Representative Clash Read online

  ‘Yup, got it in one.’ Tommy turned to his friend. ‘You know, it might be easier to just let him have it. I’ll get other chances for sure. Heaps of them.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’ Lazarus asked. ‘He’s threatened you, hasn’t he?’

  Tommy sighed. ‘He usually gets his way in the end.’

  ‘Not this time.’ Lazarus said firmly. ‘Are you going to go through life letting people trample over you like dead leaves?’

  Tommy gazed at his friend’s rough hands. ‘I just don’t know,’ Tommy said with a sigh.

  Saturday morning

  ‘So, is it true?’ Tommy’s best friend Ali asked with excitement.

  Ali and Tommy had lived on the same street their whole lives, they did everything together, and they were even in all the same classes at Mount Lofty. She was a bit of a tomboy and had crazy long hair, a freckled and slightly mischievous face and was always wearing clothes that were a few sizes too big for her tiny frame.

  ‘Is what true?’ Tommy had just finished packing away his precious bat.

  ‘That the ’Canes will be at the Mount Lofty Fair today?’

  Tommy almost dropped his bat bag. ‘Really?’

  ‘Duh, that’s what I’m asking you.’ Ali tugged up her shorts.

  ‘I guess we’ll find out soon enough,’ Tommy said, lugging his bat bag over his shoulder.

  Once a year, Mount Lofty Primary School put on a bumper pre-Christmas fete to raise funds for the school and a couple of charities.

  Tommy and Ali went straight to Baker Oval when they arrived at the school. That was where most of the sporty action took place. There was a hole-in-one golf competition; a footy handball target; a crazy backwards bike; jumping castle; woodchop competition and the Big Hit challenge. That last comp was the one Tommy had been preparing for. He’d been saving up all his cash for it.

  Miss Byrne and Mr Price, the two Mount Lofty PE teachers, were organising it and despite the constant barrage of questions from the students over the last few weeks, had remained pretty tight-lipped about how it was going to work.

  Would it be a bowling machine that delivered the balls for the batter to hit as far as possible? Or would someone actually be bowling?

  Ali grinned, elbowing Tommy gently in the ribs. ‘I was right!’

  ‘Ali, you said ’Canes, they’re Adelaide Strikers,’ Tommy said, whipping his autograph book out of his cricket bag and racing over to where a huge group of children had gathered around the players.

  ‘But they’re not,’ Ali cried, pointing to the other end of the oval at some Hobart Hurricanes players.

  Tommy paused, looking away to his left. An even bigger group of people were clustered around about four or five purple-clad cricketers.

  ‘Strikers will have to wait,’ Tommy shouted, spinning around and setting off in the opposite direction.

  ‘Agreed.’ In no time Ali had overtaken him, flashing Tommy a cheeky grin as she rushed by.

  ‘You’re not carting a massive bat,’ Tommy panted.

  ‘Wouldn’t make any difference,’ Ali replied, laughing.

  Tommy and Ali spent a good 15 minutes collecting autographs and chatting with the players. Finally, Tommy pulled out the fete schedule from his pocket and glanced over it. There was a clash – a bad clash.

  The woodchop competition was starting at the same time as the Big Hit. Both his dad and grandpa were chopping wood and he didn’t want to miss that. Maybe I could be a bit late to the Big Hit. Surely it would last for more than half an hour, Tommy thought to himself.

  As soon as Tommy arrived at the woodchop competition site he sensed that something was up.

  ‘Tommy! Glad you’re here, son,’ his dad said, pushing through the small crowd and clapping a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. ‘Pa’s gone and taken a turn and I think he should pull out. Of course, he won’t have a bar of it unless there’s someone to take over.’

  Tommy’s heart fluttered. Although he was big and strong and could chop wood almost as well as his dad, he just didn’t have the passion for it. Luckily, Mr King never put any pressure on him to keep up the family tradition. Grandpa King’s attitude was the opposite. He lived and breathed his woodchopping and was forever telling anyone close enough to hear that woodchopping competitions had begun in Tasmania. Tommy wouldn’t have been surprised if Grandpa King was actually involved in that first bout. Grandpa King and Tommy’s dad had both won plenty of awards and titles and sometimes Tommy felt a bit bad that he wouldn’t be adding to the collection.

