But when he stepped out of the car, not a single camera swivelled his way. His Smile for All Seasons was, impossibly, suddenly out of season. Even when he caught up to Ashley, who was posing two paces ahead of him, the cameras still devoured her to the point that one photographer actually asked him to step out of the shot.
He stood and watched from the sidelines as Ashley didn’t so much have her photo taken asdemandher photo be taken. It was a complete transformation from the Ashley that Finn knew. The one who seemed guileless and even unworldly at times, young and inexperienced and malleable. That Ashley was gone, replaced by a fierce, calculating, unbending commander who would consume you with her strength. Finn had never seen anybody who was in such total control of the world around them. It was intoxicating – and utterly terrifying at the same time.
Ashley extended a long arm to Finn to signal that he could now approach. He took her hand and stood so close he could smell her ambrosial perfume.
‘Hey, that’s Finn Walsh,’ one of the photographers yelled. The pack, which had been slowly moving on to the next person to hit the carpet, now swung back to Ashley and Finn like a school of fish through the ocean.
Ashley squeezed Finn’s hand. ‘Smile, Finn,’ she said. ‘You’re going to be in the paper.’
***
‘Great shot, mate!’ Finn’s dad said.
Finn smiled.
‘See how your front arm stayed up? That’s how you keep the bat straight. Otherwise, that ball would have hit the stumps and you’d be halfway back to the pavilion by now.’
‘But we’re in the nets.’
‘We might be in the nets, Finster, but always practise like you’re in the middle of the MCG.’ Finn’s dad winked and patted him on the helmet.
Finn adjusted his box and watched his dad walk back to the stumps. His new cricket set was the greatest thing ever. Proper helmet, gloves, pads and, best of all, the box to protect his nuts. It was a little hard to run with that plastic cup shoved into his underpants, but it made him feel like an Australian player. And it meant his dad would bowl the harder ball at him too.
His dad took up his position at the top of the pitch.
Finn adjusted his stance: feet shoulder width apart; back leg slightly further to the off side; bat angled towards first slip. He touched the bat twice on the ground as his dad ran in. Then he held it slightly off the fake grass and watched his dad’s right hand through the grille on his helmet. A bead of sweat dripped down his cheek, but he ignored it; all his focus was on the red ball about to launch. It left his dad’s hand and moved fast through the air. Finn could see that it was going to bounce outside off stump, so he stepped forwards to meet it and swung his bat in a single, straight, fluid motion just like his dad had taught him.
The crack of bat on ball was the best sound in the world. The ball slammed into the net and ricocheted back to his dad, who was jogging towards it with his cheeks puffed out. ‘Oohhh,’ he said. ‘That was your best shot today. Beautiful cover drive. I think I might have taught you too well. I can’t get you out!’
Finn couldn’t have stopped the smile that burst across his face even if he’d wanted to. ‘My head’s all sweaty,’ he said. ‘Can I bowl for a while?’
His dad laughed. ‘Of course, mate. But only if you promise not to bowl too fast.’ He knelt down and started undoing Finn’s pads.
Finn slid off his gloves and unbuckled his helmet. He watched his dad. He was tall, like Finn, and he had to stoop over to reach the pads. His hair was fair and curled over his collar. There was a dark line of sweat down the back of his grey T-shirt. His big hands moved quickly over the pads and soon the air ran up Finn’s legs.
‘All right,’ his dad said, standing up. ‘Let’s see how many sixes I can hit in one over.’
‘Yeah, right, Dad. You’ll be lucky if I don’t bowl you out six times.’
His dad laughed. ‘That’s my boy. Never let a trash talker out trash you.’
He walked to the stumps, picked up the bigger bat and took up his stance. He was wearing his football shorts, which Finn thought was so wrong on a cricket pitch. ‘Do your worst!’ he called.
Finn lined up the stumps, adjusted his grip on the ball and charged in. He kept his arm straight and led with his hips, putting as much of his body weight as possible into the delivery. When he let the ball go, he knew it was perfect.
There was no better feeling in all the world.
***
The next day was Sunday and Finn dressed in his cricket whites for breakfast.
His mum gave him a bowl of cereal and a cup of milk. ‘Need to keep those bones strong, Finley. You don’t want to fall and break your arm.’
His mum was always saying stuff like that.Don’t run in the house in case you slip and crack your head open.Ride your bike slowly over driveways in case a car pulls out and kills you.Eat your vegetables so you don’t end up with bowel cancer. Whatever that was.
She sat down with Finn at the table and ruffled his hair. ‘All dressed for the day?’
‘Me and Dad are going to the nets again.’
