The Year My Life Broke by John Marsden Read Free Book Online Page B

it landed where the bowler was aiming.
    It was a brutal piece of bowling but I had to admire it. Somehow I moved fast enough to smother it with my bat and keep it out of my stumps. It dribbled away towards gully. I straightened up, looked at Red and said, ‘Good ball.’ The slips guys were applauding like they’d just seen a hat-trick or something. Red grunted at me – I think he said, ‘Like you’d know,’ – got the ball, and walked back to his mark.
    The next one came at the same speed but was a full toss, heading right for my groin. I played it with a quick foot shuffle, elbow up, dead-straight bat, and again it dribbled away. A better batsman than me might have done more with it, but I was just pleased to survive.
    I hadn’t been paying much attention when I came in so I didn’t hear the umpire tell me how many balls Red had left, but I hoped he was near the end of his over. I had too much pride to ask the ump now, because it would look like I was scared. I was scared, but I didn’t want Red to know that. I took guard again, trying to look pleased and confident, like I couldn’t wait for the next exciting ball.
    This one was at least predictable, a bouncer aimed like I had a cross on my forehead and Red wanted to hit it dead-centre. I swayed my head back and let it go whistling by. It was too fast for the wicketkeeper and went flying down to the boundary for four byes.
    The wicketkeeper muttered, ‘He’s gunna kill you,’ as he waited for the throw.
    â€˜He’s gunna kill you if you keep giving away extras,’ I muttered back.
    The next one was just a great delivery, a super-fast ball on a perfect length that was either going to trap me plumb in front LBW or knock my middle stump out – and smash it into matchsticks. I reckon I did well to get my bat to it. I got a thick outside edge, and it ricocheted towards second slip. I jerked my head around to see its fate. The kid at second slip got a fingertip to it but couldn’t hold it. He swore, danced up and down waving his fingers, then dropped to the ground, holding his hand and swearing some more. The ball went down to the boundary for another four. The umpire bustled over to the kid on the ground, and the South Tarrawagga players all gathered around him. All except Red, who took his jumper off the umpire and walked away to fine leg without looking at me. It was the end of the over.
    I didn’t go visit the kid who’d hurt his hand but the coach came on with an icepack. ‘We’d better get it X-rayed,’ he said, and they walked him off.
    â€˜Sorry, mate,’ I called after him, but he didn’t answer. I wouldn’t have either.
    I only faced the last ball of the next over but hit a cover drive and ran three. Big mistake, as this meant I had to face Red again. In he came, steaming like a chain smoker on a foggy day. The ball screamed past me, pretty much as fast as the ones in his previous over: another dot in the score book, but I felt that if I could survive a bit longer he’d have to slow down. I blocked the next couple, then got a streaky single past point, which of course meant I was suddenly up at his end of the pitch, standing right next to him. He might have been steaming but he gave me a look from out of the Ice Age. I couldn’t help noticing that the next ball, to my partner, Dylan, the big kid I’d bowled to in the nets the day I’d joined Cypress, was a lot slower than any of the ones I’d got. Even so, it was too good for Dylan, who edged it straight to the keeper and trudged off without waiting for the umpire.
    I waited, leaning on my bat, while everyone congratulated Red. ‘This is the best I’ve ever seen you,’ I heard one kid say.
    Lucas was the new batsman and he got a single off the first ball. That gave me the strike for the next over, and a new bowler. The ball seemed like a friendly red apple after the hand grenades