Bellerive Beach was surprisingly quiet two days ago, surprisingly so even for a day that seemed like it would rain.
There had been a sunny day earlier in the week, so maybe most people had rationed themselves to one trip for the week. But not everyone gave themselves that memo.
Towards the end of the beach – the end where there is Blundstone Arena, the Fish Bar and gym equipment that lets your local grandma pretend she’s Paul Ryan for free if she wants – there was a boy and girl couple that looked like they were past the age of drinking most of their alcohol at university barrels but not so far past it that they lead a wine tour.
He was trying to get a tennis ball that his girlfriend had hit into the water, and he was sucking at it. It was just too far from his reach without getting his shoes wet, and he didn’t want that. In fairness to him, nothing about beach cricket has ever suggested the possibility you might get wet. He couldn’t have known.
Anyway, eventually she tossed the bat to him and he dragged it out of the water. An astonishing choice considering it was David Warner’s bat. Okay, it wasn’t. It was a plastic bat. To quote Barney Stinson, “Are you happy, Truthy McGee?”
They resumed their game. When Bane told his henchmen to go mobile at the start of The Dark Knight Rises, this couple must have been just off screen, because there was no pitch and no stumps; just a guy bowling from wherever the ball had been hit last and a lady trying to hit it.
As many Tasmanian cricketers start their club season this weekend, it was a timely reminder of how expansive the definition of cricket really is. Cricket can be a bunch of kids playing tape ball cricket in Pakistan, it can be Indian expats playing the game they grew up with in America, it can be old men in England who try to continue what they see as the spirit of an allegedly nobler time.
The narrators are also a varied bunch. That wonderful mature-age student at your local university who does not see people he does know negatively as others. The English captain when she happens to be playing at your local club. A dog that runs away from a game with a ball in its mouth.
The internet enables that variety to be seen. Not often for money, but at least be seen. Instead of yelling out the window and maybe receiving a friendly comment from a neighbour, you can send it out into the world. Maybe the sole comment I will get will be from one of those wankers who try to rip people off online, although I’ve never seen such a comment on The Roar.
Maybe it’ll be from a half-drunk slob living in Russia who used to play club cricket in a popular cricket country who stumbles onto the story on the news feed on Reddit.
Maybe it’ll be from you.
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