It was your classic pre-Christmas Wellington cricket morning. Not the nice kind, with the blue water sparkling in the harbour, stretching out on a picnic rug under a rich warm sun that promises you cider on the deck later and a mountain of dry washing.

No, I’m talking about the other classic Wellington cricket morning. The less favoured but equally as Wellington type of day. The clouds a heavy grey, hung their soggy mass over our heads in threatening indecision. Gusts of wind blew across the pitch while small arms bowled an extravagance of wides that neither team could afford.

All the while, a smattering of brave parents hovered in protective fashion over the score book and some of us questioned why our kids had to choose cricket. Surely there was something more indoors they would like to try? Like ping pong, or yoga!

One diligent mother rose from her camping chair (that would be me,) folding it down so it wouldn’t blow away. She rolled her shoulders a few times, and did a few lunges.

She zipped her puffa jacket up over her thermal singlet and wool jersey, and followed her daughter out on to the damp grass for the ritual throw downs.

Throw downs. Makes you think of wrestling moves yes? It sounds a bit daunting and it is, for the thrower downer. Not so much for the bat wielding junior.

For when our darling offspring step onto the lofty fields of hard ball cricket, the small child is padded from head to toe in protective clothing. They jolly along with padded up legs and solid protective helmets, their thighs guarded and their future reproductiveness encased in molded plastic.

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So when it’s time for throw downs, they move like small cowboys and cowgirls, wide legs mosey over the grass to mark out their spot. They check their stance then turn and wait.

And that’s when this brave mother steps forward.

The cherry red ball is an innocuous tool, required to be thrown to (at?) the small child to assist in ‘getting their eye in’ – a term popular with their team mates and coaches. From my years of cricket parenting knowledge, I have determined that said throw downs are an important thing for your child to have, so that when they go in to bat, they are ready to achieve the morning cricket batting goals. Cricket batting goals come in different forms but mostly consist of two main areas. Score runs. And don’t get out.

So how does one throw down (to) their child? The ball holder (me) throws the ball in an unskilled shoulder to ground type motion towards the child and the bat they are holding. The shoulder to ground motion thankfully alleviates the anxiety of having to run up and attempt some type of cricket overarm bowling motion when let’s face it, the only time my arm really gets stretched above my head is when I’m trying to reach the chips I stashed at the back of the top cupboard so the kids wouldn’t eat them before I did.

Now, this is where I begin to question my heroic offer to provide throw downs, because when a child is standing in front of you, in pretty much full body armor, and is holding a big wooden bat, the briefly held belief that perhaps I could have been an excellent cricketer in my youth, had I been picked for the third form cricket team, is quickly replaced by other more urgent feelings.

These feelings come under three main subsections.

Those bloody red cricket balls are like missiles. The crack of bat as it connects with the ball is a warning signal to get the hell out of the way. Let’s face it. The child holding the bat is still developing their cricket skills, and often has no real idea where they intend the ball to go.

Any sensible parent, I believe, should respond with their emergency management training – drop, cover, and hold on to a tuft of grass. Then pray your body is now a small enough turtle shape to avoid being struck by the great ball of fire.

But there’s a problem. Because inevitably some other parent, having watched your supportive and involved parenting offer to throw down, will rise from their camping chair, and swagger along side you and your off spring, acting all brave and fearless. They will attempt to actually catch the red ball of fire as it hurtles past their left eyebrow, therefore shaming you out of your turtle posture and forcing you to pretend you are enjoying yourself.

It is wise at this point to yell encouraging things at your child,

‘Nice one!’

‘Good shot!’

This moves attention away from your (lack of) cricketing skills, so when the ball comes your way, people are looking at your child and their incredible batting stance, not at you instigating the fire service approved, ‘stop drop and roll’ manoeuvre.

The problem with throw downs is that while the child is busy ‘getting their eye in,’ they are constantly striking at the ball, and often whacking it across the grass.

And you can guess whose job it is to run and collect the ball, run back, throw it down again, only to have it whacked back across the grass leading to more running.

Your thermal wool layers will be stripped off as you jog back and forth in your skinny jeans, dreaming of a caramel shot in an extra tall latte cup and the magazine you somewhat ambitiously brought with you, in the hopes of a nice relaxing time reading all about the latest one direction star and who he’s having a baby with.

It is at this point, you will realise that in the haste to get everyone out the door at 7.40 on a Saturday morning, you regretfully used the time you should taken to apply deodorant, to smothering your children in SPF80, despite the forecast for gale force southerlies and showers. The true sacrifice of missing your Rexona moment will become apparent through your very sweaty arm pits.

Now, even though you will be breathless, with a layer of sweat growing under your bra (if you remembered to put one on,) be weary of taking advice from your child, who will inevitably try to share their cricket knowledge and skills with you  –

‘Mum, if you catch the ball you won’t have to run as far.’

‘Get your body behind it.’

They suggest these things like they won’t result in a concussion or a broken finger.

Which links us to our original subsection ‘fear’ and onward to our next one,-

While I admire the effort and skill of cricketers, and am in awe of my daughter’s bravery,  and her willingness to spend her Saturday mornings having a small hard object hurtled down the pitch at her, I have little desire to experience this first hand. I am a happy spectator.

So when, in a moment of parenting pluckiness, you decide to give throw downs, I want you to know the risks. It turns out if you don’t catch the flaming red angry missile ball in the correct way, it bloody well hurts – your fingers will bend in ways they aren’t supposed to and your hands will smart and sting.

If you attempt to stop the ball with your foot, you will discover the real pain that can come from that little toe that you never really think about, and if you get distracted by someone arriving with a tray of coffees or become perturbed by a nearby conversation regarding the new episodes of Gilmore Girls, you’ll end up with a bruise the size of a saucer on your left thigh. Because only the children get the padding.

And that doesn’t even cover the self inflicted accidents .

My fully padded and helmeted child whacks the cricket ball of fire across the grass, an excellent shot that traveled on to the concrete driveway running the length of the cricket grounds.

I am following all the rules of parental throw downs. First I offer praise,‘great shot’ I yell, as I instigate a sort of twist, drop, cover and roll move when the ball comes hurtling my way. Pleased to have avoided bodily contact, I then break into a run, chasing the ball off the grass, over the edge of the gutter and on to the driveway.

But here is where things get bad. Because the ball speeds up on the concrete, and so in a moment without serious thought of the consequences, I speed up too.

I transverse the changing landscape and miscalculate the change in altitudes between the grass and the concrete driveway. At which point the driveway seems to rise up before me, and in slow motion my body moves out of it’s usual vertical stance, follows a downward trending arc, until my feet can no longer grip the ground and I am thrust – THRUST! across the tarmac and I slide to a stop, only a few metres from where the red demon rolls to a halt in the gutter – a smug look of satisfaction on its cricket ball face.

A quick resurrection to an upright position, I ignore the searing pain of my scraped hands, the feeling of my bloody knees under my jeans. The throb of my right shoulder.

A quick check confirms that yes, the other grown ups did see my display of athletic prowess, but I am ever grateful that no one does that awful thing where they point out your lack of bodily control by standing up and yelling,-

OH MY GOD ARE YOU OKAY????????

Instead, I limp in a casual nonchalant fashion, back to my padded daughter, who leans casually on her cricket bat, shakes her helmeted head, and cheerfully consoles me…

And that’s why I’ll leave the great balls of fire to the real cricketers!

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