  ‘Geez, Dad, I dunno. The Big Hit’s on at the same time and I’m only 12, so aren’t I too young to compete?’

  ‘Yeah, of course you are, silly me.’ Tommy’s dad tried to keep the disappointment from his voice. ‘We’ll pull out and come over and watch you.’

  ‘Dad,’ Tommy said, hating the guilt he was feeling. ‘I can at least check on the age or something.’

  ‘Good thinking, lad,’ his dad said. ‘No harm in asking.’

  First, Tommy raced over to the Big Hit and explained the situation to Mr Price, returning a few minutes later to the woodchop. He was secretly hoping that you had to be 14 or over to chop wood.

  ‘Hello,’ Tommy said to the woodchopping official.

  ‘Can’t talk now, son,’ the man said, glaring at Tommy over his glasses. ‘First competition’s about to start.’

  ‘Frank,’ his dad said, stepping forwards. ‘We’ve got a bit of a problem. Old Bert has taken a turn and I was wondering if my boy here could take his place.’

  Sighing, Frank flicked a page over on his clipboard.

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘He’s only –’

  ‘The lad’s 13,’ a thin voice called from behind Tommy and his dad. It was Grandpa King. Tommy opened his mouth to speak but felt a sharp jab in the back of his leg.

  Frank cast a steely eye over Tommy, scanning him from head to toe. Finally he grunted. ‘Well that’s lucky because 13 is the age you can start chopping in senior comp, so I guess all’s well.’

  Tommy’s dad coughed. ‘Frank, actually –’

  ‘Come along, you two,’ Grandpa King chirped, grabbing them both by the arm and wheeling them away.

  ‘But Grandpa –’

  ‘Don’t you “but Grandpa” me, young feller. This is the beginning of something special,’ he said with a chuckle, rubbing his hands together.

  ‘Dad.’ Tommy groaned. ‘This is illegal. I’m still a junior. I can’t chop with you.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Don’t worry, I’ll go solo.’

  ‘Dad, you can’t do it alone. Just pull out. There’ll be plenty of other times, won’t there?’

  Grandpa King interjected again. ‘Now, I’m going to give you my very special axe, young Tommy. It’ll be like carving a block of butter with a warm knife. Piece of cake.’

  Tommy stared dubiously at the axe being held out to him.

  ‘Listen, Dad.’ Tommy’s dad looked over to Grandpa King. ‘I’ll chop the block myself.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing. I made you a magical bat, Tommy,’ Grandpa King said. ‘The greatest bat in all of Tasmania. The least you can do is go and chop me a block of wood, you hear?’ His face softened momentarily. ‘You’re a natural, young man,’ he continued. ‘Better than your dad at the same age.’

  Tommy’s dad gave him a wink. ‘I say stick to your cricket.’

  ‘Cricket? Where’s the fun in that?’ Grandpa King snapped. ‘You listen to me – woodchopping builds a boy’s character. It’s just you and the wood. Nothing like a good chop to teach you about life. When I was a boy –’

  Tommy’s dad’s eyes flicked upwards. ‘Times have changed, Dad,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘Bah,’ Grandpa King muttered, then started coughing.

  Saturday morning

  ‘Teams, please present yourselves!’ Frank, the official called.

  ‘I’ll start it and I’ll finish it,’ Tommy’s dad said, running a thumb over the blade of his axe.
>
  ‘Dad, I’ll help, okay?’ Tommy insisted, looking across at the other pairs competing. They were entered in the family category and Tommy was relieved that their opponents didn’t look quite as scary as some of the other contestants he’d watched compete with his dad over the years. There were a couple of kids around Tommy’s size, but they were obviously 13 or over.

  There were five pieces of wood – huge, thick sections of trunk sitting on blocks waiting to be attacked. A good-sized crowd had gathered, but Tommy couldn’t see any of his schoolmates. They were probably all over at the Big Hit, he thought.

  It was a handicapped event which meant that the chopping would commence at different times. The organisers had explained that it was too late to adjust his family’s time which meant that his dad would begin second last, 12 seconds after the first team started.

  ‘Ready! Go!’

  The chopping began. As the seconds ticked by more choppers joined in. Soon pieces of wood were flying everywhere.

  ‘Go, Dad!’ Tommy yelled, surprising himself. It was a competition after all and he would give it everything, if his dad let him. It was up to the teams to decide when the swap would take place and Tommy knew that doing a quick changeover could be the difference between winning and losing.

