21 runs and fours Shazams

When three generations, two thigh pads, and a lifetime of memories came together for one family.

I was ‘Shazamed’ in the middle of a cricket pitch, and it was one of the greatest moments of my life.

My batting partner comes towards me at the end of the over for a meeting mid-pitch. His pads are wrong; it feels like a chest-bursting alien is about to jump out of him. Because of it, he doesn’t really walk, but sort of waddles. His helmet isn’t straight; the straps are pointing in every direction, and he’s wearing a shirt two or three sizes too big. We briefly discuss our batting plan for the bowler, and then he lifts up his glove for a punch.

Nothing better has ever happened to me on a field. It is not a wrong’un some guy didn’t pick, a stunning one-hander that my teammates can’t believe, or winning a final. It is a Shazam, followed by three words and a wink.

When I was young, I didn’t know that not everyone played cricket. I had no idea you could do other things on a Saturday. My father, aunty, uncle and mother all had roles on their cricket committee at the same time at Campbellfield Cricket Club, which at times was called Kimberfield. At the club, I would be there all day Saturday, then come back on Sunday to clean up. I was first allowed to field when I was six-years-old. At seven, I was playing. Later on, I would bowl all morning in the juniors, then all afternoon in the seniors. It was 130 overs a day, on top of three other training sessions.

Before Boxing Day became a huge cricket carnival in Melbourne, my family would play backyard cricket on that day.

Cricket was part of my identity. I never even knew if I chose it; it was just all around me. It was a family heirloom that was passed down.

Ricky Ponting calls a glove punch a ‘Shazam’. He hates the glove punch, like only an old man can hate something that changes during their career. I have been Shazaming batting partnerships for probably 30 years, and playing cricket for 40.

My batting partner punches my gloves and then says, “I’m lovin’ this”, before winking at me and going back down his end to bat.

That Shazam was from my son, Ezekiel.

I never thought a glove punch would make me cry.

****

My dad, Peter, was a fast bowler with a big hooping outswinger. He would pick up the most raggedy arsed ball in the nets, come in off two steps, and bowl me almost every time. Others in my club would talk about never seeing him suggest a loose ball. He had not always been that way. When he was young, he was quick. But when his athleticism faded, his stomach took over, and he became another bowler entirely. He would deliver 20, 30, 40-over spells.

And that strain eventually was felt in his knees. By the time he was 40, he needed replacements in both. I was eight then.

It meant that he was unable to play cricket regulary. Our first game was a friendly, where he hit a six (perhaps one of the only in his life) and I took a bunch of wickets with my spin as the men tried to hit maximums.

The second match, he was a last-minute replacement early on in my senior cricket. My captain used to play against him, and convinced my old man he had to come out and just stand in one place, and then begged him to deliver a few overs. When he did, they thought it would be cool if I came into the slips. He was a bit slower by then, so the keeper went up, and it was one of the first times I’d ever been up at slip to a seamer. As often happened with Dad’s bowling, there was an edge, but like when I faced him, it seemed to be through me before I was ready. I knew that was probably my only chance of taking a catch off his bowling. To this day I can remember seeing the ball behind me.

We only played together once more after that.

Because I missed out on playing with my father outside of a few times, it was really important that I play with my kids if possible.

Early in fatherhood, I realised that kids do make choices. I had always assumed cricket was forced on me, but now I know that I chose it, probably several times a day. When my oldest boy came through, Zachariah, I showed him the sport, and he played early on. But by 12, he just didn’t want to do it anymore.

I had lost 33.33% of my chance to play cricket with my kid.

It was almost 100% when I fell off a skateboard.

Earlier that day, I’d been skating around The Oval. And then on the way home, I came off, and later my arm almost came off.

When the surgeon told me it might need to be removed, I thought about the fact I’d never played backyard cricket with my daughter Clementine or a real game with the boys. The surgeons found a way to save it, albeit without medication.

The pain of having an arm relocated with a dislocated wrist and elbow - with everything else broken in between - was about the same as the thought of never playing cricket with my kids.

