Saturday 22 September 2012

Cricket's Timeless Test.... By Owen Zupp.



Cricket's Timeless Test.

By Owen Zupp


I attended a school reunion the other night. It had been thirty years since I'd donned the blazer and been one of the many confined to the classroom. They were good times from what I can recall and this was further emphasised by the warm spirit that surrounded those of us gathered in the old dining hall.

The old 'cliques' of yesteryear seemed to have dissipated and after three decades there was even a hint that we'd all grown up a little. The conversations were varied and entertaining as we re-lived our mistakes of the past and present. There was a special connection too with the members of the First XI cricket team that I had played with. It was as if we had not stopped laughing from 1982 and the camaraderie had picked up right where it left off so many years ago. For all the fading memories, we could still recall Andrew Knight trying to take our heads off with precise detail. We could see and hear that seam searing past our nose.

They were friendships forged in teenage struggle and the bonds were still with us now on a cold winter's night in 2012. Yet for all the conversation and recollections, the most special moment for me came at the end of the evening. Away from the white table-cloths and wine glasses. Away from the photographs and memorabilia. Even away from the people. It was a truly special moment of solitude.  

With a long drive home, I left the gathering sooner rather than later. As I walked across the darkened grounds towards the gate and my waiting car, I paused. I stood there in the silence and surveyed my surroundings, the scenes of my greatest triumphs and most embarrassing moments were all within a stone's throw and I hadn't been here for thirty years.

I began to walk away from the front gate and towards the Glasson Pavilion, perched between two playing fields. As I loped through the darkness I half-expected to be hailed down by a security guard and questioned about my movements and motive. In a coat and tie, complete with a name tag bearing the school crest, I was confident that I could talk my way out of that one. Even so, no challenge to my being was forthcoming.  

I passed the Headmaster's residence and crossed the Old Boy's Oval where I played my very first organised game of cricket. From there I climbed the stairs into the pavilion, but this time there was no bat under my arm or obscenities under my breath. I moved to the top of the pavilion where to the north sat the "Old Boy's" and to the south sat the main oval, The Buchanan. Within 180 degrees sat  the core of my cricketing life. The formative games that set me on this wonderful journey.

I could almost see the younger 'me' repeatedly hitting a ball against the base of the grandstand. I could feel my shoulder ache as just over there I had been smacked by a 'bean ball' that missed my head by the length of my neck.The 'bubblers' still remained where I would drink gallons of water at a time. But the old scoreboard was gone, replaced by a digital slab void of any soul. I could hear the voices of my youth and smell that fresh summer grass with just a hint of moisture from the night before. The bat oil, the crisp whites and the feel of the new match ball, still wrapped in its white paper bag at the bottom of my kit.

The black and white cap and the crest that I had trained so hard to wear and the immense pride in leading my mates onto the field. The lonely moments in the rooms and the end of a battle lost or an innings all too short. The magnificent ladies and their magnificent lunches. The cute girls that came to the watch that I then struggled to converse with. The laughter of friends and the good company of our foes. They were some of the happiest days of my life. And I have had a great life.

As I sat all alone in the pavilion, I was actually surrounded by memories and friends. I was so at peace with the world that I wanted to sit there forever and inhale those days once more; slow and deep. I wanted to hang onto that feeling for just one more minute.  For no matter what challenges life may have brought me along the way, those simple pleasures of a well spent youth on fields of green with mates of gold have always been there. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to hang onto them for another thirty years and this wonderful game of cricket will keep one corner of my heart sixteen forever.

Perhaps that's why cricket matters...... 


Monday 17 September 2012

Heroes. By Owen Zupp.


  
Heroes.


I think that I have learned a lot about REAL heroes in writing my current book.


* Heroes’ stories are rarely told. Celebrities tweet when they are getting a haircut.

* Celebrities believe that the world revolves around them. Heroes just want a better world.

* Heroes take pride in the achievements of their peers. Celebrities perceive that they have no peers.

* Celebrities see the world. Heroes visit foreign lands too, but they may never come home.

*Heroes are humble. There is no money in being a humble celebrity.

