The Walk to The Crease By Sorya Kiran

On the day of the big match, things got off to a bad start when Brett put his cricket whites on inside-out, and didn’t notice until his mum asked, “Why are your pockets on the outside?”
By then it was too bad, he was already late.
The team bus was meant to leave at 9 a.m. But at 9:03, the coach was still arguing with the GPS which was insisting the cricket ground was “in the middle of a pond”.
By 9:15, half the team was on the wrong bus, one player had forgotten his bat, and Dave—our opening bowler—was still at home looking for his shoes. He eventually found them in the fridge, next to the milk. No one asked why.
When we finally arrived at the cricket ground, the opposition was already warming up. They were huge, muscular, and confident. Their kits matched perfectly and their bats looked expensive enough to require insurance. This was the League’s best team—undefeated for three seasons and currently hitting sixes into neighbouring postcodes.
Meanwhile, we celebrated our achievement of finding the correct change room.
Dave couldn’t be bothered putting on his frozen shoes, and the captain struggled to get the team together. When he finally did, he delivered a brief, inspirational pearl of wisdom:
“No matter what happens out there, we’re here to have fun and do whatever we can.”
In other words, we were going to get annihilated and shouldn’t pretend otherwise.
We did the toss.
We lost.
Obviously.
We fielded first, and I was told to stand at fine leg—basically meaning watch the ball sail over your head, repeatedly.
The first ball went for six off Dave’s knee.
The next landed in the scorer’s tea.
That was followed by one into the neighbour’s windscreen.
Halfway through our ‘highly competitive contest,’ a Little Raven hopped onto the boundary rope. Clearly unimpressed by the standard of cricket, it moved closer, gnawing at a crumb from an abandoned sandwich.
At that exact moment, the ball was launched skyward by one of our players and clipped the bird square on the backside.
‘THUMP.’
What followed could’ve been a feather-pillow fight. The Little Raven flapped around wildly, squawking non-stop. The umpire paused, shrugged, and signalled four. The Little Raven took to the sky, and safely airborne—judging by the noise—was clearly swearing at us.
The first innings ended with, it seemed, an illegally high number of runs.
No one had bothered counting after the fifth call, and one of their players had every so politely asked, ‘Is there enough space on the scoreboard?’
Then it was our turn to bat.
I padded up nervously, reminding myself of the captain’s words. My only goal was to hit one ball. The first wicket fell. The second followed like a loyal puppy. Suddenly, it was my turn.
I stood my ground as the bowler steamed in. I closed my eyes. I swung. I heard a sound.
‘Contact!’
The ball rolled barely five metres, but it didn’t matter. The team celebrated like we’d just won the World Cup. Someone rang a cowbell.
The opposition stared at us, visibly confused by our enthusiasm.
Every run felt like a victory—even the edge Dave managed for four.
We were bowled out for a score that was generously double digits. It didn’t matter. We hadn’t played well, but we’d survived, laughed, and—against all odds—made memories worth more than the result.

Sorya Kiran is a Year 10 student at McKinnon Secondary College, Victoria, and plays cricket!