****

My first net session when I was six, I put all the pads on, which I had seen adults do thousands of times before. I missed one piece of kit, the box, because I didn’t want anything on my dick. The first ball I faced hit where the box should have been. And I’ve never batted without it since.

I am very aware of the transition to hardball cricket. I remember when kids would turn up to training having never seen a real cricket ball before, and suddenly have to handle it in the nets. Fear and backing away were a familiar sight.

My son is still in the transition. In the field, it never bothers him, but batting, if there is any pace, he suddenly remembers this is a hard ball. If you throw a windball at him at max pace, he is fine; a way slower leather one has him backing away. This is not a big issue. I was backing away to pace until I was 13, and yet was still making lots of runs. But when you face adults, the hard ball feels harder.

So when Ezekiel was asked to play senior games, he was fine with the bowling and fielding, but the idea of batting terrified him.

The team he was playing for was Andy Zaltzman’s comedian cricket team called Four Candles. Originally Ezekiel was going to be 12th man, but with a few last-minute dropouts, he got in the XI.

The fact that they were comedians made him more eager, but he was worried about batting. Zaltzman was assured the boy could field and bowl straight, so Ezekiel made his debut at point.

The ground was formerly Earl of Leicester’s Park, but is now Penshurst Park. The first recorded cricket match there was 1724. (290 years before Ezekiel popped out). There was a big old Downton Abbey-type building next to it. But in true English style, the ground is not flat. And this is not some funny Lord’s slope. At point from the clubhouse end, there is a two-metre drop-off on what is an incredibly small boundary. So after a couple of balls went past him, it meant Ezekiel was now on the boundary, which meant we could basically only see the top of his head.

He’s played a lot of cricket, but never on a hill like this. The first ball hit to him raced down the mountain and he missed it. Later a ball flew and he had to run up the hill and dropped the catch (though from a no-ball). It was without doubt the worst place to field, so Zaltzman moved him to somewhere easier.

But at this point it didn’t matter much, the score was 163 for 2. Without disparaging the comedian XI, it felt like the game was getting away from us.

Ezekiel was moping around, near tears, from his misfields and dropped catch. Zaltzman asked if he would want to bowl, and seeing us getting smashed everywhere, I thought we might as well give him a go.

He marked his run-up like he’d been doing it for years, and ran into two players well set, with very “I’ve-had-coaching” techniques. The first one was defended off the middle of the bat. They got a couple of singles with the field spread. The last ball was an inswinger back to the top of off, and this one hit it.

His teammates couldn’t believe it, and neither could he.

At that time, the wicket didn’t feel that important. But it was.

During his spell, he was at short fine-leg when someone tried to sweep me but got a top edge. I have a rule in low-quality cricket: if the ball goes up off my bowling, I don’t look. I find it harder to be upset with the eventual drop.

So as the ball flew, I started to turn away, and then at the last moment, I realised who was coming around. There is a chance I didn’t actually see my son take the catch. It was a blur at best, but somehow he got low and kept it.

For the second time in a few minutes, I lifted him up. And he was pretty unfazed by it all. The team was excited, as somehow we’d turned a sure loss into a potential win.

Ezekiel ended with 1/20 from his four overs, while I burgled all the wickets at the other end. It was a small, yet completely game-changing spell. And he was on a complete high.

But, those hard balls.

When Zaltzman gave him the chance to bat higher up the order, he shied away and batted at eight.

When he saw the bowling, he changed his mind very quickly. In fact, he turned into Virender Sehwag. From the safety of the boundary, he was calling which balls he’d smack.

Sadly for him, the top order made runs, then Zaltzman and I mopped up the rest. So we had won the game, largely all from the moment he first ran through the crease.

In the space of a day, he went from being terrified of the ball to pissed off he wasn’t allowed to smash it.

****

When he was little, my son faced a ball in the backyard, and swung his bat. It hit the middle, and he squealed. I don’t know if I’d ever been there for a moment like this before. That first time the ball hits the middle, and a cricketer gets it. It’s a magical feeling.

