The nostalgic memories we store away
In my last piece (‘Childhood games then and now ’, GO! & Express, November 19), I mentioned how much I had enjoyed the IPL cricket tournament coverage from the United Arab Emirates, the big hitting of highly paid international batsmen and the astonishing talent of the up and coming Indian youngsters.
We saw some lightning-fast bowling and some sickening blows which felled a number of batsmen during the course of the tournament.
From time to time there was also talk of the throat ball ”, a fast delivery
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rising sharply off the pitch and aimed at the region of a batsman s throat.
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It s a nasty missile intended to
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intimidate, which if struck where intended could seriously injure or even prove fatal. The batsman has to be very aware.
The tragic passing of Australian cricketer Phillip Hughes several years ago when he was fatally struck by such a delivery brought to mind a similar, but mercifully not fatal, incident which befell Natal cricket captain Berry Versveld some 50 odd years ago. I remember doing a story on the incident, which happened in the pre-helmet days.
A short-pitched ball pole-axed the helmetless Versveld and the event, I seem to recall, led to the introduction of a rudimentary type of head protection for batsmen.
Versveld survived the dreadful blow and went on to a successful business career.
For something to do in this capricious weather, I looked for the article in old files located in the space above the built-in cupboards in our bedroom, but to no avail.
As this particular event happened all those years ago, I am not surprised. Have you ever tried to find something six month s old, never
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mind an item going back more than 50 years?
Anyway it was an opportunity to
Then in a fluff of ancient dust, I came across a tattered old rugby photograph in the accumulated junk... It depicted a rugby team for which I played some 60 years ago
stay indoors and clear away some of this hoarded sediment of time.
Needless to say I was distracted and failed miserably.
I am afraid I have not the quality of non-attachment required for this type of work.
For most of the time I was overcome by sentimentality while browsing through this archaic assortment of clutter. It is really amazing the unlikely lumber a man gathers in his journeying.
Here is a picture of the school Under 15 cricket team and there we are, third from the right in the second row. Lying there are the letters written to mom from boarding school. How can we burn them now?
Then in a fluff of ancient dust, I came across a tattered old rugby photograph in the accumulated junk which brought back nostalgic memories.
It depicted a rugby team for which I played some 60 years ago when working for the Weekend Post in Port Elizabeth.
Next to me was a colleague I remember being badly injured in a match. We met up some 20 years later when we both worked at The Rep in Queenstown (Komani). He still walked with a limp.
He is sadly long dead now, along with several other members of that rugby team, all sitting in that faded photo with arms folded, so young, so full of the joys of living.
There it reposes at the bottom of a battered old trunk long forgotten among other pathetic relics of our past - a stark reminder not only of the perils of manly sport but that life is short - enjoy it while you may, it s
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later than you think.
Tailpiece:
A letter home from a teenage boy in his first term at boarding school: Send some food, they only serve
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three meals a day here.”