  Tommy’s dad attacked the block of wood with frightening force, removing huge chips of wood with each blow. But chopping wood was incredibly tiring and it wasn’t long before his dad began to slow. Tommy glanced along the row of choppers. Already two teams had swapped over.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready, Dad,’ Tommy called, lifting the axe up over his shoulders.

  ‘I’ve got this, mate,’ his dad wheezed, delivering another lusty blow. Tommy watched his dad anxiously, concerned that he might collapse with exhaustion.

  Now all the second choppers had taken over. His dad was slowing down.

  ‘Dad!’ Tommy yelled, suddenly afraid. ‘Please, let me take over.’

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Grandpa King grumbled.

  ‘Last one,’ his dad panted, hefting the axe over his head for a final swing. The axe crashed down onto the wood. Tommy willed it to break in two, but still it held firm.

  ‘Dad, STOP!’ Tommy roared, rushing out to the platform. Glazed, his dad stepped aside. Tommy raised the axe and stared at the wedge in the wood he wanted to hit. But just as he started his downward swing, the piece of wood cracked and split in two. Tommy stepped away. A split second later the team next door finished, followed in a rush by the other three teams. It had been a very close thing.

  ‘Dad, are you okay?’ Tommy shouted, rushing to check on him.

  Still sucking in huge lungfuls of air, his dad nodded, giving him a wave.

  ‘That was awesome, Dad,’ Tommy gushed.

  ‘Bloomin’ stupid, more like,’ Grandpa King mumbled, shaking his head.

  ‘So, 13 years old, you say,’ Frank, the official sneered, tapping his clipboard impatiently with the back of his pencil.

  ‘I didn’t get to chop wood anyway,’ Tommy said.

  ‘Got a parent over there who reckons the boy here attends Mount Lofty. I think 13 is a bit old to be attending a primary school, isn’t it?’

  ‘The lad never chopped any wood,’ Grandpa King repeated, raising his voice.

  ‘C’mon, my boy, we should get over to the Big Hit.’ Tommy’s dad grinned as they left Frank and Grandpa King to argue.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Ali asked.

  ‘Long story.’ Tommy sighed, unzipping his cricket bag and pulling out his magic bat.

  ‘So, this is Tommy?’ a deep voice asked.

  Tommy glanced up to see Dan Christian staring down at him, arms folded, smiling.

  ‘It’s not a real cricket bat,’ Ralph said as he walked over to the group.

  Tommy groaned. Trust Ralph to spoil the moment.

  ‘Looks pretty much like a cricket bat to me,’ another voice said. It was Julie Hunter, Australian and Hobart Hurricanes bowling legend. She’d played T20 and ODIs for Australia and was a menacing right arm fast bowler. ‘And since I’ll be tossing the balls I reckon my view stands.’

  ‘Y-you’ll be bowling to me?’ Tommy asked, a mixture of excitement and nerves making his fingers tingle and the hairs on his arms stand on end.

  Ali laughed. ‘Not bowling, silly. Just throwing the ball in the air for you to belt. Watch.’

  There was still a line of about 30 people waiting to have a hit. The Hobart Hurricanes players were taking it in turns to toss the ball gently a few metres towards the hitter who smashed the ball as far as possible.

  Tommy could see more Hobart Hurricanes and Adelaide Strikers players out on the oval rearranging big coloured witch’s hats.

  ‘See that purple hat?’ Ralph boasted, pointing out into the distance. ‘You’ll never get past that!’

  ‘Sure thing, Ralph,’ Tommy replied, swinging his bat and narrowly missing Ralph’s head.

  ‘Hey, watch it,’ Ralph cried.

  ‘So how does this work?’ Tommy asked, ignoring Ralph’s moaning chatter.

  ‘Well, there’s different categories for girls and boys, you know, depending on how old you are,’ Ali explained.

  ‘So that’s why there are all different coloured cones out there?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘You had a go yet?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Well? How did you go?’ They both watched as a boy smacked the ball high into the outfield. It landed just short of a blue cone.

  ‘Okay,’ Ali said. ‘That yellow cone is me,’ she added.

  Tommy nodded with approval. ‘Awesome!’ It was an impressive hit. Though small, Ali had great timing. She’d obviously connected really well. ‘So how many shots do you get?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing. Because there are so many people, Mr Price is only allowing one shot each. But everyone’s hanging around in case he changes his mind,’ Ali said hopefully.

