MY MOTHER DIED BEFORE I COULD MURDER HER

CHAPTER 11

     “This is not an international match. It’s schoolboy cricket,” he snapped. “I wear two hats.”

     “You could fool me.” I felt pretty bold all of a sudden. Taking wickets made me feel as if I owned the field, umpires and all.

     I stood a little way back tossing the ball up and down in my hand as I waited for Cedric to ready himself. I was confident that with everything going my way today, I’d bowl him out, first ball. It was a sure thing. He’d be out and I’d have bowled a hat-trick.

     Wiggins held his hand out to the side, signaling that I wait until the batsman was ready. I looked around. All the spectators were on their feet. Morris stood at the side of the field with his arms stretched up to the sky as if summoning extra power from the heavens. I know my teammates were shouting encouragement, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I was in the moment, focused on the play. This was between Wiggins and me. Cedric Scarf was a mere pawn in a larger game.

     Wiggins dropped his hand and turned to me. I have never seen a more evil, twisted, pained face. This man really hated me. I knew he was praying that Cedric would block the ball, better yet that he’d hit me for a run, or four or praise be, Jesus, maybe a six. I’m sure he promised anything and everything to his Lord just to keep Cedric from striking out.

     I milked the moment. I tapped my foot behind me, as I’d seen my hero Hugh Tayfield, the greatest spin bowler, do so many times before. I flicked the ball from my left hand to my right and took two steps forward. I bowled a perfect off-break. Cedric swung, missed, and the ball clipped the end stump. Before the bails hit the ground, I turned around, faced Wiggins, and screamed, “HOW WAS THAT!”

     “Out,” he whispered. “Damnit!” He raised his finger. I was just about to say something when the rest of my team, ecstatic and cheering, piled on top of me. I had bowled a hat-trick and with Wiggins’s team now only twenty-one runs for seven wickets, it seemed almost impossible for us to lose.

     I had bowled an over that was never before seen in our league and I’m sure never would be again. Wiggins stood at the wicket with his shoulders slumped forward.

     Revenge is so sweet.

     Summer drifted into autumn and as the cricket season wound down, I started turning up for field hockey practice. It was such a relief that we were given the choice between hockey and rugby. I was still the same size as the year before, still really short and very skinny, too small for the rough and tough game of rugby with boys who seemed to be growing as tall as their dads. In hockey, the use of the stick was a leveler, so I practiced every day. I practiced blocking, dribbling, controlling the ball, and flicking it a couple of inches off the ground. The under-fourteen A team was really pretty good, having trained and played together last year as under-thirteens when they won every game. So I was in the B team.

     Hockey could be a dangerous game. We were playing against St. Johns, a private boys school with the most incredible school buildings designed by Sir Herbert Baker and built on a magnificent site on Houghton Ridge. The game was rough. We couldn’t let those upper-class, posh, private school kids beat us. I’m sure they felt as if they were a class above us, what with their proper English accent and all. Thirteen-year-olds can be vicious and both sides fouled more than usual. The hockey sticks were used as clubs and we hit each other, mostly on the legs and swung the sticks above shoulder height, a foul, and hit the ball up higher than chest height, also a foul.

     In the last minute of the game with the scores even, one of their forwards hit an almighty shot directly toward our goal. Our goalkeeper was out of position. Oh no! This was surely the winning goal.