That wasn’t Ezekiel, that was his brother Zachariah.

I spent years playing backyard cricket with him, and other sports. Throwing, kicking and hitting balls. I remember his excitement when he took a one-handed catch. The first time he kicked a goal past me, he ran around the backyard with his arms out like an airplane.

Actually, come to think of it, he enjoyed the celebration more than the sport. It just wasn’t for him. He played a few hardball games, did a bit of football, had a go at tennis and learned to swim. He was in a sport-obsessed family on the field or watching on TV. But he likes bees, computer games and airplanes.

The thing I learned early in parenting is that your hopes and dreams on a child don’t mean much, when they are what they are.

Ezekiel had sport pushed on him less, as did his sister Clementine. Not because I didn’t think they would like it, but because I wanted them to try so many things and discover their love that way. Both had that moment of first hitting the ball, but the difference is, they have so far kept wanting to do it.

One day, that might change. That’s okay. Because what I have learnt is that one moment is enough as a parent. The rest is their life.

****

A week after his successful senior debut, Ezekiel was supposed to be 12th for his mum’s work team. At the last minute, everyone pulled out. Again.

This time, the game was at his home team’s ground, but, weirdly, against them. He made this very clear when I tried to wear the club shirt and took me through all the reasons I could not.

Again we were getting smashed around a little until he came on to bowl. Again he only took the one wicket, but was still way straighter than the adults, and kept the pressure on.

One guy was nearing his hundred, and he was hitting them very well, so I worried about Ezekiel’s position at short midwicket. I offered him an easier spot, but he wanted to stay there.

Two deliveries later, the ball was hit straight to him, and perhaps not noticing the left-hander, the batter took off. Ezekiel got to it quickly, but fumbled. He then said “sorry guys”, picked the ball up and knocked back the middle stump. He was pissed at the mistake, and didn’t notice running out the bloke about to make it to his hundred.

The 12-year-old was calm, while the adults were ecstatic.

He almost played it cool, but actually he played it oblivious.

****

The third time I played with my father, it was at Altona, on a giant playing surface. It was a two-day game, and we lost in the first innings really quickly, and most of the second day was us trying to hold on for a draw. I went in first-drop and just blocked.

Outside of being injured, I’ve never been this defensive in my life. I made one run in my first hour as two older spinners bowled really well. There were seven fielders around the bat who never shut up. And the more they moaned, the harder I tried to ruin their chance of an early finish.

After a while, the reason for staying in changed, because I’d batted so long that now my dad was due in soon. He was batting at eight, with my friend Kevin at seven. By the time Kev got in, I’d been batting for three hours, and had roughly four runs.

Batting with a childhood friend relaxed me a little, and so when I got a half-tracker I went for it. These two old fellas had been so disciplined that it was the first real poor ball. Muscle memory kicked in, I went to pull it, but dragged it onto my stumps.

The walk-off was huge on this MCG-sized ground, so I had plenty of seconds to watch my dad walk towards me. Of all the times he had looked at me disappointed after I’d given my wicket away (and he was my coach for eight years), this was the one that hurt me the most.

As I took my pads off, my old man slogged his first ball out to deep square leg. Kevin ran three, before he noticed my dad was walking down the middle of the pitch with his arms raised like he’d won a World Cup.

We lost the game outright, and never played together again.

****

The umpire turned to me and said casually, “If a wicket goes now, your son will come in next.”

Ezekiel was scheduled to bat at eight for his mum’s work side, but with me in the middle and set on our home pitch, I think, off-field, they realised it would be cool to see father and son together rather than my wife’s work team getting anywhere near the huge chase (which was never that likely).

When my friend Akbar was out, I waited for Ezekiel to walk in. It felt like forever. In fact, it was longer.