  ‘Hmm, better make this first shot count,’ Tommy said, spinning the bat in his hand. He strolled over to join the queue.

  ‘Just remember what I said.’ Ralph scowled, this time keeping his distance.

  ‘I’ll just let my bat do the talking,’ Tommy replied with a shrug.

  ‘Whatever,’ Ralph sneered. ‘You think it’s some sort of magical bat. That’s just so stupid. As if a bat can have magic in it. It’s just a big ugly hunk of wood that kind of looks like a bat.’

  ‘Oh leave it off, Ralph,’ Ali groaned, shaking her head. Ralph opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it as a Hobart Hurricanes player appeared, asking the ages of everyone waiting in line, and sauntered off.

  Most of the competitors weren’t getting anywhere near the markers on the oval. It wasn’t long before it was Tommy’s turn.

  ‘I was wondering if you were going to make it,’ Mr Price said, jotting Tommy’s name down on his scoring sheet. ‘Okay, Tommy, you’re aiming for the green cone,’ Mr Price added.

  ‘The green cone? Not the purple one?’

  Mr Price glanced at his notes and stifled a laugh. ‘Tommy, the purple one is Dan Christian’s hit. Hobart Hurricanes colours. Not sure you’ll get it that far.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Tommy muttered.

  ‘Give it a belting, Tommy boy,’ someone in the crowd called. Suddenly, everyone hushed as Tommy stepped up to the mat the strikers hit from. There was something about the large boy with the even larger bat that made people stop and turn.

  ‘You ready?’ Julie asked.

  ‘I’m ready,’ Tommy replied, licking his lips. Spinning the bat one last time, he rested it baseball-style on his shoulder and waited. Although he’d been chatting in line, he’d watched the routine carefully, noting how Julie underarmed the ball around waist height to each hitter.

  Tommy stood patiently, flexed his knees and swung the bat gently, eyeing the ball in Julie’s hand.

  And then the ball was in the air, looping towards him. Thrusting his left foot forwards, Tommy leant back
then swung through with all the force he could muster, pulling on every inch of muscle from his arms and shoulders. The sound of bat hitting ball could be heard across the oval.

  A hundred plus faces turned as one to watch the ball sail through the air. There were sighs, squeals and shouts of delight as the onlookers realised that the ball was arcing over the coloured hats and heading towards the purple.

  ‘What on earth?’ someone exclaimed.

  ‘No way,’ another spectator gasped as the ball hit the turf a couple of metres beyond the purple cone.

  ‘That bat is magic,’ Dan Christian said, holding out his hands. Tommy handed it over, grinning sheepishly.

  ‘You try it, Dan!’ someone from the crowd called.

  ‘Can I?’ Dan asked, turning the bat in his hand. ‘This is some bat. Who made it?’

  ‘My grandpa,’ Tommy said proudly. ‘He knows heaps about trees and forests and wood and stuff.’

  ‘Yeah, I reckon he must,’ Dan said. ‘He could be the Hobart Hurricanes bat supplier,’ he added. Those that had gathered in close took a few paces back as Dan approached the hitting mat.

  WHACK!

  Once again there was a chorus of excited gasps as Dan’s shot flew into the sky.

  ‘It’s way over the purple cone,’ someone cried.

  The ball finally came to rest against a huge old cypress tree, well beyond the far end of the oval.

  ‘That, my friend, is an awesome bat.’ He grinned, handing it back to Tommy. ‘Can I borrow it for the Adelaide Strikers game next week?’

  ‘Seriously?’ Tommy gasped.

  ‘Well, let me give it a net session first, okay? Can you get to training on Monday afternoon?’

  ‘Of course,’ Tommy breathed, thinking fast. Surely Mum or Dad would drive him down to Bellerive Oval after school.

  ‘Sweet. And good luck with the Clash selection too.’ Dan held out his hand and Tommy shook it.

  After returning his bat to the car, Tommy, Lazarus and Ali spent the rest of the day wandering around the school, enjoying the food and the rides.

  It had been an amazing day. Not only had his dad won the woodchop – Frank, the organiser, had finally agreed that Tommy had in fact not chopped any wood – but Tommy had won his age category at the Big Hit.