Читать книгу Howzat! - Brenda Munitich - Страница 3

They can’t … actually be coming to play! Can they? Brian stared across the field in disbelief as two girls drew nearer, the small, fair-haired one lumbering towards the nets in cricket pads, the other, dark and slim, tossing a ball from hand to hand. Some of the guys were throwing the ball around; a couple were playing French cricket.

He turned back to the notice board tacked to the wall between the dressing rooms. Stretched across the top was a computer printout –

ST BARNABAS CRICKET TEAMS – MIDLANDS LEAGUE

He searched through the headings and lists of names underneath it. 1st Team, 2nd Team, U15 … and there it was: U13. He ran his eye down the list … yes, he thought, they are playing – there are their names!

U13 team

COACH: MR P. SCOTT

Peter James

David Wright

Martin Morris

Brendan Verster

Francois le Grange

JP Dhlamini

Cassie Erasmus

Brian Lawson

William Knox

Pauline Calder

Jaco Smit

Robyn Knox

Charl Evans

Harrichand Ramharaki

“Hey Robyn!” The voice belonged to William Knox, or Wimpy, as everyone called him. “Who said you’re first to bat?”

“I did,” said a deep voice and Mr. Scott, Brian’s class teacher and the under 13 cricket coach, walked out of the dressing room.

“Come, come, guys! Nets first. Fizz, Jaco and Brendan – bowl to Robyn in net number one. Charl – put that sketch pad away now!” The coach’s remark was addressed to a smallish, red-haired guy sitting on the ground busily sketching with coloured pens.

He’s drawing when he could be playing cricket. Brian was amazed.

Shouts of protest came from Fizz, Jaco and Brendan:

“Gee, sir, can’t we play a proper game?”

“I hate nets!”

“Yuk! Nets!”

“Get going, guys. Right now! We only have the nets for an hour, then the under 15s will be using them,” Mr. Scott said. “Come, I’ll get you started.”

The three guys walked off towards the nets, still grumbling. Robyn shot Brian a sidelong glance and followed them, smirking.

“Do they really play cricket?” Brian whispered to Wimpy.

“Who?” asked Wimpy, straightening up with a grin. He’d been bending over Charl’s sketch pad. “Man – this guy can draw!”

“Those girls … and that one.” Brian pointed to a slight figure standing a little apart from the group.

“Cassie, you mean? Well – she hasn’t played yet. She’s new – like you, JP, and Charl.” Wimpy bent over and got his wicket-keeping gloves out of his bag.

“But … girls? … do they really play? … with us?”

Wimpy gave a hoot of laughter. “Of course – this is a small school man! Most of the Midlands sides have one or two girls in them. Why? Don’t you want to play with girls?”

Brian didn’t want to answer that. He’d been told that Robyn was Wimpy’s twin sister.

“… but in matches?” Brian couldn’t believe he’d have to play with girls in the same team. “Do they play in matches?”

“Well, look at it like this,” said Wimpy patiently. “We can’t play in the league at all unless some of the girls play. There just aren’t enough under 13 guys. We’re lucky that they want to play.”

“Right, guys!” Mr Scott strode back briskly. “Brian – pad up. Into the other net with you. Martin, Pauline, and David – bowl to him. Off you go. And Charl, Cassie, Peter, and JP – throw the ball to Wimpy – and make him work a bit. Come … move it.”

He shooed them out onto the field and banged the ball into the turf in front of Wimpy, so that the wicket keeper had to get low, roll and dive or stand and take a high one. “Like that!”

“Okay, big shot! Let’s see how good you really are!” Martin Morris took the ball.

This guy doesn’t like me, thought Brian. What’s he got against me anyway? We’re in the same class, but I haven’t said a single word to him yet – I’ve never seen him in my life before …

Brian padded up quickly and watched as Martin thudded the ball angrily from hand to hand.

If only we hadn’t moved here, he thought, I’d be at my old school in Durban now, playing cricket with the guys that I know so well. Not with girls and an artist. I would also tell this idiot with the ball that getting angry like that will only make him bowl bad balls.

Brian said nothing, just walked to his place, took guard carefully and faced Martin’s first ball. The ball was wild, a full toss, and Brian gave it the treatment it deserved, slamming it into the nets. A good, straight drive hit solidly in the meat of the bat.

Martin didn’t look at the ball. He just glared at Brian, red-faced with anger.

