Great excitement in my house. The Mittagong Under 11s – aka the Australian cricket team – have managed to win a Twenty20 match and two fifty-over matches. Three in a row! This has thrilled Erstwhile, because every time South Africa B – sorry, England – beat the Aussies, cricketing experts crawl out from cubicles and from behind phones to tell him exactly what went wrong with the Australians. We don’t need telling. They just weren’t that good.
They have my sympathy. My cricket career was just as illustrious. It comprised one school term. It sounded good, though. After all, if you represent your school at sport, then logically you must have some ability. My ability, undeniably necessary, was that I was perfectly willing to make up the numbers, which made up for my lack of height and co-ordination. All those sporty people who would have missed out if it hadn’t been for me – whole sporting careers that would never have been because for a relay team, you need four people.
Most of the time, I spectated. I was there as filler, really – and because someone had to watch the oranges, sausage rolls, Chelsea buns and Fanta as it all dried out in the sun, and to maintain the supply of baby oil. The cricket wasn’t all about the cricket for most of the team. It was about getting out in the sun and getting the darkest tan possible. I became expert at rubbing baby oil into those difficult-to-reach places on teenage girls’ bodies. In those three halcyon months in which I represented my school at cricket, I only took the crease once.
It had to come. We only had three girls who could play cricket well, so more often than not, our team failed to make the runs required to win. I was so far down the list that the page had to be turned over to find my name. But one day, we didn’t have sufficient bodies to prevent me from having to bat.
I padded up. I swung the bat a few times to get the feel of the willow. I walked out to the crease and gave a look to the bowler that suggested that I meant business.
The bowler sized me up. She bowled the gentlest bouncer in history.
Over my head it sailed. Took the bails right off.
Cross my heart, I swung at it. No contact. Not surprising. The bat I was wielding and the pads I was wearing were almost as big as I was. And I had spent most of the afternoon applying copious amounts of baby oil to body parts.
We were all out. I was supposed to save the day. I didn’t even save face.
After that, I found I was better at cooking than batting (swimming, catching, hitting something with a racquet). Which is good, in my opinion. When sportspeople win, they get all the glory. When I cook, then everybody gets the good stuff. Sausage rolls, Chelsea buns, Fanta. Winners all round.
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