Cricket was the Winner

by William McInnes

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

A heart-warming short story that will make us laugh and cry, and remind us why the little things in our lives are so important, from one of Australia?s best-loved writers, William McInnes. Lachlan and his dad head down to the oval for the under-twelves cricket game, as they do most Saturdays in the season; it?s part of their routine. Lachlan hopes he?ll get some runs. His dad is happy to stand on the sidelines with the other cricket parents, drink coffee and cheer the team on. But this weekend, the other team?s umpire had to work, so Lachlan?s dad has to do the boys a favour and stand in out in the middle. He also hopes his son will gets some runs as he umpires the under-twelves, but most of all, he wants Lachlan to do his best by the game and walk tall at the end of the day, knowing that cricket was the winner.

Release date: September 1, 2012

Publisher: Hachette Australia

Print pages: 28

Sample

I made him carry his own bag. He looked at me, turned away and blew out his lips a little.


‘Don’t give me that sooky look, mate,’ I told him. ‘I always carried my own bag when I was your age.’

‘It’s heavy,’ he said.

‘That’s because you’ve got so much gear, mate. When I was your age we didn’t have all that stuff.’

‘Yes, Dad.’ And he picked up the bag and staggered off with it.

I wondered why I called him ‘mate’; I mean, he was my son, Lachlan.

He was a tall boy who would take ages to grow into his body. His arms and legs bent and shot out at all sorts of angles as he lurched towards where his team was sitting. His cricket team. He’d played with these boys for three years. And now they
were growing up. Some of them seemed to have done so really quickly over those years, while others still cried when they got
sent out.


I wonder why they only cry when they get sent out?

They could bowl badly or drop catches or misfield balls in the match, but they only cried when they got sent out cheaply.
It was something to do with failing, to have failed with the bat. I looked at them all gathered in an untidy heap. In so many
ways they were still little boys.


Sometimes as they walked out they appeared for all the world like miniature versions of test players, especially some of the
boys who felt comfortable within themselves, in their little world of under twelves.


I looked at one boy, Josh. He was chewing gum and wearing sunglasses, his arms folded and his legs crossed. He was a bit like
Mark Taylor. I liked Mark Taylor. Josh’s father carried Josh’s bag. I. . .