“Think you’re marvelous, hey Lawson? Just because you captained the KwaZulu-Natal Colts? Well, let me tell you …”

“I’ll do the telling, thank you Martin!” Mr Scott came jogging back. “We play our first match on Saturday and I’m not putting up with quarrelling. Just get on with the practise!”

So that’s his problem, thought Brian. It’s because I played for the Colts!

Brian put Martin out of his mind and grinned when he saw that Pauline was ready to bowl the next ball.

This will be easy, he thought to himself.

He took guard rather carelessly and was pleased to see a well-flighted ball that looked as though it was going to pitch slightly to leg. He launched himself at it but, to his horror, it spun quite sharply, bounced higher than he expected and went over the shoulder of his bat, crashing into the stumps.

There was a giggle from Robyn, who had turned to watch. “The big city cricketer’s not so good with spin bowling, hey!” she jeered.

Brian reddened, angry with himself. He played the next few balls very carefully. To his surprise, Pauline was a good leggie, and although David could bowl reasonably straight, there was no bite in his deliveries.

A good make-shift bowler. I’d use him as the fifth or sixth bowler. It’s no good thinking like a captain, he thought gloomily. I’m not playing for the Colts now, but for some second-rate team in the middle of nowhere. With girls in the team.

“Batsmen change, bowlers stay where you are,” Mr Scott said after a while.

Fizz (no one called him Francois, not even the teachers) was the first to bowl to Brian. He paced out his run-up.

Everyone says he’s faster than most of the under 15 bowlers. Just as long as he doesn’t pitch one short. Brian felt his ribs gingerly. They weren’t properly healed yet and felt sore if he rubbed them hard. He’d cracked a couple of ribs during the rugby season when he’d scored a try and had stupidly dived over the try line with the ball clutched firmly to his chest. Something the coach had told them never to do.

The last thing I need is a ball in the ribs. I wish I’d worn a chest pad. The doctor said if you get hit in the ribs by a ball, you might end up with one broken. Then, to make matters worse, he added, ‘of course a broken rib can puncture a lung’. For the first time ever, Brian felt a prickle of unease at facing a fast bowler.

The first ball from Fizz was fast and accurate. It was shortish, but not short enough to get up to Brian’s rib cage. Nevertheless he found himself flinching and turned his body slightly to take the ball on his arm rather than on his body. It didn’t hit his body at all. Instead it came off his gloves and cannoned into the stumps.

Brian retrieved the ball from the wreckage of his timber. I mustn’t even think about cracked or broken ribs. But he remembered clearly how painful it had been even to breathe. A broken rib will be much worse but if I want to play this term I must put it out of my mind.

“Scared of fast balls, hey Lawson!” This was followed by Martin’s mocking laughter. He’d just bowled in the net next to Brian and was about half way down. “I bet you’ll be too scared to do the swim!” he said out of the side of his mouth.

Brian didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what Martin was talking about.

“Sorry, Brian,” Fizz called, “didn’t mean to pitch it short. It wasn’t that short though, was it?” he asked anxiously.

“Pitch it up, Fizz, the idea is not to take your own players out at the nets. Martin, you just concentrate on your own bowling!” Mr Scott said firmly.

Martin walked back to where he was supposed to be, a malicious grin on his face.

Just forget about him, Brian said to himself.

Brendan was a slower but accurate bowler and Jaco could land a fair number right in the blockhole. Fizz bowled no more short balls and Brian began to feel more comfortable facing him.

After a while they all changed around and when everyone had batted and bowled, they all moved onto the oval for fielding practise. A noisy crowd of bigger players crowded into the nets.

There are no girls with them, Brian noted.

“Here comes the torture,” Wimpy groaned to Brian. “Scottie’s going to make us bend and stretch forever!”

“Some of us must cut out the junk food at our favourite restaurant,” Scottie said mildly, grinning at the slightly overweight Wimpy, “and get slim and trim for the cricket term. In a circle around me, everyone – I’ll have the bat now.”

After twenty minutes of running, diving for sharp catches and leaping for those hit high overhead, even Brian had had enough. Cassie, Brian had to admit, was the quickest, sharpest fielder of the lot.

“Right everyone … see how Cassie catches the ball, softball method. I want everyone to practise it. Hands like this.” Mr Scott said.

“She played softball for KwaZulu-Natal schools last year,” Fizz informed Brian, panting, as they watched her pouch a skied ball easily, better than some of the guys. “She had her picture in the paper.”

