‘Shouldn’t you be waving a bat somewhere..?’

                                                        

One of the weirdest experiences you can have as a kid, is seeing your teacher outside of school.

You could be playing with your mates, walking around the supermarket with your mum, throwing stones at cans or whatever non-curricular business would be filling your evening or a weekend, and you would clap eyes on the educating authoritarian just walking around like a normal person!?

No chalkboard. No desk. No pen in hand.

‘Are they wearing jeans!!??’

Seeing them away from their regular habitat of the classroom was somewhat unsettling.

 I thought, unreasonably as it turns out, that teachers were locked away into the stationary cupboard on a Friday afternoon, and only released on Monday morning to resume with their teaching duties.

 A less repressive theory was that maybe they simply lived at the school and had no reason to leave the confines of the building.  All their needs would be provided for so they wouldn’t be distracted from their crucial responsibility of teaching me about the wonders of the water cycle and reciting the ‘Times Tables’.

This was not the case of course. Teachers step away from the non-secular like everybody else. They kiss their partners, go jogging around the park, and drop off their dry cleaning.

 (These are randomly selected, everyday activities and not written in any particular order. Nothing wrong with a quick smooch after you’ve tied the laces of your Gola’s, but gripping a grubby sports jacket by its hanger while you leg it round the local greenspace is probably not practical.)

There is a word that describes when you see something or someone that is not in harmony with its surroundings: Incongruous.

 There you go, you learnt something!

(If you already knew that, well, whatever ‘know-all!’)

Since moving to Sydney, I have had several ‘incongruous’ experiences.

Not with teachers, (I left full-time education 25 years ago, I’m over it,) but with former Australian cricket captains!

In the year and a half that I have resided in the New South Wales capital, I have met three of them. Three!!

All these meetings took place away from their regular backdrop of a packed stadium, attempting to deflect a ball that weighs the same as a Syrian hamster with the aid of a lump of wood.

I appreciate that not everyone is that informed, or indeed that interested, in former cricket captains as I am, but please stick with me. The circumstances of these encounters are entertaining, regardless of who I bumped into. I’ll try and keep it as ‘un-crickety’ as possible.

For the benefit of those who, up to now at least, are indifferent to these baggy green capped figureheads, I shall begin each account with their name, a snippet of information about them and the location of where it took place.

Michael Clarke. (Captained Australia’s test team from 2011 till 2015. Equally good at throwing a ball with both hands.) Place of meeting – Traffic lights outside ‘PetBarn’.

Making my way home from work one afternoon, I was driving through an area called ‘Double Bay’. Slowing down as I approached a set of traffic lights; I noticed an enormous SUV in my rear-view mirror.

 In fact, all I saw was a shining badge on a gaudy chrome grille, so close was it to my tail.

Recognising how close it was to me and not recognising the badge, prompted two questions any red-blooded male would ask in this situation.

What make car is that, and who’s the idiot driving it!?

Jolting left and right to get around my relatively modest truck, his opportunity eventually came, only for him to have to stop at the aforementioned traffic lights.

We were now side by side.

This was my chance to get a look at this joker and convey my feelings via the medium of disapproving facial expressions! (I’m not one for rude gestures, besides, what if he was bigger than me?)

Our doors aligned; his elevated considerably over mine. I stretched my neck to the height of his window. As my eyes ascended to the necessary level required for visual contact, the driver glanced at my straining upper face.

It was former captain of the Australian cricket team, Michael Clarke!

My icy disdain thawed momentarily, only to return almost straight away. I’d disliked Clarke since he threatened to break (England fast bowler, sorry non cricket lovers!) Jimmy Anderson’s arm during the 2013-14 Ashes. Now he was here in front of me, the recipient of my muted attempt at road-rage. Talk about incongruous!

Far from being intimidated or shamed, he just looked away, indifferent. He had the kind of nonchalant demeanor that you imagine, be it unfairly, all top-level athletes possess.

The lights changed green, and he accelerated away with a roar. (His car made the roar, not him.) I was just able to read the name of the vehicle emblazoned on its rear door. Genesis.

I had just met Michael Clarke and he drove a Genesis. Badly.

Okay, so I didn’t strictly meet him, but I gave him a stern look he’ll never forget.

Though, to be honest, he probably has.

(For obvious reasons, I wasn’t able to get a picture with Michael. Instead, here is an artist’s impression of him on the day.)

