad?” That will seem like nothing next to facing Thomson today. No chance of a backswing: time only for a short-armed bunt. Even so Bush, a left-hander, is managing to discern
the blur coming at him, and because Thomson is angling the ball across and away from him he feels comfortable. He gets away two scoring shots: a forward punch off a full toss, when Thomson slips a
little in his run-up, and a backward jab off a short one.

Hyland’s new glasses are worrying him. Bush pokes towards gully, tries for a single, Hyland shouts no. It is overcast but not cold. The honking traffic is loud and the atmosphere dead. A
hundred people, rough count, are present. The sightscreens are too low to cover the bowlers’ arms. Bush has a reputation for not scaring. Next ball, the ball after Hyland’s
“no”, is the first ball on the line of Bush’s body. It pitches on leg stump, neither full nor short. One small step lands Bush squarely behind it. This ball leaps. It has its own
mind. Bush thrusts his gloves and bat handle up, up to about nose level. But the ball is like a wave breaking, over the top it crashes. Bush staggers and falls. He puts a hand to his right eye.
“Have a look,” he hears. He looks: blood on the glove. Thomson walks back to his bowling mark, and stands. Bush’s eye, people notice, looks to be sort of hanging, not sitting
correctly in its socket, the most shocking and grotesque cricketing injury, everybody knows, that they ever have seen or will see.

Bush’s team-mates, on the boundary, heard the thud, then a crack.

Garie Beach, Norah Head, Maroubra, The Entrance: at a string of far-from-stress escape hatches along the coast of New South Wales, Thomson and his friend Lenny Durtanovich,
later Pascoe, would surf and talk to girls. Thomson cannot remember a time in his life when he did not want a boat. As a kid he asked for toy boats, while dreaming of the real thing. Later, older,
still not a boat owner, he and Greg, the third brother, would select some ocean rocks to stand on, and fish off them, sometimes through the night, a metal spike to cling to when the surf turned
treacherous on top of them. Thomson played many sports, not just the working-class ones. In his Bankstown backyard flattened by five boys’ footfall he gouged holes in the grass, and put soup
cans in the holes, to create a golf course. Beach excursions with Lenny happened Saturdays – days of no school, or work, days of invariably turning up late for cricket.

Durtanovich and Thomson were Punchbowl High partners in shooting pigs, catching fish, pulling birds, taking wickets. Durtanovich shook out eight for 21, Punchbowl v Birrong. Thomson smashed that
with nine for three, Punchbowl v Belmore. Occasionally Thomson would catch sight of Alan Davidson or Graham McKenzie bowling on TV – “like watching fuckin’ paint dry”.
Davidson’s inswinger dipped devastatingly late. McKenzie had a Mona Lisa of an outswinger. Not impressed, was Thomson: “pace and more pace” was more fun and also bothered batsmen.
He was six when he bowled his first bumper. At 12 he’d get through 50 eight-ball overs on a Saturday, spread across Under-14s, 16s and C-grade, jogging from venue to venue on days Dad
didn’t drive him. At 14 he bowled a ball that sent a wicketkeeper flying. Once, when Wes Hall ventured to the far-out western Sydney sticks to teach Australian children how to throw, Thomson
threw further than Wes.

Twenty was a complicated age. Those fond of Thomson – and not many who glimpsed a layer beneath the bloodthirsty persona were not – believed that if not for the Bankstown postcode
he’d have been opening the nation’s struggling Test attack with young Dennis Lillee of Western Australia. Instead that summer, 1970-71, Thomson was dropped from Bankstown first grade to
third grade for an afternoon (he took ten for 31) when club officials tired of the surf/girls preoccupation and the lateness.

Thomson’s attitude to cricket was: “I mean, you have to play all afternoon, so what’s the hurry to get there?”

In the middle of Bankstown Oval lies a red pool. David Colley, the incoming batsman, sees it on his slow walk out. Greg Bush’s blood. Sort of “squeezey” looking, like squirted
sauce. Sick feeling in the stomach. Red blood on white creaseline. Try not to step in it. Colley gave Bush a lift to the ground that morning. Try not to get your friend’s blood on you. Blood
on the creaseline, behind it, in front of it. Red splash in the line of all three stumps. Got to know where middle stump is. Colley asks the umpire for middle and marks the spot with his boot. Red
on white boot.

