Thursday, May 17, 2007
Book Extracts, No. 2 in a series
This, from 'The paperweight wars' :
Right now, Simon Garry was angry with himself.
Angry, because he'd allowed himself to fall .
Hungover. Remorseful. Suffering the pcbb’s (post cocaine binge blues) - about as low as it ever gets.
He collapsed back into his bed and took a long, hard look at his life; how he had so much opportunity yet had squandered so much creative energy on hedonistic indulgences.
He thought about his ex-wife Julie and their two little boys, Samuel and James, who were probably, right now, throwing a football around the yard of the home Simon had set them up in, in Walnut Creek.
Simon needed to see them. Soon.
He thought about his own childhood, his time with the 'Angels, his time wasted on hard drugs and his fortuitous escape to the good life.
He thought about his parents; a father who had been blinded in a freak accident then died from an alcohol-related physical breakdown when Simon was fourteen years old. And his mother who had somehow survived all the stresses only to be killed, murdered in a convenience store shoot out. This day had been the worst Simon had ever known. It took three years, until he was 24, for him to come to terms with what was such an unnecessary death; an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire of evil.
He had come to terms with the anger, but he still felt some guilt about the anguish he had caused this woman as she fought to guide him through his teens.
He thought about his God, the power inside that he failed to understand but had faith in all the same.
He thought about the story he'd heard many years before at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, about a man who had questioned his own God: "Back then , when I was so low, I walked the beach. I looked back but there was only one set of footprints in the sand. Where were you when I needed you so badly?"
"Yes, there was only one set of footprints in the sand" came the reply, "because I was carrying you".
He thought about himself. From the outside he had the life and the opportunity that a lot of people dreamed of. Yet, he had nothing.
He thought.
He cried.
Eventually, he drifted into a sleep that, for a moment, he wished was death.
Simon woke again at around ten pm.
He was still feeling jaded, but feeling a lot better than he had earlier; tears are sometimes a good cleanser.
After another shower he walked to his safe and carefully wound in the combination. From a white cardboard box he lifted a small, glass ampoule and an unopened, disposable hypodermic syringe.
He snapped the top off the ampoule, its no-nonsense label proclaiming the contents: 'Morphine Sulphate.' With the precision of a medic, he drew the liquid up into the syringe, then held it upside down to expel the air bubbles. The needle entered the vein, blood flowing back into the 10CC syringe. He released the pressure of the belt around his arm and gently worked the plunger home. Within 2 seconds, the rush - the warm, prickly glow that only a junkie knows - coursed his body and settled knowingly in his brain ready to write the scripts for opiate dreams.
Right now, Simon Garry was angry with himself.
Angry, because he'd allowed himself to fall .
Hungover. Remorseful. Suffering the pcbb’s (post cocaine binge blues) - about as low as it ever gets.
He collapsed back into his bed and took a long, hard look at his life; how he had so much opportunity yet had squandered so much creative energy on hedonistic indulgences.
He thought about his ex-wife Julie and their two little boys, Samuel and James, who were probably, right now, throwing a football around the yard of the home Simon had set them up in, in Walnut Creek.
Simon needed to see them. Soon.
He thought about his own childhood, his time with the 'Angels, his time wasted on hard drugs and his fortuitous escape to the good life.
He thought about his parents; a father who had been blinded in a freak accident then died from an alcohol-related physical breakdown when Simon was fourteen years old. And his mother who had somehow survived all the stresses only to be killed, murdered in a convenience store shoot out. This day had been the worst Simon had ever known. It took three years, until he was 24, for him to come to terms with what was such an unnecessary death; an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire of evil.
He had come to terms with the anger, but he still felt some guilt about the anguish he had caused this woman as she fought to guide him through his teens.
He thought about his God, the power inside that he failed to understand but had faith in all the same.
He thought about the story he'd heard many years before at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, about a man who had questioned his own God: "Back then , when I was so low, I walked the beach. I looked back but there was only one set of footprints in the sand. Where were you when I needed you so badly?"
"Yes, there was only one set of footprints in the sand" came the reply, "because I was carrying you".
He thought about himself. From the outside he had the life and the opportunity that a lot of people dreamed of. Yet, he had nothing.
He thought.
He cried.
