As the New Zealanders arrive in typically understated
demeanour, both sets of colonials begin three days of preparation ahead of
another ludicrously short two-game Test series.
This time two years ago I somehow smuggled myself into the
nets to bowl at the nation’s revered batsmen along with the touring West
Indians. Surely it couldn’t happen again?
Luckily my inadequacies with the ball have gone largely
unnoticed since arriving here and I weedle my way in to the Gabba nets again
two days before these fierce Tasman Sea rivals do battle.
With hordes of Queensland youngsters shuffling for position,
gunning for a bowl at their heroes, I have to wait patiently until the
exuberance of youth has inevitably taken its toll and, worn out, a second wave
of bowlers is required.
As I mark my ten pace run up and see my fellow net bowlers
stride imposingly past me in doubling my distance, I bow to humiliation,
sheepishly picking up my mark to skulk another four paces in the hope of
reducing inevitable embarrassment.
I charge in to Michael Clarke who rebuffs my efforts with
unnerving ease. Bradley Haddin, arrogant as ever, plants the front leg to swipe
everybody high into the net. I can sense the first round of bowlers, fully
refuelled with a bucket full of free Gatorade, jockeying for position to oust
us.
Mitchell Starc replaces Haddin and I sense a slightly easier
challenge. So it proves as the outside edge is beaten. I gain a yard of pace as
confidence sky-rockets (I don’t care if he’s a number 10 batsman), landing the
ball in a decent area to the lefty. Beaten again. Have I exposed a weakness of
a soon-to-be Test cricketer? Just as I can feel the vultures of the first round
bowlers circling, a good length delivery swings away from the paceman’s outside
edge and crashes in to the top of off stump. Resisting the urge to wheel away
in celebration and give him the big send off, I keep my head down as he throws
me back the ball and let out a cheeky grin as I walk back to my mark.
‘Village cricketer captures second international wicket’
read the morning headlines in my head (the first coming two years ago, pretty
much replacing the above with Sulimen Benn – must be something about left
handed tail enders)!
After returning to normal playing duties in a tough one
dayer and drowning our sorrows in grand fashion, Trudge the Pommie spinner and
I agree, half blind, to wake up at the crack of dawn and head down to the Gabba
to bowl to the Kiwis ahead of the fourth day’s play.
This time, far from the hordes of bowlers, there is me,
Trudge, a 12-year-old offie and NZ paceman Trent Boult. What an attack. “Looks
like it’s me and you as the quicks then Usain,” I joked to Boult. He isn’t
laughing, but he hasn’t seen me bowl yet!
Opener Martin Guptill first up, followed by Dan Vettori
(NZ’s #1 blind Italian), then ‘keeper Reece Young. Half an hour in, I am
struggling somewhat from sleep deprivation and the lack of blood in my alcohol
system.
Tim Southee is next up and, rum sweating out of my pores
underneath the beaming sun, I bound in, every step more difficult, before
summoning a great surge of energy at the crease and launching the ball down as
quickly as possible. I watch in horror as the ball pitches halfway down the
wicket and heads for the New Zealander’s head before Southee, slightly taken
aback, ducks underneath it.
Shit, what was I thinking? I have just bounced a Test
batsman. I apologise profusely as Southee throws the ball back with a wry
smile.
Hungover to the hilt I take the rest of the session easy,
chatting away to Brendon McCullum who jokes around in typical self-deprecating
Kiwi fashion, while coach John Wright seems more concerned with thanking us
Poms and making sure we have free tickets to the Test.
Top blokes the Kiwis. Shame that all our bowling helps
diddly squat as they are rolled inside two sessions to lose by 9 wickets. My
only regret is that I didn’t have the chance to bowl at my hero, Chris Martin…
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