The problem with two-day games of cricket is they take two days. In winter tournament over here each day is played on consecutive weekends. So having avoided humiliation last week, I now had to front up again.
Still, given the other side needed only 50-odd runs to win, it should’ve been over in an hour. Little did I know the opposition had other plans. They wanted an outright victory. To do that they had to post a big lead and bowl us out again.
That would take all day.
So, another three hours in the field were in order. It’s hard to hide for three hours in a game of cricket. And sure enough it didn’t take long for me to be posted way out on the boundary as the boys hit out in the last hour.
Inevitably, one of ours bowled a dolly. It came crisply off the bat rising and coming straight for me like one of those laser-guided things, a fear-seeking missile. I wasn’t afraid of the ball or its finger-breaking power. I just didn’t want to drop it.
Across the park, the sounds of the Livid festival could be heard, distorting in the strong wind. It’s been windy and occasionally wet here for a week or more. Very un-Sydney.
The little black dot grew bigger and reached the top of its arch before bearing down at me.
At least this week I wasn’t hung over. My mind was clear. My weekend was all mapped out. Cricket today, dial in some nice food for tonight and watch World Cup games with the Girlie. Sunday is my day of culture. Last week I went to the NSW Art Gallery for the Dobell Prize for Drawing among other exhibits, including some pretty challenging video installations.
This week the Girlie was into her homework, so I went to the movies on my todd, The Weather Underground. This is one of those films that has you coming out of the theatre wondering what you are doing with your life. Not that I wanted to go out and blow things up or anything, it just makes you feel disconnected and pointless.
But that’s probably just me.
The documentary is the story of the Weathermen, home-grown US radical resisters to the Vietnam War whose slogan was “Bring the War Home.” For five years or more they bombed government offices – never killing anyone – and eluding the FBI by living in various hippy communes around America. It’s also the story of their rapid marginalisation in a changing 60s and 70s radical scene. If it comes your way make sure you stay right to the end of the credits to see one of these former terrorists win $29,000 on the US TV show Jeopardy. Priceless.
The black dot was now large and moving fast. The wind carried it a little. Just one step to the left. Right in the old breadbasket.
To add to my dissociation, I’m reading Fight Club by Chuck Pahlaniuk at long last. It is incredibly well written with some amazing and horrifying ideas. From memory, the film is very faithful to the book, but I haven’t seen it in a while. The studio head got sacked by Rupert Murdoch for making it, so he must have done something right. It’s very reminiscent of Ballard’s Crash.
The ball hits with a leathery smack. Right in the middle of my hands. Victory.
Carrying a book like Fight Club around with you in Glebe has an odd side-effect. People talk to you. I was having a coffee before the movie and running late when a young guy bailed me up at the counter to share his thoughts. He was a fan of the book, of course. Very keen. I felt rude cutting the discussion short. It isn’t easy to strike up a conversation with strangers. But the Weathermen called. I made my apologies.
And then the ball popped out.
Anyway, we still had to bat. This offered some redemption. In a dour rearguard action, yours truly managed to last 15 overs and collect 18 runs, top score for the second innings.
Maybe I won’t retire after all...