The programme of three-day courses for budding young
Pontings starts in Queensland, handily just a few miles from our apartment on
the Sunshine Coast. I take up a position as a coach to a group of 11-year-olds
who amongst the drivel of Pommie MCC textbook spiel I serve them, are treated
to several sessions from specialist coaches.
With former Test players Gary Cozier and Danny Morrison
taking charge of the batting and bowling as well as further wicket-keeping and
all-round specialists, the kids soak up every minute of cricketing expertise.
The course flies by and before I know it I’m boarding a
flight ahead of the Adelaide leg of the trip. With Greg Blewett making fleeting
appearances in between Fox Sports’ TV commitments and Test spinner-turned
author Ashley Mallett also giving his insightful views I feel quietly humbled
to be part of it all.
Barely having time to take breath, we fly immediately to Melbourne
where, having boarded the cheaper late night flight, I opt to try my luck
hiding in the departure lounge and gain a much needed few hours sleep sprawled
out on the comfy seats.
Unfortunately this lasts all of ten minutes as I am politely
asked to vacate the area despite several pleading requests. Through the one-way
doors I trudge into the ignominy of the airport lobby. Despite traipsing the
length of Melbourne Domestic and International Airports, to my dismay every
wooden bench available is taken up by backpackers sound asleep for a free
night’s accommodation.
At 3am, with the drone of inane airport television overhead
feeding my unwanted insomnia I make the rather drastic decision to move outside
to the balmy morning air. Finally, laying against the glass airport wall with
my bag for a pillow I manage to nod off.
Half an hour in to an inglorious but necessary sleep I am
woken not by noise – my iPod has seen to that – but by a tickling sensation on
the left hand side of my face. Rather startled, I open my eyes to see the
rotating brush of a road sweeper mistaking my ear for an item of rubbish.
Apoplectic, I explain to the driver that although I have not
had a shower in a few hours I am not worthy of such a fate. Looking like he
understands less English than the average North Korean, I give up, head inside
and listen to the airport TV until morning. Melbourne Airport: poor form.
Morning means the start of the next camp and despite
ultimate sleep deprivation, I call upon waning reserves to lead my group
through another star-studded day of coaching.
On top of the expertise, the facilities at our Scotch
College residence are quite incredible. Five turf nets, six Astroturf nets,
three turf-wicket ovals, a further three synthetic wicket ovals, all pristinely
cared for with outfields akin to bowling greens.
This time coaching a dozen 12 year olds it was incredibly
rewarding to see their improvement over the three days under the guidance of
legends.
With Christmas came a welcome break from hard work and a
trip down the Ocean Road to see Elstow CC Aussie legend Steve ‘Symo’ Reid. It
didn’t take long to realise that he hasn’t lost it; a game of backyard cricket
with brothers Reid had me playing and missing outside the line of the wheelie
bin on several occasions, this after my bowling was regularly deposited into
the chrysanthemums at long on.