* Celebrities have fame and fortune. Heroes have a mortgage.

* Heroes often die through acts of selflessness. Celebrities often die through acts of selfishness.

In this world, the line between heroism and celebrity has become terribly blurred. That is not to say that there are some celebrities who have wonderful hearts and do tremendous work; there are. What I am saying is that there are amazing, anonymous people working in research laboratories, hanging from helicopter winches and serving in foreign lands. Let’s not forget them.

Please, let’s not confuse our heroes and our celebrities.

Tuesday 11 September 2012

Cricket's Mums and Dads.



 Cricket's Mums and Dads.

By Owen Zupp.
 

Whether the elite sportsperson is standing upon the Olympic dias or holding the Ashes aloft, there are very few who do not recognise the important role played by their parents. Whether it was those laps at the local pool at 5am or the country cricket carnival 500km away, Mum and/or Dad was there.

For it's in those early years that so much sporting development takes place. There is the obvious honing of ability, but there is also the establishment of a work ethic and the appreciation of the game to be instilled. Coaches can only do so much, whereas the parents are there for the long haul. And those parents need not be sporting achievers in their own right.

In my case, my father could not have been further removed from having a sporting background. A child of the 'Great Depression' years, his father would point at boys playing cricket and reaffirm that it was a total waste of time. There was work to be done on the farm and sport was just wasted daylight. And yet this did not taint my father's outlook when his own sons came along.

My brother wanted to be George Best and play for Manchester United and I wanted to play the 'come to attention' drive just like Doug Walters. In retrospect, such dreams must have seen fanciful to my Dad, but that didn't matter to him. He was still the first one to volunteer to mow the oval or mark the side lines with lime powder. (Just don't ask him to score, umpire or be a linesmen. He never could grasp 'off-side' or 'leg before wicket') To him, it was time with his kids and if they regarded it as important, then he would support them to the hilt.

For my cricketing endeavours that meant driving me all over Sydney from our home in the heart of the western suburbs. And if he was flying that morning, he would come straight to the ground after he landed, with a jumper hurriedly pulled on over his uniform. He would then sit in the stands amongst 'expert' fathers, totally at a loss regarding their language. One day on the way home he mentioned that the 'experts' had mentioned that I was playing with a "nice straight bat". I explained what they meant and he was greatly relieved when he expressed to me that, "I spent $100 on that bat, it would bleedin' well want to be straight!"

My Dad loved spending time with his kids and I'll never forget that. He would kick soccer balls with us until it was dark and the way he used to 'head the ball' must have nearly rendered him concussed. When we broke a window, he followed suit and kicked a ball clean through a fibro panel about ninety degrees from where he was aiming. Gold Dad, absolute gold!

Probably my favourite memory is going to the nets with Dad one season when I was playing Green Shield in Sydney. At the nets he would generally stand at half a pitch length and throw some balls down to me. This day he decided to bowl off a length. Dad's only training at throwing was in World War Two as a Commando and he literally threw like it. Years later I was batting against John Dyson and he was throwing loopy off-breaks at me which I prodded away. John mentioned that I was batting as if he was "throwing hand grenades". My thoughts immediately went to my Dad and brought the broadest grin to my face.

So now, here I am, twenty years after he passed away and my Dad is still bringing a smile to my face. A smile that comes from time spent together at cricket grounds near and far. He never wanted or needed me to wear a 'baggy green', he was happy to sit in the stands, support me and appreciate the fact that 'duck' or draw, I loved the game. He couldn't play the game, but he was with me every step of the way and I will never forget that.

So to all the Mums and Dads that do the early starts and the hard miles. For all the hours of scoring, umpiring and de-facto coaching. Thank you. For whether your child makes the Under 14D's or captains his nation like Michael Clarke, they will appreciate your effort and those golden times forever. Cricket is in itself just a game, but the bonds that can grow from the endeavour are timeless; be they team-mates, coaches or parents. My father was definitely no sportsman and yet he grew even closer to his children through sport and though he is now long gone, I still treasure those times.

Maybe that's another reason why cricket matters.