Ricky Ponting. (Captained Australia’s cricket test team from 2004 till 2011. A member of three separate World Cup winning squads.) Place of meeting – Outside the men’s toilets in Icebergs ,

Enjoying a visit from my wife’s older sister and younger brother one rainy weekend, we frequented the iconic Icebergs at Bondi Beach for a spot of lunch. Famed for it’s outdoor swimming pools that appear to melt into the surrounding ocean, the views are complemented by the haute cuisine on offer.

As I was getting stuck into my scampi and chips (with extra tartar sauce), I chatted with my beloved in-laws about this and that. Mouth agape, preparing for another deep fried morsal to be placed on the tongue, I spotted a familiar figure firmly push open the door to the men’s toilet and go in.

It was former captain of the Australian cricket team, Ricky Ponting!

My sister-in-law looked over her shoulder to ascertain what it was that had caused me to take an uncharacteristic pause from consuming my lunch.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“It’s him!” I stuttered as I put my fork down and simultaneously stood up, scrambling for my phone.

“Who?”

A reasonable question, given the obscurity of my previous reply.

“Ricky Ponting! He’s just gone into that toilet!”

I pointed to the door that the third highest run taker in the world had just entered.

Ricky Ponting had just walked into that public toilet, and I was going to get a photograph with him!

Abandoning my lunchtime companions, I pirouetted my way through the busy restaurant. It was a short route, but it gave me time to ponder over my initial objective. Australians are considered a relaxed and laid-back bunch, but even the most horizontal of disposition would probably take exception to being photographed whilst being stood at a urinal.

This reasoning led me to modify my plan. Rather than enter, I would wait for him outside the door.

With a little time on my side, I discerned that preparation was the key for this request.

Rick would no doubt want to return to his beer, food and companions as soon as possible, and I did not want to hold him up.  I set my phone camera to ‘selfie’ mode, flicked my hair about a bit and wiped the dried clump of tartar sauce from my chin.

My back to the toilet entrance, I had the phone stretched away from my face. Neck craning almost 180 degrees so as not to miss his imminent appearance.  

On consideration, this attempt at efficiency made me look a bit creepy.

Being face to face with a straining contortionist the moment one exits a WC, it’s unlikely anybody would be willing to oblige a happy snap.

Putting my arm down to a more natural position, I decided I would try and relax.  

Could a swift pre-request conversation be in order? Introduction, shake of the hand, (washed thoroughly, I’m sure!)  Throw in a little pun, perhaps?

“Didn’t spend long at that crease did you Rick?”

Or,

“Runs?” followed by a knowing nod toward the toilet door.

Raucous laughter would be followed by some manly back slapping. His appreciation of my quick wit would motivate him to invite me to his table for a drink, where I would regale him and his compatriots with dry one liners and amusing anecdotes.

 Numbers would be exchanged, and I would be invited to join him to watch the cricket from his executive box.

We would arrange to get the families together and spend the day on his yacht, retelling the hilarious story of how we met outside the unlikely location of the Iceberg’s rest room.

My daydreaming was interrupted by the man himself suddenly immerging from said rest room.

His confident step interrupted by an unexpected obstacle.

A gawping bloke with a half-removed speck of sauce on his chin.

“Photo Rick?”

He nodded without a word. I lifted my camera and took the picture.

“Thank you!”

Another nod followed by a mumbled, “Cheers mate.”

With that, he made his way past the crowded bar area and was gone.

I triumphantly made my way back to my extended family.

My sister-in-law was grinning in anticipation.

“Did you get a picture!?” she asked, excitedly.

I proudly displayed my phone and we all looked at the photograph. My gormless smiling face was in stark contrast to the neutral indifference of Ricky’s, but it was both of us together and that was good enough for me.

“What was he like?” they both asked.

I analysed the meeting in my head. We were in each other’s company for a matter of seconds and had exchanged six words in total.

As far as describing his character, all I had to go on was his response to a total stranger waving a phone under his nose for the purpose of getting a photo, immediately after exiting a public convenience.

I gave a sincere nod.

“Lovely bloke!” I replied.

All things considered; he must be.

Steve Smith. (Captained Australia’s cricket test team from 2015 till 2018. Began his career as a spin bowler but went on to become the fastest Australian batsman to score 10,000 runs in international cricket.) Place of meeting – Fruit and veg section of a supermarket.

You can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs.

 I have long made my peace with this fact. My problem this bright Sunday morning, was that my desire for an omlette was impeded by not having any eggs to break. Hence my reason for a swift walk down to my local supermarket.

Covid-19 restrictions at the time required wearing a mask whenever indoors, so I joined my fellow compliant shoppers and donned mine obediently.

