AS a young family, we’d venture in to the Gabba to sit on the dog track and watch the cricket.
We were a young family, and the cricket was exciting – in the late 70s when Kerry Packer, the old man version, turned the whole thing upside down by making players wear pyjamas and bowl with a chalk-coloured ball.
The grass was comfortable, and the players were superstars of their day thanks largely to that “Come on Aussie, C’mon” jingle that played over and over again on the television.
Someone taking wickets, another clearing pickets. It’s playing in the back of my head like it was yesterday.
We’d run down to Maccas to recite the burger ingredients in 10 seconds or less so we could get a free poster. And most of the boys had pictures of Australians and West Indians plastered on walls of their rooms, the locals in yellow and visitors in their pink pastels.
Packer owned the television station, so all the games were on. Live. The ABC played test cricket in those days, but this was different. It lit fire in the belly.
It was prime time television. Women started to like it almost as much as the men.
And we all played, some better than others. I was one of the blokes who minded the boundary while the better players bowled and batted against each other.
I didn’t mind, although my skin doctor seems to feel in hindsight it wasn’t such a great idea. Lucky you had collars the size of handkerchiefs, he’d say, or your whole neck would have been fried.
Speaking of fried, we had a regular umpire who’d light up a cigarette during the drinks break. He’d counted that it took him seven and a half minutes to get to the bit along the tar tube that he figured would make it worth his while, and drinks only went for five. So he’d take the last few puffs as the bowler began his first over after the break, blow smoke in his face and inevitably call “no ball”.
There was no way he’d have seen it.
Nobody blinked. After all, Ansett and TAA both still allowed smoking at the back of the plan in those days. Hoges and Strop were the television talent of the day. And vinyl was the flooring of choice, which wasn’t great when wearing cricket spikes through to backyard.
“You don’t even bowl. Why do you wear the darn things anyway?” Wanda would say. She had a point.
It was how it was, and all that olden day stuff makes for a good dinner time tale in more modern times.
But I’ve got to say, I’ve gone off cricket. Not because I find the game boring as many others do.
It’s because it’s not there in front of us anymore. Some games are on television, some aren’t. No consistency.
When I do bother to catch a glimpse, I’m not really sure what I’m looking at. The modern form is fast and furious, but who’s fast and who’s furious, I’m never certain.
I understand that the economics have changed. Pay-per-view owners need to take their cut, and that means siphoning some of the games behind a paywall.
I also understand that there’s an emerging generation who’ve never looked at a television guide aside from the one that pops up on the lefthand side of a Netflix screen.
They assess their mood, decide what type of show will satisfy the emotions of the minute, and click-o, here we go.
Point being, I really can’t be bothered with all the fuss of finding which cricket league – or world championship, or tournament, of any sport for that matter – I want to watch, and buying the rights to see it.
And because of that, I’ve lost interest in going to the games because I really don’t know who’s who. The stars have vanished, and the passion of cheering for my country has leaked from these once green-and-gold-laced veins.
At least with the football, I know I’ll get a game on Friday night, maybe one on Thursday night, and another on Sunday.
Again, I won’t be sure who’s playing but there’s usually enough consistency to ride the implications on how it all might affect my team.
Maybe apathy comes with age, except when it comes to food.
Hey Wanda, any chance we could go out for dinner tonight? I’m in the mood for a meat pie and a cold beer.
