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Opinion
There was sport before 1979. There was even cricket.
My earliest sporting memory is the drawn rugby league grand final in 1977 between Parramatta and St George. My earliest cricketing memory is World Series Cricket. C’mon Aussie C’mon and David Hookes, or Hookesy – a brilliant left-handed batsman just like I was surely destined to be!
Now just to be crystal clear, I love my parents dearly and they gave me everything a boy could hope for. But sometime in 1979 what they gave me was some sort of cricketing yearbook commemorating the Establishment English destroying a weakened Australia in the Ashes the summer before.
Whether they thought this was a joke or whether they were trying to head off long Saturdays pretending to watch their son being somewhat less than the next David Hookes, I don’t know. I suspect they saw it was about cricket and thought I’d like it. But given they did once go to see American Beauty at the cinemas but accidentally saw American Pie instead (for about 20 minutes apparently) I will go with absent-mindedness.
So my first cricketing book chronicled in gory detail the nadir of Australian cricket. But the glossy pictures! The scorecards! Hours were spent re-reading the scorecards, having no clue who Peter Toohey was but marvelling at Rodney Hogg waging a one-man war against impossible odds and the feats of a young superstar by the name of Ian Botham.
It led to a childhood love affair with cricket and also with its most sacred text: the ABC Cricket Book. I knew exactly when summer rolled around and cricket was on the menu. School finished, the hose was added to the home-made trampoline to make the dodgiest pool in Redcliffe and the ABC Cricket Book took pride of place in the local newsagent.
As an aside, yes my father was rather handy. Considering he built his own sprint car (for the uninitiated, that is a horrifically dangerous speedway racing vehicle – wings on the roof but no brakes!) and his own four wheel drive panel van (by cutting a four wheel drive Ford ute and a Holden panel van into halves and somehow melding them), a hybrid trampoline pool built to withstand a small nuclear blast was a piece of cake.
Anyway, back to the ABC Cricket Book. These were special treasures. The $3.99 or so was saved carefully, by buying only the five cent pack of lollies at the local swimming pool after school, coupled with sorting nuts and bolts at my dad’s mechanic’s workshop.
Then down to the newsagent and it was mine. Glossy pages, player profiles, the glorious final pages where the home heroes and touring fodder’s career Test statistics were pored over like holy scripture.
David Hookes. (Photo by S&G/PA Images via Getty Images)
But even greater than these treasures were the empty scorecards waiting to be filled out by spectators at the cricket. Given there are scoreboards at all Test venues and given the score on TV was regularly updated I’m not sure what sort of person actually filled these out, but to us they were brilliant. They allowed us to record the most intense cricket contest ever known – the annual backyard cricket championship.
To the best of my recollection the championship was first played in the summer of 1979, when Australian cricket began the arduous task of healing after the World Series Cricket war. England and the West Indies toured and played three Tests each as well as a triangular one-day series. We must have had outings, jobs to do and other interests, but my memory now is that virtually every day of the summer, my older brother and I scoffed down some toast and vegemite and headed to the side yard for combat.
I was a lucky boy. My family had purchased the vacant block next to our house and this became our field. We also had bushland out the back and in later years this was mowed to provide a proper oval, but in the beginning it was the side yard.
A healthy strip down the middle was mowed a little lower. The chain-link fence at the back was a good approximation of Rodney Marsh, or Deryck Murray or Bob Taylor as required.
The pitch ran slightly downhill but with a nice little rise just a bit further than halfway down, so bouncers were very effective. There were two medium-sized gum trees at midwicket and cover. Hitting them on the full was obviously out.
Getting the ball to the fence was four and over was six but not always out, depending on placement. Putting a red cherry on the campervan sitting at deep square leg would get you a stern talking to and caught in the outfield. But the worst was the semi-rainforest behind a fence of logs at deep midwicket. This was definitely a dismissal as valuable time could be lost avoiding the spiders and lizards to find the faded red ball.
Teams were chosen from the player profiles in the back of the book or favoured ring-ins. To my everlasting surprise and gratefulness my older brother took a liking to anyone playing against Australia, especially the West Indies. So while he was Vivian Richards, Clive Lloyd, Andy Roberts and Michael Holding, I could be Hookes, Allan Border (yes, I loved the left-handers), Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson.
No quarter was asked for, or given. Also not given were helmets, gloves or pads. But we had real stumps and a real cricket ball – cork, not stitched, but it may have been red once and it was as hard as granite. Tennis balls were for sissies or when Mum was playing. In hindsight I don’t know what my parents were thinking.
And then it was on. And this is how I know that I must have watched cricket before this time, because Jeff Thomson always opened the bowling. Thommo starts his stuttering demented ballerina of a run-up right from the front fence. Back goes the slingshot arm and a dangerously hard projectile is hurled with what I thought was blinding speed at an unprotected ten-year-old about 14 yards away.
There was no blocking in these Test matches. A leave was what fell from the gum tree at cover if you hit it hard enough. Eight balls of mayhem and then off to the picnic table to record the over in the ABC cricket book. Runs were taken, players changed ends and it was all meticulously recorded for posterity. I do remember that the glossy paper was terrible to write on in pencil.
Then back out to continue. All day. Every day. In for lunch and to check the score on the other, less important game that might have been on TV that day. And then reluctantly accepting when bad light, lost ball or too many cherries on the campervan stopped play.
(Photo by Kai Schwoerer/Getty Images)
The ten-year-old bowled as fast as he possibly could at his seven-year-old brother, who learnt rapidly that complaining to the match referee about intimidating bowling to a minor usually meant Mum would stop play as being “too rough”, an unimaginable fate. So I learnt to cope. In later years a front pad helped, but the flat spot was never solved and balls shooting off a length were a constant menace.
I also remember that when my brother batted, Viv Richards somehow never got out. Ever. He miraculously changed ends every single time. A magician, that Viv. But sometimes the Australian attack insisted that he was gone and then the cries of “it’s not fair you cheating so and so” filled the air. But big brother always got his way. Any extended protest was always quelled by the Armageddon scenario: “Fine, I won’t play anymore then”. Viv generally earned a reprieve.
Despite the fierce rivalry, the disdain for spinners and the hardness of the ball, I only remember one injury – and I got it while bowling. I think it was David Gower or maybe it was Javed Miandad in a later summer that launched into an absolutely vicious straight drive that slammed into my kneecap as I was following through. Down I went like I’d been shot.
Howls filled the air, parents came running and the older brother protested his innocence but was likely convicted by the court of “don’t hurt your little brother, you should be more careful”. But I bet we were back out there the next day.
I never did become David Hookes Junior. As it turned out, I was a solid number eleven bat who could bowl reasonable left-arm orthodox. But in each team I played for, the scorecards were immaculate and the school coach would be presented with a set of player statistics at season’s end.
More than 30 years after that summer of 1979, the ABC Cricket Books are all gone, the scorecards forgotten and I honestly don’t remember who won a single match.
But I’ll never forget the smell of cut grass, the feel of the old cricket bat, the futility of furiously polishing a ball way past caring and the thrill of competition. It turned out they were the best sporting years of my life.
For all I know, Viv Richards is still batting.
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