Colley’s presence today has been playing on every player’s mind. Colley is one of three fast bowlers – Steve Bernard and Gary Gilmour are the others – in the New South
Wales team. Tapping his bat in blood he hears voices from behind. “This is the one we want, Thommo, this one’s yours.” They think Thommo should be picked for New South Wales
before Colley. Thomson thinks Thommo should be picked. What else is Thomson thinking? – the usual stuff against Mosman – “pack of jerks”; “fancy bats”;
“elegant and clever”. Colley himself got thinking, before heading out to bat, “I’ll try to stir Thommo up. Make him bowl short and go crazy and try to kill me. Might be my
best chance.” So he put his New South Wales sweater on. Thomson sees the sweater. The day is, still, not cold. The fieldsmen standing closest think they see white in Colley’s face.
Colley, inside – “I’m not going to dog it” – is fixed tight on a plan, to go back, and across, get yourself behind the ball when it comes…

The ball is fairly full and swinging in. Colley is a long way away, maybe a metre away, the place where he’s backed away. Leg and middle stumps are out of the ground. Colley sees nothing
– too quick – hears nothing, and seconds later will remember nothing of this. Still, now, he cannot find the memory, and nearly 40 years have gone.

Lying on a stretcher in the corridor between the teams’ change-rooms, Bush hears a roar, and knows: Colley out, first ball.

Colley returns, looks around, thinks that’s strange – three batsmen, all of them out, have not unbuckled their pads. The three sit still, smiling, but not happy smiles, or
normal.

One, Pym, is having hazily philosophical thoughts, like what are we doing here, this is supposed to be a game, and another, Jeffery, is thinking he does not want to bat again today, over and
over he thinks this, aware that the thought is surely futile, such is the speed of batsmen’s comings and goings.

Sandy Morgan, at No. 7, once a Queensland all-rounder, is next in. He feels no nerves. He has clarity. Thomson shuffles up to bowl and Morgan steps away two paces to leg. Morgan is like a
flashing neon white flag. But he does not get paid for cricket, he is fresh-embarked on a stockbroking career that is shaping up promising, and the Test aspirations he had he has left behind. So he
steps away two paces, bat waving, “There are the stumps, Jeff, knock ’em over, don’t hit me.” Morgan survives a ball but not many.

Bush, still on the corridor floor, hears the excited shouts.

Once, on a terrace outside Roselands Shopping Centre, schoolboys Thomson and Durtanovich had a disagreement about who had broken more batsmen’s fingers lately.

All day a complicating fear has dangled over proceedings. A year ago at this ground Barry Knight bowled a beamer at Thomson’s head from 16 yards and everyone’s been wondering if
Thomson is plotting retaliation. Knight had his reasons: Thomson had earlier flung at the head of Mosman’s last man Bill Carracher two that bounced plus another that didn’t. Also,
Knight did not (the long version goes) mean it – simply tore in off the long run thinking bumper, until the realisation hit him that an ageing Englishman’s attempted bumper might
provoke mere laughs, which was when drifting into his subconscious came a seething Trevor Bailey, his idol, beaming a New Zealander from the front creaseline, and Knight decided good idea, front
creaseline, still thinking bumper, but then five or six strides from delivery his thinking got scrambled,
bumper
turning to
beamer
, and in his distraction he skipped past the
umpire, past the front creaseline, and staggered several yards on accidentally. Anyhow, Thomson ducked.

Knight is the new batsman. Thomson does not retaliate. Knight gets behind the ball, protecting his stumps. The fieldsmen, noticing this, are impressed. But before Knight can think of a run he
pops up a catch.

Since first learning cricket, aged eight, on London’s Wanstead Flats with some older boys, and in the street against a lamp-post, and with his friend George Catchpole on a wooden pitch his
dad built from disused doors, Knight has either practised his batting or batted in actual matches, be it at street, net, club, county, Test or grade level, virtually every dry day. Conservative
estimate (Barry’s): 200 balls a day, 73,000 balls a year, which makes, pushing 36 years of age, 2.04 million balls faced in a cricket-devotional lifetime so far. Not one of the two
million-plus compared with facing Thomson, that creeping-hysteria sensation of having no reaction time, of hoping and trying to bob on the back foot and somehow pick the ball out of your swimming
line of vision – actually, thinks Knight, as he slopes off Bankstown Oval, a tremor of recognition, “I’ve had this feeling before.” On a drab day in Peterborough, 1956, a
teenaged Knight passed Essex team-mate Geoff Smith on his way to the wicket. Smith was whimpering, on a stretcher. The ball had struck him under his pad’s knee-roll, the jolt shifting the
knee out of alignment: Smith lbw b Tyson 0. Knight faced five Tyson balls, none straight. Two bumpers, a beamer, one pitched up outside off, another pitched up and scudding leg side – Knight
knows this because he turned and looked,
afterwards
. When the five balls were flying at him he could make out only the faintest shadow, or no shadow. Exact same thing facing Thomson.