Eventually, he drifted into a sleep that, for a moment, he wished was death.
Simon woke again at around ten pm.
He was still feeling jaded, but feeling a lot better than he had earlier; tears are sometimes a good cleanser.
After another shower he walked to his safe and carefully wound in the combination. From a white cardboard box he lifted a small, glass ampoule and an unopened, disposable hypodermic syringe.
He snapped the top off the ampoule, its no-nonsense label proclaiming the contents: 'Morphine Sulphate.' With the precision of a medic, he drew the liquid up into the syringe, then held it upside down to expel the air bubbles. The needle entered the vein, blood flowing back into the 10CC syringe. He released the pressure of the belt around his arm and gently worked the plunger home. Within 2 seconds, the rush - the warm, prickly glow that only a junkie knows - coursed his body and settled knowingly in his brain ready to write the scripts for opiate dreams.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
It just IS cricket
Test cricket can be a long five days, and can often end in a draw or washed out by a couple of days’ rain, but I love it. For within those five days, a few extraordinary things will happen; they just do. That is why I can watch for hours, knowing that sooner or later, I will witness something special.
Over the years, test cricket has provided many great stories. Many are, obviously, based on prowess but others go beyond this – not just the hilarious moments, but the sad or emotional ones too. Chats, the Naenae Express, comes to mind. If they witnessed it, who could forget Lillie’s nine slips to Chatfield on the final ball of the game. Chats, amusingly, french cut for four (he never saw the ball it just found his inside edge!) to draw the game and the pitch was filled, not with annoyance or relief, but with laughter. At the other end of the spectrum, still back in the days before helmets, Chats again - that awful 5 minutes when he took a bouncer to the head with a sickening thud, was felled and clinically dead before his swallowed tongue was retrieved and he was finally resuscitated. This was a terrible wait, those five minutes, just terrible.
But in my opinion, the following is the most poignant moment in New Zealand cricket history, on 26 December 1953, just two days after the Tangiwai rail disaster. At the time, the New Zealand team was touring South Africa. The second test, at Ellis Park, Johannesburg, started on 24 December and recommenced, after a day off for Christmas, on Boxing Day. By the time play resumed, reports of the Tangiwai tragedy — at the time the world’s eighth-deadliest rail disaster — had flashed around the world. The news was especially devastating for one of the New Zealand players, fast bowler Bob Blair, who learned that his fiancée, Nerissa Love, was among the 151 victims.
As New Zealand began its first innings on the morning of the 26th, chasing South Africa’s 271, a distraught Blair remained at the team hotel. There was no way he could play, and the team was reduced to 10 players. On a terrible pitch full of pits, the ball was seaming out of control - to a extremely dangerous and almost unplayable degree. Much blood was spilled by the NZ batting lineup (no helmets back then). Bert Sutcliffe and Lawrie Miller (who was vomiting blood onto the pitch after a hit to the chest) were both forced to retire hurt after being hit by bouncers from the fiery fast bowler Neil Adcock; John Reid was struck five times before being dismissed for three. With the visitors reduced to 81 for six, Sutcliffe returned to the crease, his head swathed in bandages. He had been heavily concussed and for the first dozen deliveries was seeing 3 balls. He chose to weild his bat at the 'middle ball' which proved, in most cases, to be the real one! This was a true hero's innings. When the ninth wicket fell at 154, however, all of the players began to leave the field. Suddenly, the crowd stood in silence - there was a deathly hush as if to signal the unbelievable - as the lone figure of Bob Blair emerged from the tunnel, head bowed. After hearing of his team's woes on the hotel room radio, Blair had decided to rush to the ground to front up for the 10th wicket. As he walked out, he was greeted by by the bloody-bandaged Sutcliffe, who placed a comforting arm around his shoulder and many an eye in the crowd was 'observed to be moist'. They, the locals, were all aware of Blair's loss and all the flags at the ground were flying at half mast as a sign of respect. What followed now was sensational, as the pair smashed 25 runs (including four sixes — three by Sutcliffe and one by Blair) off a single over from South Africa’s Hugh Tayfield who was acknowledged to be the world's finest spinner at that time. By the time Blair was dismissed, the team total had climbed to 187, with Sutcliffe 80 not out.
