Country Memories Stick Like The Flies In The Bush

The Sunday Age

Sunday January 13, 2008

Darren Berry, Victorian Assitant Coach

IT WAS 22 years ago as a 16-year-old that I left Wonthaggi to pursue my cricketing dream. Last Sunday, I returned to where it all started and pulled on the creams again alongside my mates at Outtrim Moyarra Kongwak.

Outtrim is a little place on top of a hill situated between Wonthaggi and Korumburra - farming country in south Gippsland. Nowadays, there is nothing in Outtrim except the hub of activity around the cricket club.

Two tennis courts, three cricket nets, the hall, the change-rooms which double as the social rooms, and plenty of flies - that's it. This is country cricket at its best.

I had always promised my close friend Stephen McNamara, my one-time coach, mentor and opening batting partner, that before I was too old and too fat I would return to play one game with him.

Macca would arguably be the best bat to play in the Leongatha and district competition and these days, he plays in B grade to help nurture the next generation. It's not an uncommon story in the bush. Tales of country legends still doing their stuff is folklore. Ron Salter at White Hills in Bendigo must be at least 80 by now. And I bet he's still playing.

I arrived at the ground at 12.15pm for a 1pm start. As I drove through the gate, sure enough, the first person I saw was Macca, still the club coach, just as he was 22 years ago when I left.

He was walking the boundary line, putting the cones down in front of the goalposts at each end. He'd made sure his mother-in-law and my No. 1 supporter throughout my career, Nancee Brown, had made my plate of sandwiches to provide for afternoon tea. The home team still brings a plate - I'd forgotten that after rack of lamb, eye fillet steak and chicken curry at the MCG.

I parked the car and made my way across to the change-rooms - a tin shed, complete with all the mod cons. The roller door doubled as the air-conditioner. The flies could have picked up my bag and carried it into the rooms.

After our 40 overs in the field we had bowled Glen Alvie out for 157 and it was our turn to bat.

The soggy tomato sandwiches and occasional curried egg went down a treat in the mid-innings break. Then it was time to strap on the pads and open the innings with Macca, as we had done years ago.

All of a sudden I was nervous. I have only played two charity games in four years since I retired and the thigh pad and protector felt strange. Even the bat in my hand didn't feel quite right - I was like a young boy making his debut again.

Macca took strike as the senior partner and looked as technically sound, turning the second ball to fine leg, as he did 20-odd years ago.

The moment of truth had arrived; I complied with country policy on the synthetic turf and asked for centre, then bent down and picked up the chalk from behind the stumps and marked my territory.

I leant over my bat with my heart pounding, and then the Glen Alvie captain added some theatre to proceedings. He stopped the bowler and called for a round of applause for the Victorian assistant coach. For a moment I thought they were serious but then realised I was home and they were taking the mickey.

I had not played on hard wickets since I left and after the first ball realised the bounce and pace is totally different than on turf.

I was bloody awful, to be honest. Full tosses that Macca would have caressed through the covers I drove awkwardly to mid-on.

I tried my level best to get out but survived to make the worst half-century the ground has ever seen.

The odd snipe from behind the stumps suggested it was little wonder I had never played for Australia. Maybe so, but Macca and I had fulfilled our dream - we were reunited back in the middle at OMK. He made a polished 47 when our opening stand of 90 was broken. I slogged a spinner up in the air and was caught soon afterwards.

We secured the win and the game ended. No showers - they waste valuable drinking time. Some stood in their creams for the rest of the night. The cold VB cans were cracked and the camaraderie and fellowship was how I remembered it.

The rooms filled as the A-grade and D-grade teams arrived back.

As we stood around the television having a beer, Michael Clarke bowled Australia to a remarkable win in Sydney, and it was obvious the camaraderie between those two teams idolised by millions was not the same. This was just one country club like so many across the state who love the game for what it is. The sun set, three kangaroos hopped through the centre wicket with joeys in their pouches. I was back where it all began for me, with a smile on my face.

© 2008 The Sunday Age

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