State to state and still a storm

A packed Australian festive period begins with the first of six summer coaching camps across the country.

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.

After a veritable Christmas Day feast with the family at Mrs Reid’s, the sunny Melbourne sky swiftly turned to ominous nimbostratus and the mother of all hailstorms resulted, golf ball sized lumps of ice covering the ground to ensure we did indeed have a white Christmas. Albeit at 30 degrees.