The flags are at half-mast at the SCG, there is no play, no fans in the stands and no attendant at the gate.
This giant amphitheatre, ageless and serene in her beauty, reaped in history and past heroics, sits idle… it’s silent, consumed by a sadness in the air, the seagulls have free range.
The vacant stands harness the gentle breeze and swirl the floating papers around the isles, almost in rhythm to the haunting chants and applause of the crowds of yesteryear, their spirits alive in the foundations of this stadium, their voice never unheard or forgotten.
The green paint on the Bradman stand roof glistens in the sunlight, while the soft north eastern wind cools the iron, the sounds of cracking and movement cause no concern.
The arena has a familiar smell of freshly cut grass as a lone curator rolls a hose toward the boundary. He cuts a solemn figure as he tends his duties, methodically and mechanically driven by his love for his work.
He works while deep in thought, his mind is elsewhere. He raises his arm to his forehead to protect his eyes from the sun as he looks skyward to a flag laying still, half way up a pole. He squints and lowers his arm, leaving his eyes closed, feeling the warmth of the spring upon his face.
A tear forms in his eye while he reflects, and trickles onto his cheek, he feels the sadness on the wind and in the serenity of his majestic stadium. He returns to his duties with a deep sigh, for he is worried that things will never be the same again.
Within a moment, a small boy appears at the top of the isle of the pavilion and wanders down to the playing arena, he places his bat over the pickets and climbs onto the grass.
The curator stops working, tips his hat to observe and offers a slight wave, the boy waves in return but is more worried that he will be told to leave. He quickly picks up his bat and practices his shots against his own shadow on the pickets.
He slashers the ball to the boundary, he punches the ball on his front foot through the covers, he hooks and cuts and pulls the ball to every corner of the ground, showing off all his skill. He imagines he is Don Bradman, Steve Waugh, Mark Taylor, Ricky Ponting and Michael Clarke all in the one player, he turns to the vacant stands and imagines the standing ovation as he raises his bat to the crowd.
The curator looks on and smiles, he returns to his work as the young boy runs off toward the gate.
Instantly, there is lighter air on the stadium, there is sparkle in the curator’s eye. For he knows the spirit of the stadium will return again, our heroes will once again come and play.
Just not today.
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