John Harms

The author and his hotelier friend, avec zucchini

© John Harms

Dear Cricket Monthly,

Cricket bobs up in the most unlikely places, and when you least expect it. Where I live, in Northcote, an inner suburb of Melbourne, it bobs up all the time. Nothing unlikely in that. We live in a cricket culture.

There are signs of cricket everywhere: beautiful ovals (also used for Australian Rules football), picturesque parks that feature small tree-encircled cricket fields, schoolyards where kids spend their every spare summer moment mucking around with bats and balls. The mighty MCG, one of the world's great sporting stadia, is just a few train stops towards the city along the old Epping line. The WM Lawry Oval, named after Bill, a fine opening batsman and a marvellous character of cricket for over half a century, is just around the corner from my home.

Merri Creek, the waterway that separates the suburbs of Northcote and Fitzroy, is a stone's throw away. The sticky black silt of Merri Creek has been used for cricket wickets in Melbourne for generations. A few blocks from the creek are three cricket ovals. The largest, Brunswick Street Oval, was the original home of the Fitzroy Cricket Club that played top-level district cricket. It's a gorgeous ground with an ornate 1880s grandstand and mounds from which thousands watched Fitzroy play Australian Rules football in the famous VFL. Many a Test cricketer has played on this ground, most famously Neil Harvey, who grew up in working-class Argyle Street not far away. He and his tribe of brothers learnt their cricket in the cobbled lane outside their small terrace house.

The Brunswick Street Oval is now home to the Edinburgh Cricket Club, a thriving local club. Each January, Edinburgh CC hosts a six-a-side competition.

About a decade ago I was part of a side, the members of which were well past their primes. Most had retired from the game to concentrate on their writing and broadcasting careers. All of us had our cricket shaped by the Chappells and Doug Walters, by Marsh, Lillee and Thomson. What a time to be a kid in Australia!

All of us also grew up watching the might of West Indies. And all of us revered the one true cricketing god: Isaac Vivian Alexander Richards. We admired his supreme skill, his brutal power, the athleticism with which he patrolled the covers. We knew his grinning cool. He was the epitome of natural ability made good, the type of cavalier we wished we had in us. We worshipped him.

In putting together our six-a-side team we made t-shirts we hoped would help us find our inner Viv. On the front we printed the famous picture of Viv in the West Indian grey-blue and maroon of the '80s. He's facing away, one hand on his hip, leaning on his bat. A swagger even while still. We made huge Richie Richardson floppy hats to add to the tone. Come the day, we looked great, but we were smashed in our two group matches, beaten in one by the eventual winners, who scored 120-odd in six overs to our 50.

That was January.

In July that year my wife Susan and I went on a month-long backpacking trip to Greece and the islands. We are not planners. We go where the moment takes us. Visiting Santorini we decided to find one of the famous hotels dug into the cliff face at Oia. As we travelled along the top of the caldera there was hardly a park, just a couple of sand soccer pitches. It was Mediterranean-hot; that heat where shade is a blessing.

I was wearing my team t-shirt. As we walked into the office of a hotel, a middle-aged Greek man popped up from behind the tiny counter. His eyes lit up:

"Vivian Richards!" he exclaimed. "Oh, Vivian Richards! It is your lucky day. You have found the only cricket-loving Greek in the whole of the Cyclades. I love Viv Richards. I must have one of those t-shirts. Where did you get it?"

The Dark Horses side, in their Viv Richards t-shirts and Richie Richardson hats

The Dark Horses side, in their Viv Richards t-shirts and Richie Richardson hats © John Harms

"I made it," I explained. "There's six of them in captivity."

"What a player! What a man!" He was thinking of another time. "Vivy."

He started telling his cricket story. "When I am young, I go from Athens to study engineering at London University. I fall in love with cricket. But it was the '70s. Of all the time to be following cricket: Geoffrey f***ing Boycott."

He put his head in his hands. Then he looked up.

I was laughing. I extended my hand, almost in sympathy. "I am John."

"No, really?" he said. "I am Jani."

"Where are you from, John?" he asked.

"Australia."

"Where in Australia?"

"Melbourne."

"Which suburb?"

"Northcote."

"3070," he said, "Thornbury: 3071. Preston: 3072," naming the suburbs along the Epping line and their postcodes!

I was gobsmacked.

"I was an engineer in Melbourne for some years. And that's where I lived." By now the spirit of the world had taken hold of the conversation and we were all smiling. "I will get you a good room," he said.

He turned to Susan. "Your father is a good man."

Susan didn't know what to say. After an awkward pause she said, "We're married."

He looked at me, a little puzzled. "But she is so beautiful!"

It was all very good-humoured. Jani gave us the very best room, looking out from the caldera into the twin blue of the ocean and the sky. All because of Viv Richards, and the Epping line.

The place was so perfect we stayed for a few days. Jani would wander down to our room. We spoke every day about cricket and Melbourne and Greece and life and love, and it became clear he really did have a passion for the game (he had seen many Tests and county matches) - and he really did love my t-shirt. On the last evening I went up to pay the bill. We would leave the following day. I wore Viv again, and I took the t-shirt off and gave it to him. He hugged me like a brother.

In the morning, as we were saying our farewells, he presented us with a gift. A zucchini.

"Thank you," he said.

We returned to Australia.

Some months later, around the time of my birthday, a parcel arrived from Santorini. It was from Jani. It contained two items: a tasteful Santorini t-shirt and a t-shirt advertising the Santorini Paintball Arena!

He had kept my details from my driver's license when I checked in.

Cricket, and Viv, will help you find the best in the world.

Yours, universally,
John Harms

John Harms: RHB, ROS, author of Confessions of a Thirteenth Man and editor-at-large of the sportswriting site footyalmanac.com.au

 

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