Written in 1996, soon after Model C schools’ (formerly government, whites only schools) cricket fixtures began to include more than just other Model C schools.)
The road through Rondebosch was beginning to gleam with haste as earlier-than-thou vehicles earned their way to parking places as yet free of both cars and beggars. But not for the cricketing Kombi these mundane matters: its journey would take it from the hub of the Southern Suburbs to that Outer Rim of “the Flats”.
Yes, Saturday morning’s game for the Under-Fifteen ‘B’ cricket team was an AWAY match. Hanover Park, the Fixture Book had read – and Hanover Park had, rather unexpectedly, confirmed this. Directions had been given; their team would be waiting; with a sense of expectancy the U15Bs travelled on.
It was some time before they found their destination. Although the voice on the phone had said that one couldn’t miss seeing the ground as one drove along Blomvlei Road, this had in fact occurred. It was only after asking some rather varied looking cricketers walking in the vicinity where the Kombi was trying its luck that all became clear: it had gone past the ground but had not seen it. Which, of course, was impossible (but no one was impolite) so it was suggested that one of them jump into the Kombi and point out just exactly where this ground lay.
It must be said in favour of the visitors that that same restraint that had prevented noises of incredulity about the allegation of their having passed the ground, was practised when the real ground was encountered. Disbelief would, of course, require a similar lack of reaction. Yes, the ground had been passed before: twice, in fact. One had to have a canny eye to spot that strip of green Ozite lying amongst the gravel and sloping sand between two roads – one would know what to look for next time. Naturally it would have been a cinch had the stumps been up, but dry, loose gravel shows a remarkable lack of ability to keep things standing upright – as the umpires were later to find out (and spend most of their time attempting to discover the new law of physics that could solve the problem).
At the start of play, however, the wickets were standing tall – as were the visitors who had discovered that the ground might well have been where the Shaka had made his warriors toughen their feet by dancing on devil thorns; hence the very short fielding practice. Once that was over – and the toss lost – they were put in to bat. Not a moment too soon, though, as Saturday morning traffic was beginning its favourite route to the local shops – a diagonal amble across the pitch. Cricket being the game of the village green was thoroughly impressed upon the minds of the visitors who had before never understood the many ways this time-honoured practice could be exercised. Indeed, some of the local devotees of the game seemed to have spent the previous night there. Rather exhausted by all this zest they were asleep, in fact, when play commenced. As shade left the Vibracrete wall under which they had found rest, they awoke, rather slowly, to the sounds of willow and leather. It would, however, be more truthful to report that the sound of leather and stump was commoner, followed by subsequent incantations from the umpires over the Leaning Stumps of Hangover.
There were other cricket enthusiasts in the vicinity: certain passers-over (the difference between passing by and over a cricket pitch must be noted) felt a need to be educated in the finer points of the game, and consequently came to stand at fine slip or leg so as to observe the game more closely. Participation was not limited to mere observation – a commentary was added, which, true to the nature of South African cricket, favoured the Home side.
They were interested, however, which was more than could be said for the majority who looked neither left nor right as they tramped towards the shops. The umpires soon learnt why they were not in the work of traffic directing as their signals had no effect; so they stuck to their cricketing signs – which had similar effect on the scorers. Unfortunately, too, for the visiting side there was nothing in the laws of cricket to say that if a ball strikes a passer-by, five runs can be added to the batter – at this stage they were in desperate need of a few strikes. Later, though, pedestrian distraction could be added to the U15B’s list of good excuses for not turning in that brilliant display of fielding which spectators might have expected.
As the morning progressed and traffic thickened across the Peninsula, Hanover Park was no exception. Dogs now joined the human race in their appreciation of the game of cricket and added their contributions to the field of play. The local batsmen who spotted where this interest had been shown knew they were in for certain runs when steering the ball in that direction – unless, of course, it was stopped by the work of that famous sand miner, the Cape Dune Rat Mole.
As surely as the passing show had come and gone, so did the visiting batsmen. Never quite sure where exactly the dogs had been active, they could not pick the spot, never mind the ball. The bowlers, however, picked the stumps – much to the annoyance of the umpires who had to scrabble in the gravel, just for the bowler to knock down their hard work yet again.
Thus batters soon became bowlers. As this was in the later hours of the morning a few groups had by then coagulated on the fringes of the field, keen to watch their own team at the crease. They were remarkably rewarded as the ball suddenly lost its earlier fear of heights – indeed, the atmosphere became quite festive. And, in defence of the losing team, it might be said that their spectacular loss may have prevented a rather suspicious group of men who had been revolving in some corner of the ground from going elsewhere to get their kicks.
It was all over a little earlier than could have been. In fact, as one umpire noted, at least twelve parties of shoppers had not yet returned. But, no doubt, another Saturday would provide the opportunity of approaching the game from the Muizenberg end. It was, however, the visitors who turned towards that way and headed to Rondebosch, hub of the Southern Suburbs. As they approached the Main Road, artery of the Peninsula, the team’s spirits returned: the game was history. They clambered out the bus, thanked the driver who then put bus, ball and book away and looked forward to the next HOME game.