No one entered the pitch at all. If the opposition had wanted to, they could have pulled a Shakib Al Hasan and appealed for a timeout. Eventually Ryan came in to bat, and he told me the problem was Ezekiel couldn’t work out how to put his chest pad on.

Which I thought was weird, as he didn’t own one.

At this point, I was seeing the ball like a watermelon; sadly I was also hitting it that way. Nothing was coming from the middle, even though everything was hitting the bat. But my batting changed for another reason. I was happy to attack and score earlier, but now I started to feel this deep fear.

What if I went out again, like I did to my dad?

Now clearly, there are still lots of chances to play cricket again with Ezekiel. But maybe my arm has another issue, or he stops wanting to play cricket.

I was suddenly batting for my family in what was one of least serious matches I’d ever been in.

All of this swarmed around my head, as Ryan swung wildly at the other end. He was dropped and almost ran me out. He brought this charming chaos to the crease that I would have enjoyed, but my mind was on something else.

The result of the match meant little to me now, as did my score. I just wanted to stay in longer than Ryan. Usually I bat for my partner, this time I was desperate to outlast him.

I dug in for a few balls, at one stage playing a forward defence and holding the pose for seconds to ensure I’d done it right. I have hit the winning runs in close games, made hundreds and done just about everything with a bat, but for these few balls, I was at my most vulnerable.

My backlift, guard and grip were all changed. I wanted to be there when he was. I was a whole different batter than at any other point in my life; a father hoping to survive.

Ryan’s batting could best be described as enthusiastic bursts of swipes. Usually, I would have talked him through the innings and tried to protect him a little early on. Now I sat back, waiting for his powerful fours or a quick exit. When he lofted one from the offie, I broke my own rule of never watching high catches when I’m invested, and looked close enough to see a loose thread on the ball until it was safely nestled into the hands of the fielder.

This time Ezekiel did come in. The slowest walk ever, I met him closer to the boundary than the pitch. Behind him Clementine was playing, far too young and bored to understand what is happening all the way out in the middle. She will ask me later if she can play “real cricket” with me and Ezekiel. When we get home, Zachariah will ask how we went the minute the door opens.

For now, I am Ezekiel’s batting partner and dad. So I go about fixing whatever is going on beneath his shirt. It turned out that he’d got confused, and instead of borrowing someone’s chest pad, he’s ended up with two thigh pads. The second one had slipped to just above his waist. So I fixed this, and let him know he was facing an off-spinner.

This should have been the easy bit, I’d avenged the error with my dad. But now I was just a father, hoping his son could get a run.

So when Ezekiel got an inside edge to short fine-leg, I screamed yes and ran as fast as my old body allows for. I made it easy, but I turned around, Ezekiel was a jumble of oversized shirts, extra thigh pads, and a helmet that almost covered his eyes, so he was only halfway down the pitch. A good throw could have run him out.

But I’d taken them off guard. They were playing a friendly cricket match; I was doing something far more important.

Ezekiel had his first senior run because I’d stolen it for him.

At this point, I went back to normal, started looking for gaps or just hitting the ball hard in the air. I was just enjoying the moment, and without really noticing, I passed 50. There was no raising my arms like I’d won a World Cup, I just had a quick bat lift to my teammates and then shared another Shazam with my son.

It was our third or fourth Shazam in our 21-run partnership. Each one welled me up.

My arm never came off, I didn’t go out this time, and my son still loves playing cricket.

Marking my guard at the beginning of the next over after the wink Shazam was hard. A lifetime of cricket and family went into my eyes.

My grandfather jumped the fence to see Bradman fail.

My mum, sledging opposition batters after my dad had got them out.

My uncle’s leg-slip.

Teaching my cousin how to bowl legspin.

Captaining another cousin’s leggies in a match.

My grandmother’s irrational hatred for Brett Lee.

I think I marked leg guard, but I was also floating above the crease.

Soon after, I was out slogging; normal service had resumed. But Ezekiel stayed around for a while before finally missing a straight one.

When he was out, he cried. Which is funny, because when he was in, I cried.

We lost by 131 runs.