Backyard memories and coming in from the long run-up

The current Ashes series and subsequent hostile bowling from the Australian pacemen has evoked memories of the feared Australian fast bowlers of the late 1970s and early 1980s.

As a child growing up in this era, I fondly recall sitting cross-legged on the linoleum floor in front of the grainy television, watching in awe as Thommo and Lillee pounded the unlucky batsmen with brutal delivery after brutal delivery.

As I sipped my tepid cordial, I marvelled at the sometimes barely controlled aggression from this duo and often wished I could emulate them in my burgeoning cricket career in the Moranbah Under-10s.

Given that my last name was almost identical to Thommo’s, I assumed all I had to do was perfect that slinging delivery of his and I’d be opening the bowling for Australia in no time.

That was, of course, easier said than done, and after smashing a window with an errant delivery I adopted Lillee’s controlled and mechanical approach instead of Thommo’s whirling dervish.

This trial and error was perfected in the backyard nearly every balmy afternoon.

One of my most cherished memories is waiting in anticipation for Dad to come home from work so we could play cricket. I would sit on the front steps, cricket bat placed across my skinny, pale thighs, hoping that the next coal-caked car that turned into our street would be my father.

I’d barely give him time to grab a stubby of beer before dragging him out into the backyard where I’d spent the previous hour marking out the pitch, hammering in the stumps and removing dog poo, which was always magically sitting on a good length.

We’d take turns batting and bowling and my dad would take it easy on me by only belting every third ball back over my head. We didn’t have rules like “one-hand one-bounce” or “six and out”. Nothing silly like that.

You hit the stumps or you caught the batsman out. Hitting the neighbour’s beehive, however, was an immediate dismissal and usually caused the end of the afternoon session.

I even started to dabble in spin bowling. One afternoon I masterfully perfected a late turning, dipping leg spinner and bowled my father behind his legs. He muttered something under his breath and asked me to do it again, which I did.

I did it a third time and danced a little jig of joy. He then gave me the bat and marched a good 30 metres to the back fence and proceeded to send down some pretty hostile deliveries.

This probably doesn’t sound like a problem, given that cricket players usually wear helmets, pads and a protective box.

According to our house rules, however, these devices were the sole domain of pansies.

I spent those harrowing six balls whimpering in terror at the sight of my father steaming in from the chicken shed boundary end with a hard weathered cork ball in his hand.

My eldest son has started to enjoy cricket. He’s only six, but he’s grasped such nuances as the leg glance, pull shot and the yorker. He’s also learned how to sledge and the other day mocked me after smacking a wayward delivery of mine over the fence.

He didn’t laugh when I put my beer down and lengthened my run-up.