70 First Slip

First slip or leg slip? Are you a righty or a lefty? The question barely has time to settle before the ball is already on its way. Backyard cricket thrives on that uncertainty. It belongs to summer, to BBQ smoke drifting across the lawn, to long evenings when shadows stretch, and parents call out reminders that are politely ignored. Most kids have played it in one form or another. You never needed much: a bat, a ball, something to serve as stumps, at least two willing participants. The rest was negotiation.

In First Slip, the scene is deceptively calm. Three wooden stumps stand upright within a chalked rectangle in sunburnt grass. A bat lies grounded, its blade angled as though recently abandoned. To the right, a red cricket ball arcs away from the wicket, already committed to its fate. Upstairs, a window bears the unmistakable starburst of impact. The edge has been found. The slip cordon has been beaten. The consequences are immediate.

This is not a tennis ball, this is a proper cricket ball, the sort that makes a solid, unforgettable sound when it meets glass. Every backyard cricketer knows that sound. It travels faster than the ball itself. As kids, we understood the rules of the game, but we also understood the rules of the house. A broken window meant explanations, apologies, and a suspension of play. The thrill of the edge was always shadowed by the knowledge that Mum or Dad would soon appear at the door.

The setting is suburban and specific. Hydrangeas bloom heavily along the fence line. The green weatherboards glow in afternoon light. It could be anywhere, yet for me it returns to Mountain View Terrace in Ōtaki, our cul-de-sac pitch pressed into service whenever the weather allowed. The road became the wicket. Driveways were boundaries. Passing cars signalled a drinks break. That stretch of asphalt felt as sacred as any test ground. Mum and Dad still live there, but the cricket pitch has long since been retired.

Backyard rules were clear, even if unwritten. The pitch was two-thirds the length of whatever space we had. Stumps might be a rubbish bin if timber ones were unavailable. The bat could be any swingable length of wood; mine was carved from macrocarpa, uneven but treasured. Officially, the ball was often a tennis ball, chosen for diplomacy. Unofficially, and sometimes unwisely, a real cricket ball entered the contest.

The dog belonged to no one but itself. One-handed catches on the first bounce counted. Rebounds off sheds and roofs were fair play. Six-and-out applied if the neighbour’s fence was cleared in full. LBW was never, ever entertained. And winning? Winning was irrelevant. The game flexed around age and ability, around fading light and the smell of sausages on the grill.

First Slip lingers in the instant after miscalculation. The bat has done its job imperfectly. The ball has found the edge. The window has paid the price. It is a painting about risk, about bravado, about the thin line between triumph and trouble. Childhood was often lived on that line, where joy and consequence arrived almost simultaneously.

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Here are a few well-known rules to get any game started.

Rule 1. The pitch shall be any strip around two-thirds the length of the family yard. We lived in a cul-de-sac, Mountain View Terrace, Ōtaki. Our cricket pitch was on the road. Mum and Dad still lived there, but the cricket pitch has been retired.

Rule 2. The stumps are a standard rubbish bin.

Rule 3. The bat, any swingable length of wood. I carved mine out of a piece of macrocarpa.

Rule 4. The official ball is a tennis ball.

Rule 5. The dog is on no one’s side but their own.

Rule 6. The batter may be caught on the first bounce, where the catch is taken one-handed. The rule also applies to rebounds off roofs and garden sheds.

Rule 7. Should the ball be hit on the full over the neighbour’s fence, the six-and-out rule applies.

Rule 8. No LBW EVER.

Rule 9. Who wins? How can you win a game that never ends?