At last Scottie called a halt. “Our first game is against Oaklands on Saturday,” he said. “As we have thirteen players this term, I intend to give everyone a turn to play in a match. I’ll put the team on the board tomorrow, but it will change from week to week.” He stared up at the pavilion where a lone figure sat. “Harry has agreed to be our scorer.” He beckoned to the boy. “Come on down, Harry.”

“He’s the brain box in the class,” Wimpy whispered to Brian as the boy scampered down the steps, stuffing an oversized book into his school bag. “He doesn’t play any sport because of his arm. He’s also won prizes for maths – the Olympics or something.”

“Olympiad you mean.” Brian grinned at him.

Brian had noticed Harry’s thin, rather withered right arm earlier in the classroom and had felt sorry for the slight, dark- haired guy. He was the smallest in the class, smaller even than any of the girls.

“Right, everything away please; everyone help.” The coach moved towards the dressing room and disappeared inside. Harry arrived and started to help with the equipment.

“How did you guys do last year in the league?” Brian asked Wimpy.

“Some of us played in the mini-league – it’s a sort of development programme; a guy came from Maritzburg to coach us. We had to play right through the holidays, and we did quite well – came third. We couldn’t play in the Midlands School League because we didn’t have enough players, but now that JP’s got a scholarship and Charl and Cassie have come to school and you’re here – it’s great!”

“It’s stupid, that mini-league thing!” Martin snapped.

“Lighten up Martin, for goodness sake.” Wimpy said. “Just because you didn’t want to play! We had a great time – didn’t we, Harry?”

“Why include the cripple? He can’t do anything! And he didn’t play anyway – he was just the scorer.”

Harry’s face sort of crumpled and he turned away.

A sudden flush of anger boiled through Brian’s body. If there’s one thing I hate it’s a bully!

“Just who do you think you are?” Brian tramped a step or two right up to Martin so that their noses were almost touching, and balled his fist. “I don’t know what your problem is, but you’d better cool it!”

Martin stepped back, alarm on his face. he’s not used to guys standing up to him. Brian felt a glow of satisfaction; he dropped his fist and turned away. A violent shove from behind sent him sprawling and his head hit the turf; a pain shot through his chest. Hands helped him upright.

“Forget him, Brian. He’s always like that.” Harry was looking flustered. “It doesn’t worry me.”

But it did, Brian could see. He took a deep breath. A niggly ache spread through his chest.

“Next time I’ll clobber you,” he shouted at Martin’s retreating back. “You’re a coward and a bully!”

Harry and Brian walked slowly towards the school gates. “What’s with that guy anyway? Is he always like this?” Brian asked, rubbing his sore ribs.

“Oh, I don’t know. When he came to St Barnabas at the beginning of last term we heard that it was because he was always in trouble at Grey Primary.”

“Grey’s the school in the village, isn’t it?”

Harry nodded.

“My folks couldn’t decide which school to send me to, but finally decided on St Barnabas.” Brian stopped and looked at Harry. “I just wanted to go to the school where the cricket is the best.”

“The Grey side is very good. Martin’s dad is the headmaster there and coaches the under 13 side – rugby and cricket. He’s also very strict.”

“I guess it’s not easy to have a dad who’s a headmaster and who coaches you.”

Harry looked sideways at Brian. “Martin was also the captain of the cricket team at Grey.”

That explains a bit, thought Brian. “Harry, what was Martin talking about – something about a swim?”

“Oh, it’s a bit of a stupid dare thing really. It’s a sort of tradition, I suppose. The Saints guys have a kind of exclusive club …”

“What, a swimming club?”

“No, it’s a sort of test. There’s a big lake just outside town and if one can swim across on one’s own from one side to the other, then one is part of the club. It’s far though, more than a kilometre, and there are eels and all that in the water. I watched a guys skiing there one day last year and he came up out of the water with an eel wrapped around his leg.” Harry shuddered.

“I bet the eel got a bigger fright than the guy did!”

“Are you a good swimmer, Brian?”

“Not too bad. I swam for my prep school and we did more than a kilometre a day in training.”

“But that’s in a pool. The lake’s different. The water looks black and horrible.”

“Who has done this swim?”

“Only a few really.” He rattled some names off. “Those are the older guys. Amongst the juniors only Martin and Fizz have done it. They are our best swimmers. Both of them were picked for the Midlands team last term.

