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the cricket season


Hello Sunday Polaroid of Backyward Cricket

Ashes to ashes, said the shaman. Dust to dust! He raised his dented staff high above his head, placed one end on the ground beside his feet and beckoned, with a nod of the head and a raise of his overgrown eyebrows, for the almighty force to be released towards him. Come hither! he cried, as the shaking minion, ten, maybe fifteen metres away, wound her tiny arm around and around, breathed in deeply, and prepared to perform the very best, the most powerful dispatch she could muster. Out of her hand and into the air flew a spinning ball of red. The shaman stepped forward, and with one swoop of his staff and a burst of shimmering powder, shot the tumbling force out of the field, to someplace else in the universe. It made a loud smack. The many minions cheered. The new season had begun.
This is all true, of course, and it happens every year, except he isn’t really a shaman, just my dad being fanatical and dramatic, making us kids groan and wish that all the other kids in the street aren’t around to see the show, and it isn’t really a magical stick, just your average cricket bat, half-covered in dust because it’s been sitting in the garden shed all winter.

Find out more about this Hello Sunday memory.

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