Our wicket was a fruit case. And there were three stumps at the bowler’s end of the pitch. The original batman’s-end three stumps were lost after my sisters borrowed them for rounders (a bizarre hybrid between cricket and softball).
The fruit case – “”taken” from an apple orchard – was put at the batsman’s end because I and my younger brother were not very good bowlers and to have any hope of getting my brother out we had to have a fairly wide wicket. Moreover, there was no lbw in our backyard cricket. But then again, we did not have pads, so if one were willing to sacrifice shins for wicket – go ahead.
We played on a disused tennis court at the back of the Rectory in Beechworth. To perfect the rules it took from 1959 (when we arrived in Australia) till 1967 when my brother went to Canberra to Duntroon (under the “”No Commonwealth scholarship, no university” policy my impoverished father imposed upon us).
At first the rules were simple. My elder brother went in and my younger brother and I bowled at him indefinitely. Then we jacked up. There had to be other ways than catching him – the ball was too hard for this to ever happen – or to bowl him out – we were to hopelessly inaccurate, even underarm. That’s why he had to bat at the fruit-box end and we could bat at the stumps end. Still we bowled most of the afternoon at him.
Balance was needed. I refused to bowl unless the rules were changed. So, if he hit the ball over the used- tennis-court fence he was six and out. Still I bowled most of the time. Again the rules were changed. If he hit the ball into (even if not over) the long boundary fence it was six and out. I would have gladly given him 100 and out, provided he was out and I got a chance to bat.
Gradually the rules settled. They were still rules – legal rules that applied indiscriminately, without fear nor favour. But if you were on my side of the game the rules were still unfair.
One day it came to a head. I went in first. My brother bowled over the stumps fairly quickly and he took up the fruit-box end. I bowled at the fruit box – like bowling at six or seven conventional stumps. Still my brother hit the ball at will – and under the new rules he was careful never to hit the ball into the long boundary and be six and out. It went on for hours. Finally, I clipped the edge of fruit box and he was out. So I could bat. I lasted just a few minutes before my middle stump was removed. As far as I was concerned, that was the end of the afternoon. Crispin bowing for two hours, and batting for just three minutes against my brother batting for two hours and bowling for three minutes was enough.
But no, under my brother’s idea of fairness, each of us was entitled to two innings. He was determined I should bowl for his second innings.
It could take hours. I refused. It was the reverse of taking your bat and ball and going home – it was leaving your opponent with the bat and ball (and fruit box) and no-one to play with.
His sense of fair play was offended. “”Get in there and bowl, Crispin, I’m warning you”, he said, holding the leather ball up at point-blank range.
“”No,” I said definantly.
He only meant to scare me by throwing the ball over my head. None the less the ball slammed smack into my mouth. Blood everywhere.
“”It’s all right, Crispin, we can just hide, you won’t have to go to Dr Collins and have a needle and stitches, if you just don’t go and tell Mum.”
You can’t hide. I duly had the needle and the stitches.
But there was a new rule. From then on, 20 runs an innings was the maximum.
In all of that time, we had two aims – to have an enjoyable occupation in the dreary, pre-television Beechworth summer heat and to win on a level (if somewhat unlevel) playing field every time we went out to play.
And rigging a result was outside our lexicon. We changed the rules to make an even contest among very uneven players.
I still can’t play cricket – but I certainly know how to play cricket.
What my brother and I played was certainly not cricket – but by God is was certainly not “”not cricket”.
But then we did not play for money.