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The playing squad shuffled away to the exits in the auditorium in lines of bobbing hob-nailed white. The squad has swelled like a ripening gourd towards the final Test on Tuesday.
The young shadow bowlers invited to share liniment with the boys in the hope that they will pick up something, and other things will rub off on them, have been joined by shadow batsmen for players expected to retire this year.
The Prof and I led all the shadow players to the breakout room to introduce them to the team’s customs and beliefs.
On the way we passed Peter Siddle’s hot chips stand offering a ‘buy one, get one free’ promotion. He has been circling around the team for the last two Tests like a seagull at a beach party telling everyone that he has recovered from the banana virus and is now fit to play.
He is desperate for a recall. Poor bugger.
Once inside, the Prof called the meeting to order. He outlined the five rules that govern team behaviour and the two beliefs that underpin its resilience.
The five rules
Rule 1: Use your own liniment. The banana virus that upset poor Sidds and kept him out of the Tests is transmitted through gels. Don’t share.
Rule 2: No peeking in the showers. Keep your eyes on your feet and follow the traffic signals on the floor during rush hour. It can get busy, and wet. As an aside, do not shunt other players at stop signs or traffic lights. The older hands are in no hurry.
Rule 3: The lockers are all named. If you don’t know your name, look at your tag or ask Darren, the team psychologist. Lockers are only for kit. They are not a shrine. All religious symbols, teddy bears, keep safes, portable voodoo sets, incense, hip flasks, bunsen burners, spoons and mind altering equipment of any sort are banned.
Rule 4: All your clothing is marked with a SP (shadow player) tag. Wear only your own clothing. Some of the lads love a prank. It helps them to identify the easy marks.
Rule 5: The Test XI or other named senior players like Sidds must be addressed as ‘Mr So and So’, or simply as ‘Sir’.
The Gen Y players took this restriction on their personal liberty fairly hard. One boy from Adelaide threatened to call the ABC. Darren took him aside for a quiet discussion.
“No one likes Tony Jones or Q&A here”, he said.
“It’s best to keep your religious beliefs to yourself.”
The two beliefs
Belief 1: Coach Boof is infallible. If you stuff up, it is your fault. Losing your wicket is your fault unless you have a dicky hamstring – then it is someone else’s fault. Bowling rubbish is your fault. If you grass a catch try not to look uncoordinated. The outfield coach hates that.
Belief 2: Don’t criticise batsmen. They try their best. The bowlers can bat the team home.
The Prof folded Boof’s hand written thoughts, and asked for questions.
“Sir, why are batsmen always selected as captains?”
“Are you a bowler?”, the Prof shot back.
“An all-rounder actually, sir.”
Some of the quicks in the back rows started laughing.
“That is a pity.”
More laughter followed, this time from the specialist bats in the front rows.
“All batsmen have a mild form of ADHD. They need something to do”, The Prof replied.
“If they weren’t thinking about who to bowl, where to set the field, they’d be spitting in their hands or scuffing the pitch between overs.”
“Why do they rub spit into their hands anyway?”
The Prof replied, “spit helps to relieve anxiety especially in slips where everyone has to bend over to someone in the crowd”.
All the batsmen turned round to see their backsides but ended up checking out the profile of the bum to his right. It was more difficult for the few shadow lefties. It reminded me of Reservoir Dogs (any scene).
“Sir, Mr Hollywood Watson sir, he is an old dog sir.”
“I’ll take that as a comment.”
A few chairs from the quicks at the back hit the screen behind the Prof.
“Wide”, I yelled. “Order gentlemen, order! Mr Watson is a senior player.”
“SP”, a wag added from a side aisle.
“Next question!”
“What is a send-off?”
I answered for the Prof, who was taking a call.
“An expression of unqualified admiration for a departing batsman, usually conveyed in monosyllables accompanied by unmistakeable hand gestures issued anonymously from the middle of the bum slapping scrum that passes for celebrating a wicket,” I replied.
“Unless the batsman has scored a big ton sir”, a spectacled young gun added from the front row. He looked a lot like Dirk Wellham.
“And then it’s a simple ‘FO, pinhead’ type of thing.”
“Last question?”
“Sir, where is the line between send-off and abuse?”
The Prof stared at the shadow psychologist.
“None of your business. It’s classified. Over the rope…” he said.
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