Revenge, they say, is a dish best served chilled. If that is the case, our Antipodean Cousins have a peculiar way of serving it up, especially where cricket and a picnic is concerned.
Mark Hughes, known to friends and colleagues alike as Markie, had not played cricket since the under fifteens when he decided to put his name down for the clash of DPS.
Everyone said it was going to be a great day out. Among the guests were a few sporting celebrities (mainly from Aussie Rules) and retired cricketers (from the shellacked end of the Sheffield Shield).
Markie’s team had won the toss and elected to bat.
They had lost several wickets; Markie was next in and feeling the tension.
To distract himself, he took one of his female colleagues for a walk along the boundary edge until they stopped behind the sight screen at the far end of the ground. Everyone else was either over by the pavilion or around the marquees.
“What’s the matter, Markie?” said Maggie. “You look kind of nervous.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a bloke’s thing, I guess. I haven’t picked up a bat in anger in over ten years. Even so, I can’t let the boys down.”
“You blokes make me laugh,” said Maggie. “It’s only a bloody game.”
“Mags, I know you’re right, but.”
“Well,” she said, “at least you should look presentable.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tuck your shirt in.”
“Trust a Sheila,” he said, laughing.
“Here,” she said, “let me help you.”
Maggie began to laugh.
“Mags, what are you doing?”
“Honestly,” she said, “why do you need a bit of plastic in your pants?”
Suddenly they heard Howzat out in the middle. Someone was out.
“Hurry, Mags,” said Markie. “You better zip me up. I’m in next.”
Markie stepped out from behind the sight screen and strode out to the middle, bat under arm.
He took guard and looked round him.
“Oh, no Shane! Markie’s done a Boonie!”
It was one of his mates, Glen, who was standing in the slips and smirking.
The ball came towards him out of the sunlight.
Markie did not even dare lift his bat.
The ball took his middle stump.
Howzat!
The scoreboard duly noted Markie’s humiliating first ball dismissal, though it failed to register Glen’s off-putting ejaculation from the slips. Markie was still smarting from it as he tucked into a plate of picnic goodies when he spotted some fire ants climbing a sandwich crust near a piece of scrunched of cling film.
Markie, who was an astute observer of nature, and more particularly grass life, began to flatten out the cling film. Carefully, and with the aid of a twig, he placed the sandwich crust, along with a small core of apple, back in the cling film.
“Markie, what are you up to?”
Mags was perplexed by Markie’s behaviour, as no doubt is the reader.
“Mags,” said Markie, “what have you got in your bag?”
Mags began to chuckle as she emptied the contents of her bag over the picnic rug.
“Is this really part of the cricket?”
“No, Mags. But that Tiger balm of yours is just the ticket.”
Markie’s team were all out some time after lunch, and Glen’s team were now batting. The afternoon meandered on in one of those lazy passages of play. Shots were sometimes made and wickets sometimes fell until it was Glen’s turn to bat.
He strolled out to the middle and took guard; he parried the first ball and adjusted his box. He parried the second and again adjusted his box…
By the fifth ball Glen was writhing around on the pitch.
“Oh, bejesus!” He cried. “I’m on fire!”
Markie, from his position in the covers, could not resist:
“Oh, no Shane. Glen’s done a boonie.”
Revenge, it seemed, was a dish that could be served both hot and cold.