Carmel Shute objectifies the gender politics of cricket while learning to love the game.
I never thought I'd fall for a 'flannelled fool' (not my term but my former flatmate's). I verge on being un-Australian in my almost complete disinterest in sport. So how did I get roped into being - in fact playing - at the inaugural Communist Party/International Socialist cricket match over Easter 1979, the match which sparked the formation of the Reds?
I guess it was because not even those two revolutionary organisations were rabid enough to hold meetings over Easter. Conferences yes, meetings no. Car-less and broke, I didn't have anything better to do that fateful weekend. I can't remember who applied the Chinese arm burn to get me to Caulfield Park but, to my surprise, I found myself on the field and even batting.
A duck and some broken fingernails later, I could lie back and gaze at the other players. It was then that I realised what a fine figure Ken Norling cut on the field - even without the whites and cute cap with the red star, later adopted by the Reds. Ken and I had known each other for a couple of years. We were comrades and had both studied history. We even served on one or two committees together. But, it was on the cricket field, that my heart went a-flutter.
We played cards later that night. While we didn't get to know each other in the Biblical sense till later that year, this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship - one which has lasted twenty years of not living together.
The Reds brought us together but they also keep us apart I don't care about all those afternoons but I do miss being able to go away together over summer weekends. Most especially, I do miss be able to go out on a lot of Saturday nights. I usually end up being at home in front of the box.
My new flatmate, Kay, and I take bets on what Ken's excuse will be for being so late after the match. Will it be: "I had to wait for [name any player with a car] to give me a lift but he got a bit stoned"? or "We had to wait for the showers to clear"? or "There wasn't a tram for ages [followed by a long diatribe about how the public transport system has been Jeffed]"? or "I got a bit stoned and then I got lost in Fawkner Park and then there wasn't a tram for ages [followed by a long diatribe about how the public transport system ...]?
No money changes hands but smug glances flit around the lounge room as Ken trots out with one of these tired, old excuses.
One Saturday night, I was home by myself and I had a rack of lamb cooking in the oven. I was looking forward to a night of good food, good conversation and good ... viewing. I finally ate a rather crisp roast dinner at 9.30 pm and decided to visit my friends around the corner. I left a note on the front door, "Gone to visit Renata and Peter." Then, I added something I'd never written before, "Your dinner's in the oven."
By this stage, I was feeling like I'd become trapped in a fifties sitcom. What made me mad, though, was when I returned at 11.30 pm, he still hadn't arrived! I ripped off the note and staggered into bed. Ken crawled in at about 1 pm with the "I got a bit stoned and then I got in Fawkner Park and then there wasn't a tram for ages [followed by a long diatribe about how public transport system has been jeffed]. Can forgive me, darling? excuse". I couldn't really be mad with him because, well, it was just so funny.
I've been a cricketing widow in fortunate circumstances - no kids and Ken and I don't live together. I can storm out leaving the smouldering in the oven. I can spend the night out with my pals. I know it hasn't been that easy for lots of other Reds cricketing widows, even if ideologically-sound Reds do offer childcare of sorts for the matches.
These days I'm philosophical about cricket. As sports go, it's a graceful game and doesn't ooze with testosterone like football. Cricket does keep those boys off the street. The barbecues aren't bad (even if Maria Zijlstra will never come).
But, I have to confess, it is still the sight of Reds in whites and those cute little caps with the red stars that turns a young (or not so girl's thoughts to fancies. Long live the Reds!