The extent to which I’ve become an inactive layabout is starting to annoy me. I spend far too much time with my computer (so I decided to blog about it… hmm…) and not nearly enough time outside.

This is partly due to the Darwin climate this time of year. When it’s not 33 and sticky, it’s 29 and pouring which makes outdoor pursuits a little inconvenient. However, the Dry is fast approaching and that means only one thing:

Cricket season.

Yes, I know that rest of Australia has only just got over the monumental waste of time that was this summer’s so called ‘competition’ (although as I’m typing this, Mitchell Johnson has just taken 10 wickets in the second test in Hamilton to clinch the series against New Zealand) and is stolidly pushing on with fanatic devotion to games played with balls that aren’t round.

But up here we do things the other way around: we play cricket in the dry season when it’s slightly cooler, less humid and not pouring with rain all the time. We play football in the wet season because if we didn’t, the guys playing both cricket and some code of football (which is generally half the team; there’s only a limited pool of players to draw from) would be screwed, and also because football players usually aren’t smart enough to realise that running around in the sun in November is a stupid idea.

You may already have read of my previous adventures in international cricket. It could probably be said that as a batsman I make an excellent spin bowler and that as a bowler I make a fantastic… goal keeper. Nonetheless, I’ve decided that in order to break out of the inactive slump that has elevated my pant size to unacceptable levels, I’m signing up for the next season.

The last time I played club cricket in Australia was when I was in high school, playing for Tracy Village, which was just around the corner from our old house in Wanguri. I managed to earn myself the nickname “Kamikaze” due to my distinctive ground fielding style and was renowned as the most consistent number ten in the league (I can’t remember the name of the guy who batted at eleven. He must have been woeful). I bowled occasionally, but spent most of my time running around at deep mid-wicket being noisy.

Not much has changed, except that Tracy Village is no longer just around the corner. I’m living out in the wilderness of Woodroffe and I have a heart rending decision to make.

Palmerston cricket club trains at Woodroffe Oval, which is just around the corner from where I currently live. The logical thing for me to do is to sign up with them. But, as a born and bred northern suburbs boy, it seems a little unnatural. Like a boy from Longreach growing up to play State of Origin for New South Wales, or an Oxford law student rowing for Cambridge. Or a former Liberal leader crossing the floor to vote in favour of Labor’s Emissions Trading Scheme. Can I really bring myself to represent Palmerston on the cricket field?

I think convenience is probably going to win out over district loyalty. I also think the Tracy Village sports club can probably count themselves extremely fortunate. Either way, I’ll be spending less time in cyberspace and more time in the outfield, which can only be a good thing from my current perspective.

This has been another presentation from Nine’s Wide World of Sports.

Garry with 2 Rs

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