Howzat!. Brenda Munitich

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СКАЧАТЬ there was no bite in his deliveries.

      A good make-shift bowler. I’d use him as the fifth or sixth bowler. It’s no good thinking like a captain, he thought gloomily. I’m not playing for the Colts now, but for some second-rate team in the middle of nowhere. With girls in the team.

      “Batsmen change, bowlers stay where you are,” Mr Scott said after a while.

      Fizz (no one called him Francois, not even the teachers) was the first to bowl to Brian. He paced out his run-up.

      Everyone says he’s faster than most of the under 15 bowlers. Just as long as he doesn’t pitch one short. Brian felt his ribs gingerly. They weren’t properly healed yet and felt sore if he rubbed them hard. He’d cracked a couple of ribs during the rugby season when he’d scored a try and had stupidly dived over the try line with the ball clutched firmly to his chest. Something the coach had told them never to do.

      The last thing I need is a ball in the ribs. I wish I’d worn a chest pad. The doctor said if you get hit in the ribs by a ball, you might end up with one broken. Then, to make matters worse, he added, ‘of course a broken rib can puncture a lung’. For the first time ever, Brian felt a prickle of unease at facing a fast bowler.

      The first ball from Fizz was fast and accurate. It was shortish, but not short enough to get up to Brian’s rib cage. Nevertheless he found himself flinching and turned his body slightly to take the ball on his arm rather than on his body. It didn’t hit his body at all. Instead it came off his gloves and cannoned into the stumps.

      Brian retrieved the ball from the wreckage of his timber. I mustn’t even think about cracked or broken ribs. But he remembered clearly how painful it had been even to breathe. A broken rib will be much worse but if I want to play this term I must put it out of my mind.

      “Scared of fast balls, hey Lawson!” This was followed by Martin’s mocking laughter. He’d just bowled in the net next to Brian and was about half way down. “I bet you’ll be too scared to do the swim!” he said out of the side of his mouth.

      Brian didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what Martin was talking about.

      “Sorry, Brian,” Fizz called, “didn’t mean to pitch it short. It wasn’t that short though, was it?” he asked anxiously.

      “Pitch it up, Fizz, the idea is not to take your own players out at the nets. Martin, you just concentrate on your own bowling!” Mr Scott said firmly.

      Martin walked back to where he was supposed to be, a malicious grin on his face.

      Just forget about him, Brian said to himself.

      Brendan was a slower but accurate bowler and Jaco could land a fair number right in the blockhole. Fizz bowled no more short balls and Brian began to feel more comfortable facing him.

      After a while they all changed around and when everyone had batted and bowled, they all moved onto the oval for fielding practise. A noisy crowd of bigger players crowded into the nets.

      There are no girls with them, Brian noted.

      “Here comes the torture,” Wimpy groaned to Brian. “Scottie’s going to make us bend and stretch forever!”

      “Some of us must cut out the junk food at our favourite restaurant,” Scottie said mildly, grinning at the slightly overweight Wimpy, “and get slim and trim for the cricket term. In a circle around me, everyone – I’ll have the bat now.”

      After twenty minutes of running, diving for sharp catches and leaping for those hit high overhead, even Brian had had enough. Cassie, Brian had to admit, was the quickest, sharpest fielder of the lot.

      “Right everyone … see how Cassie catches the ball, softball method. I want everyone to practise it. Hands like this.” Mr Scott said.

      “She played softball for KwaZulu-Natal schools last year,” Fizz informed Brian, panting, as they watched her pouch a skied ball easily, better than some of the guys. “She had her picture in the paper.”

      At last Scottie called a halt. “Our first game is against Oaklands on Saturday,” he said. “As we have thirteen players this term, I intend to give everyone a turn to play in a match. I’ll put the team on the board tomorrow, but it will change from week to week.” He stared up at the pavilion where a lone figure sat. “Harry has agreed to be our scorer.” He beckoned to the boy. “Come on down, Harry.”

      “He’s the brain box in the class,” Wimpy whispered to Brian as the boy scampered down the steps, stuffing an oversized book into his school bag. “He doesn’t play any sport because of his arm. He’s also won prizes for maths – the Olympics or something.”

      “Olympiad you mean.” Brian grinned at him.

      Brian had noticed Harry’s thin, rather withered right arm earlier in the classroom and had felt sorry for the slight, dark- haired guy. He was the smallest in the class, smaller even than any of the girls.

      “Right, everything away please; everyone help.” The coach moved towards the dressing room and disappeared inside. Harry arrived and started to help with the equipment.

      “How did you guys do last year in the league?” Brian asked Wimpy.

      “Some of us played in the mini-league – it’s a sort of development programme; a guy came from Maritzburg to coach us. We had to play right through the holidays, and we did quite well – came third. We couldn’t play in the Midlands School League because we didn’t have enough players, but now that JP’s got a scholarship and Charl and Cassie have come to school and you’re here – it’s great!”

      “It’s stupid, that mini-league thing!” Martin snapped.

      “Lighten up Martin, for goodness sake.” Wimpy said. “Just because you didn’t want to play! We had a great time – didn’t we, Harry?”

      “Why include the cripple? He can’t do anything! And he didn’t play anyway – he was just the scorer.”

      Harry’s face sort of crumpled and he turned away.

      A sudden flush of anger boiled through Brian’s body. If there’s one thing I hate it’s a bully!

      “Just who do you think you are?” Brian tramped a step or two right up to Martin so that their noses were almost touching, and balled his fist. “I don’t know what your problem is, but you’d better cool it!”

      Martin stepped back, alarm on his face. he’s not used to guys standing up to him. Brian felt a glow of satisfaction; he dropped his fist and turned away. A violent shove from behind sent him sprawling and his head hit the turf; a pain shot through his chest. Hands helped him upright.

      “Forget him, Brian. He’s always like that.” Harry was looking flustered. “It doesn’t worry me.”

      But it did, Brian could see. He took a deep breath. A niggly ache spread through his chest.

      “Next time I’ll clobber you,” he shouted at Martin’s retreating back. “You’re a coward and a bully!”

      Harry and СКАЧАТЬ