At the gate Brian asked, “Can you come home with me for a bit? We’ve bought that farm just near the school.”

Harry nodded. “I know the place. We all heard about the whizz cricketer from Durban long before you arrived. Everyone has.”

Brian remembered the article that had been in the local paper.

Prominent lawyer to join local firm

Paul Lawson, well-known Durban barrister, is to join local law firm Johns and Nelson in the new year. He and his wife Jane have a daughter, Carol, who is studying law in London, and a son, Brian, who captained the KwaZulu-Natal Colts Cricket team that won the recent South African U13 Cup. They are to settle on the farm Pinewood.

“Okay,” said Harry. “ As long as I’m not too late.”

They had a coke and a piece of cake that Brian’s mom had made and kicked a soccer ball about, then threw the cricket ball to each other.

Brian showed Harry how Spike, his little dog, fielded. “I bowl at the stumps and he brings the ball back.”

Harry watched Spike trotting back with the ball in his mouth. “He’s so small. He can just about get the ball in his mouth. How old is he?”

Brian shrugged. “I suppose he’s about a year and a half. We found him in a hole in a tree trunk near our house when he was still a baby. Someone abandoned him, I guess. We had to feed him on milk from a dropper for a while.” He held up his hand. “Don’t ask what breed he is! Dad says he looks like a cross between a Scottie and a Maltese Poodle! More Scottie than anything, if you ask me. I just wish he could bowl to me.”

“I’ll bowl to you,” Harry said, much to Brian’s surprise, and took the ball.

It’s amazing just how well Harry bowls, Brian thought. He’s got a good, even-paced run up, a high arm action and he works up a good speed.

“I thought you didn’t play any sport.” Brian had just managed to keep the ball from clattering into the drum they had put up in place of proper stumps.

“Well, I don’t … because of this.” Harry half-lifted his bad arm. “No one says anything but everyone thinks I can’t.”

“But you bowl okay – more than okay!”

“Can’t hold the bat firmly enough though, so I’ll never really be able to play a proper game.” He looked at Brian as though wondering whether or not to confide in him. “I’m having an operation on my arm at the end of the year. They are going to try a tendon transplant and then build up the muscle with physiotherapy.” He sighed. “That should give me some use of my hand. So … I’ve been doing a bit of practising. I know the other guys think I don’t like sport but that’s not true. I’d like to be able to play cricket at least.” He paused. “Also … it might not work.”

Had the doctors told him that or was he just looking on the gloomy side of things? Brian wondered, – and how had his arm come to be like that in the first place? He didn’t think he should ask.

“It happened when I was born,” said Harry, as though reading his mind. “Damaged the nerves or something.”

He sounds pretty bitter, Brian thought. How would I feel if I couldn’t play cricket? My only real heroes are Jonty Rhodes and Steve Waugh. They are tough, mentally tough. He’d seen both men bat with injuries and neither of them ever showed any signs of feeling pain – which means, if I want to be any good I’m going to have to forget about cracked or broken ribs.

“Come and see the new additions to the farm,” said Brian, shrugging the unpleasant thoughts away. He led the way to the hen house, where about a dozen tiny chicks ran about in a small enclosure, foraging for food.

“Dad wants his own fresh eggs,” Brian laughed. “My mom says they’ll cost double what they cost in the shops.”

“It must be great living on a farm,” Harry said. “I live in town and the yard’s really small. I wish I could have a dog like Spike!”

Brian hadn’t really thought about it. In Durban they’d had quite a big garden but he’d never had much free time anyway. After school there had been swimming or rugby or tennis. But best of all, in summer there had been cricket.

It was time for Harry to go. “I’ll come a little way with you. Spike can come too.” He lifted Spike up onto the wooden carrier that sat snugly behind his saddle.

“Won’t he fall out?” Harry asked.

“Not a chance; he’s been riding with me since he was a tiny puppy.”

Harry grinned and punched Brian lightly on the arm. “Why don’t we use him as our mascot? Some of the teams in the mini league had stuffed toys. Why can’t we have a real dog?”

“You mean take him with us to matches? I suppose we could – he’s used to going all over the place with me.”

“We’ll see what the others think,” said Harry enthusiastically.

Brian rode to the top of the hill with Harry, then turned and freewheeled down to the farm. All things considered, his first day at the new school hadn’t been too bad.