A superb bowling effort then restricted South Africa to just 148, leaving the New Zealanders chasing 233 for an historic first test win. Sadly, it was not to be.
The South African press however, hailed the Kiwis’ ‘dauntless spirit’ and declared that ‘All the glory was for the vanquished’: ‘Memories of the match will not be of the runs made or of wickets taken, but of the courage displayed.’
It’s just one of those stories where, while you are reading it, you half expect to hear Jupiter, by Gustav Holst, welling up in the background. God, I’d love to make a movie about that day, that single day that held so much humanity in its hands.
Over the years, test cricket has provided many great stories. Many are, obviously, based on prowess but others go beyond this – not just the hilarious moments, but the sad or emotional ones too. Chats, the Naenae Express, comes to mind. If they witnessed it, who could forget Lillie’s nine slips to Chatfield on the final ball of the game. Chats, amusingly, french cut for four (he never saw the ball it just found his inside edge!) to draw the game and the pitch was filled, not with annoyance or relief, but with laughter. At the other end of the spectrum, still back in the days before helmets, Chats again - that awful 5 minutes when he took a bouncer to the head with a sickening thud, was felled and clinically dead before his swallowed tongue was retrieved and he was finally resuscitated. This was a terrible wait, those five minutes, just terrible.
But in my opinion, the following is the most poignant moment in New Zealand cricket history, on 26 December 1953, just two days after the Tangiwai rail disaster. At the time, the New Zealand team was touring South Africa. The second test, at Ellis Park, Johannesburg, started on 24 December and recommenced, after a day off for Christmas, on Boxing Day. By the time play resumed, reports of the Tangiwai tragedy — at the time the world’s eighth-deadliest rail disaster — had flashed around the world. The news was especially devastating for one of the New Zealand players, fast bowler Bob Blair, who learned that his fiancée, Nerissa Love, was among the 151 victims.
As New Zealand began its first innings on the morning of the 26th, chasing South Africa’s 271, a distraught Blair remained at the team hotel. There was no way he could play, and the team was reduced to 10 players. On a terrible pitch full of pits, the ball was seaming out of control - to a extremely dangerous and almost unplayable degree. Much blood was spilled by the NZ batting lineup (no helmets back then). Bert Sutcliffe and Lawrie Miller (who was vomiting blood onto the pitch after a hit to the chest) were both forced to retire hurt after being hit by bouncers from the fiery fast bowler Neil Adcock; John Reid was struck five times before being dismissed for three. With the visitors reduced to 81 for six, Sutcliffe returned to the crease, his head swathed in bandages. He had been heavily concussed and for the first dozen deliveries was seeing 3 balls. He chose to weild his bat at the 'middle ball' which proved, in most cases, to be the real one! This was a true hero's innings. When the ninth wicket fell at 154, however, all of the players began to leave the field. Suddenly, the crowd stood in silence - there was a deathly hush as if to signal the unbelievable - as the lone figure of Bob Blair emerged from the tunnel, head bowed. After hearing of his team's woes on the hotel room radio, Blair had decided to rush to the ground to front up for the 10th wicket. As he walked out, he was greeted by by the bloody-bandaged Sutcliffe, who placed a comforting arm around his shoulder and many an eye in the crowd was 'observed to be moist'. They, the locals, were all aware of Blair's loss and all the flags at the ground were flying at half mast as a sign of respect. What followed now was sensational, as the pair smashed 25 runs (including four sixes — three by Sutcliffe and one by Blair) off a single over from South Africa’s Hugh Tayfield who was acknowledged to be the world's finest spinner at that time. By the time Blair was dismissed, the team total had climbed to 187, with Sutcliffe 80 not out.
A superb bowling effort then restricted South Africa to just 148, leaving the New Zealanders chasing 233 for an historic first test win. Sadly, it was not to be.
The South African press however, hailed the Kiwis’ ‘dauntless spirit’ and declared that ‘All the glory was for the vanquished’: ‘Memories of the match will not be of the runs made or of wickets taken, but of the courage displayed.’
It’s just one of those stories where, while you are reading it, you half expect to hear Jupiter, by Gustav Holst, welling up in the background. God, I’d love to make a movie about that day, that single day that held so much humanity in its hands.
