It’s just not cricket

Kung Fu master David Carradine hung himself in a wardrobe. Rock legend Michael Hutchence chose asphyxiation whilst tied to a door handle and cricketing scribe Peter Roebuck jumped out a window. What is it about hotel rooms that lure persons of interest to check-in and check-out in rather mysterious circumstances?

During my lengthy tenure with a five star hotel chain, thankfully I never had to deal with a corpse. The closest I came to in-room calamity involved a guest with an irresistible urge to defecate and decorate the room with excreta, and someone with a desire to disrobe and appear naked in the hallway. Such voyeuristic acts were cleaned and dressed in no time and are mere distractions when compared to an untimely and tragic death.

In Roebuck’s case, his early departure from the crease has possibly revealed a troubled soul. Already there are claims of sexual misconduct levelled against the once fine batsman, writer and broadcaster. Unable to fend off the stinging attack, which is sure to be pitched his way, it will be left to his peers to win the day or at least salvage a draw.

But given the state of play, it’s no wonder this talented Brit who called Australia home since the 1980s did not jump for joy. Today, Aussie cricket is a mixed up kid unsure whether to bat, bowl or field.

Sure, we’ve got budding talent queuing at the door to the Academy, the state competition is always a contest and there is no shortage of fellas vying for attention from national selectors, but have you taken a look out the window lately, peered down the back laneway or had a squiz at the park across the road? Quiet isn’t it. Not much fur on willow, clatter of bin lids or glass-shattering moments when a six-stitcher heads through the house. Once the nursery for slingas, chuccas, beamers and mullies, backyards and local patches of turf and bitumen turned string beans and budding tweakers into lithe and lethal weapons. Not anymore.

Backyard cricket is always a contest between fathers and sons but the landscape has changed, some would say for the worse. True backyard cricket was a golden era when six and out was over the fence and a director’s chair strategically placed behind the stumps was as reliable as Tubby Taylor in the slips. The ABC cricket book kept score, the garden hose provided drinks on tap and tennis ball tampering was legal with masking tape. Dad was third umpire and if your mates called you “out”, majority ruled. There was no referral system and a new ball was taken whenever you felt like it. Nowadays, you’re flat out getting enough players on the park as drinks, lunch and tea breaks run overtime and play is often abandoned - not because of inclement weather but due more to Wii distractions indoors.

Laneways are now lifeless places devoid of trikes and scarce of scooters. Picket fences and open driveways have been replaced with fortress-like garages and Colditz-high walls to keep the kids inside and on Nintendo. The change in pitch conditions is an issue addressed in Steve Cannane’s book First Tests: Great Australian Cricketers and the Backyards That Made Them. In it he asks the question could some of Australia’s greatest cricketers go back to the neighbourhoods they grew up in and put bat on ball? Not so it seems. “The Chappell brothers backyard has been built over, so too, the first pitch Clarrie Grimmett built in Melbourne,” says Cannane. It’s the same with street cricket. “The areas where Sid Barnes, Ray Lindwall and Neil Harvey played their cricket are no longer suitable, the big blocks where Dennis Lillee grew up have been subdivided … and so it goes on. They don’t even play competition cricket at Lillee’s old primary school!” adds Cannane.

A well-known chocolate energy drink has put plenty of runs on the board by introducing 5-10-year-olds to the world of cricket and tempting them with a kit emblazoned with sponsor logos. But the local game is in desperate need to go back to its kikuyu, buffalo and bitumen roots.

Twenty20 contests might help reinvigorate laneways and nature strips across Australia. So, it’s time to fling open garage doors and let dogs off leashes to guard the drains. Fire-up the barbecue, send smoke signals around the neighbourhood and attract kids from near and far who are hungry for a ‘local’ contest between the Thomas Street Tearaways and Holt Drive Houdinis.

So as we slip, slop, slap and welcome an Estee Laundered Warnie back into the side this summer, vale Peter Roebuck. His incisive commentary, ability to play every ball and let nothing go through to the keeper will be sorely missed.