Standard supermarket arrangement often means the first area you frequent is the evergreen, expertly displayed fruit and vegetable section. The purpose of this? The fresh, natural surroundings are designed to make the customer feel healthy and at ease. Apparently, the calming sight of a cauliflower or the soothing shine of a granny smith will set you up for an all-round more pleasant shopping experience.

Seeing as the sole purpose of my visit was to purchase some eggs, I had little to no intention of lingering amongst the vitamin enriched. My purposeful stride was interrupted however, by the sight of an individual situated near the broccoli and green beans.

It was former captain of the Australian cricket team, Steve Smith!

Well, I was pretty sure it was. As is one of the (many) drawbacks of wearing a mask, half of his facial identity was concealed. Extended examination was required.

I decided to loiter by the potatoes, close enough to observe but not so close as to intimidate. My attempt at being inconspicuous obviously failed because he raised his head from unpeeling a clear plastic bag and looked straight at me.

Thinking fast, I turned my attention to a bulb of garlic. I picked it up and peered at it, nodding with irrelevant approval. He returned to opening the bag. No mistaking those eyes of blue that had stared down many a rampaging bowler. This was indeed THE Steve Smith!

Confirmation that I was in the company of a modern-day cricketing legend led me to question what exactly I was going to do next? First things first, I had to do something with this garlic!

I had been nodding at it for a solid thirty seconds, so the casual onlooker would at best discern that it met all my requirements. At worst it looked like I believed it had said something to me and that I concurred with it wholeheartedly. Either way, I didn’t feel I should put it back. I took a small bag from the nearby dispenser and placed it inside.

In the meantime, Steve had moved on to the butternut pumpkins.

I considered my options for getting his attention. Disregarding my initial idea to start juggling some close to hand avocados, (I can’t juggle) I decided to play it simple.

“Steve!” I muffled through my mask.

Looking up, his was an equally muffled response.

“Yeah?” he replied.

I froze. All the words and vocabulary that I had learnt from childhood to that very moment, abandoned me. The only word that remained was the name, ‘Steve’, and I’d already said that.

Despite the mouth covering, I could tell that he was smiling.

Composure was regained.

“I think you’re great,” I gushed. I shook my bagged bulb of garlic at him, “and I’m British!” I obviously felt that revealing my national identity would elevate my admiration.

“Thanks mate.” He replied politely.

I bobbed my head a few times.

“Well, I’d better get on,” I sighed in an ‘I haven’t got all day to talk to you, Steve Smith,’ manner. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.” he said

With that, I made my way in the general direction of where I guessed the eggs were located.

After a few steps, my brain began to berate me. Why didn’t I ask for a photo!?

Turning back, Steve was unsurprisingly still there. What was surprising was he was still looking at me. It was as if he knew that our meeting wasn’t quite over.

“Sorry mate, any chance of a photo?” I asked sheepishly.

“Sure.”

He stepped back, shopping basket under his arm, while I positioned the camera ahead of us and took the shot.

“That ok?” he enquired

“Fantastic!” I replied, not even looking at the photograph.

Returning to the original assignment, eggs were obtained, and I made my way home. Upon my return, I related the experience to Mrs B, who quite enjoys cricket herself.

“Steve Smith!? No way!!?” she exclaimed, “What was he like!?”

“Really friendly,” I answered, “and very keen on fresh produce.”

“I am so JEALOUS,” Her envy contradicted by a smile, “but I’m glad you got to meet him though.”

After showing off the photograph, we proceeded to make breakfast.

“So, what type of omlette are we having then?” asked my wife, excitedly.

Peering into the fridge, my eyes widened. Where there would normally be a wealth of ingredients that would contribute to a delicious egg-based dish, there was nothing. Beyond eggs, I had neglected to check for what else would be necessary . We had zilch!

I imagined Steve Smith’s fridge. Upon his return home, it would be full to the brim with all things lush, green and flavoursome

 I bitterly turned my attention to my own recently acquired shopping supplies.

Looking up at the eager expression on Mrs B’s face, I squinted as I offered the solitary option available –

“How does garlic sound?”

---

All three of these memorable encounters really accentuated the fact that every single one of us that carry the ‘human’ tag, are essentially the same.

When the camera goes off, the curtain comes down or they walk off the playing field, celebrities do what we all do.

 Speed through traffic when in a hurry. Pop down the shop to get groceries. Go out for a pint with mates and duck off to the loo.

Watching them in their regular showbusiness surroundings after you have met them in the flesh, is very much like seeing your teacher again on Monday morning. They will get back to doing what they have always done, but you now look on with a new sense of familiarity.

You got to see them being real, and in this social media era where it appears that everybody is hiding behind a filtered image, that is quite a privilege.