Even though cricket is Australia’s summer past-time the truth is that some are a little disaffected by its onerous playing schedule, its archaic traditions or the fact there are grown men wearing trousers in 35°C heat and smearing zinc cream on their lips. These are just some of the reasons why I love cricket, and yet millions have little or no interest in the game because they’d rather be outside actually enjoying the sun instead of slavishly viewing over-after-over on television. In any case, whilst non-fans may not care the slightest about Steve Waugh’s ongoing groin difficulties, I defy them to tell me that they have never participated in a game of backyard cricket.

Backyard cricket is the true national game. Most of us have once been at a barbecue at some point in our lives and somehow, willingly or not, found ourselves party to a rudimentary bat and ball contest. It’s unavoidable, and while many shy away from viewing cricket at its professional zenith, most are at the same time likely to acquiesce in the face of calls to “Carnavabowlcarnavabowl” (translation: ‘Come on: your turn to bowl’) or “Carnavabatcarnavabat” (translation: ‘Prepare to humiliate yourself whilst attempting to bat.’) It’s impossible to resist these often drunken calls for participation, but the whole ethos of backyard cricket discourages people being left out – it’s the Communism of social and recreational sport (with skill levels, or lack thereof, also usually in even distribution.)

The venue might be a family gathering at Christmas, or a group of friends whiling away the hours in a park. You cede to the “Carnava” demands and pick up the bat from the ground, where it has come to rest after the guy you just got out threw it in disgust. As you align yourself in front of the makeshift wicket (wheelie bin, pot plant, sedated cat etc.), you glance over at him and smirk. The smile vanishes, however, when you’ve taken guard and look up toward the bowler steaming in – a friend of your cousin’s that just happens to be 6’6” and an under 16’s state representative player. The thud of the electric-taped tennis ball against the wicket elicits shouts from the fielders/spectators, followed by a debate lasting several minutes in which the rules are amended to ‘batsman can’t get out first ball’ and you are allowed to continue. This despite the fact that, if you are male, this rule has totally emasculated you and you are the subject of derision for the rest of the day.

The game is malleable to suit circumstance. The ubiquitous ‘six and out’ rule can become twelve and out if you manage to hit next doors’ dog on the fly and stop it barking. Hitting different pots and landmarks around the backyard is worth 2,3,4 and (allowing for the degree of difficulty) 6 runs. Fences or walls are animated for a time as they become ‘electric wickie’ [wicketkeeper], capable of taking spectacular catches anywhere in an area of 5 metres by 5 metres; no matter how fast the ball is travelling, E. Wickie never misses a dismissal. I ask you: in what other field of endeavour is the much-lauded Australian ingenuity better exercised than in backyard cricket?

These pick-up games of cricket are so wonderful because they possess the quality of imbuing a player with legend. One looks at their 13 year-old, uncoordinated cousin in a whole new light when she somehow defies all reason to score a century before the sausages are cooked. Feats so trivial but so mythologised that they teach a player self-respect are realised every summer on brick paving wickets with diabolically uneven bounce. The day of my 17th birthday saw me crack an epic 202 in conditions not dissimilar to the swelter of Madras, and I’ll still be trotting out that story at my 67th birthday. And yet, in the typically deferential and understated national fashion, these feats are frequently as temporal and disposable as the games in which they are achieved (so maybe I’ll have to slip that double-century anecdote in on my 57th birthday, while everyone still remembers the innings.)

As I write this, I glance to my sorry old excuse for a bat which is propped up beside the desk. I’ve brought it in for inspiration – after all, with this battered piece of wood I have scored 3677 runs at 52.53 in backyard test matches (yes, I kept records.) The bat brings a smile to my face – it’s a reliable friend that I can always imagine laughs at all my jokes and secretly finds me attractive. Best of all, even in the most daunting or unenjoyable periods of life, the bat is a wistful totem; a symbol of cicadas, humidity, stretches of boredom and every person’s latent champion ability.

Roll on summer – I need to boost that average.