Spinner by Ron Elliott

was smiling with his eyes and not sorry at all.
    â€˜Other times you talk like a swagman, I suppose. Rough. And other times you talk like...’ David struggled to place what he meant, but then found it. ‘Like someone on the wireless. A wireless person being funny.’
    â€˜You think altogether way too much. If you think too much your head breaks in half. Did you know that?’
    â€˜Yes, sir, I do. Then I just stop thinking and look at things.’
    David saw surprise on his uncle’s face. It was the first time he’d seen such an expression on Uncle Mike. Perhapshe’d given the wrong kind of answer. He stopped looking at the man and concentrated on the good taste of the bun. A bit of jam would have been good if they’d had the money.
    â€˜That’s a good trick that,’ said Michael. ‘I do the same but it takes a fair amount of grog to get there.’
    David looked up, ready to smile, but his uncle was not looking at him.
    They finished their breakfast in silence. David thought of his grandfather. It was easy to make him angry because he had high standards and was a hard taskmaster. But the rules were there, plain and clear. You could predict what would please and displease the old man. Every time he thought he had worked out how his uncle wanted things, it would all go sideways again. Like a leggie on a dusty pitch, thought David, smiling at his own joke.
    After breakfast, they walked to the WACA ground, seeing as David ‘had eaten their tram fare.’
    Just inside a back gate, Uncle Mike stopped and took a couple of cricket balls from his cricket bag. He then stowed both their bags behind the empty gatekeeper’s box.
    David looked around with pleasure. ‘This is where Grandad used to play.’
    Michael led David past a grandstand and around the ground towards the scoreboard. The ground was green and grassy. It looked even and flat, watered and cut. David wanted to go out to the middle just to touch the turf wicket. The grass was rolled and cut and rolled again so that it was as nearly as hard as cement, but also soft enough to take spin.
    David heard a bat hitting a cricket ball. Down past the scoreboard, behind some seating, there was another grassed area. Nets had been suspended from big poles, surroundingtwo coir-matted pitches and two turf pitches. A bowler was bowling to a batsman, while two older men watched and talked.
    Michael handed David the cricket balls. ‘Bowl these down on that spare wicket there, matey. Make sure you hit the wickets every time. All right?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜I’m just going to talk to Dunny there.’
    â€˜Dunny?’
    â€˜Bob Dunne. You heard of him?’
    â€˜Yes. He’s the West Australian Combined coach. Like Grandad was.’
    â€˜Yeah, well, maybe nothing like Grandad was. He’s also a bit of an unofficial national talent scout. Tells ’em who’s worth a look from the bush.’
    David had more questions, but his uncle was already walking on ahead to greet the older man in the loose grey suit. Bob Dunne looked to Michael in a wary kind of way, then over to David for a moment. Michael talked into his ear.
    David went to the near vacant nets and started to loosen his shoulders and wrist, spinning one of the balls in nice little arcs over his little finger. The ball was torn and weathered and easy to grip.
    In the next nets the bowler ran in fast and bowled. The batsman brought his bat down hard and neat on the rising ball, and hit it back down into the pitch. ‘Nice nut, Cracker.’ The batsman used his bat to flick the ball back to Cracker, then caught sight of David watching, and winked.
    David nodded, then turned to bowl a ball at the wickets at the other end of his nets. He bowled a bad ball. It was flat and spun uselessly away down leg side. David closed hiseyes. He hadn’t thought about the delivery at all. He had not thought about what he would bowl, had not