IN OCTOBER, ALONG with the arrival of the first Christmas beetle and the distorted tunes of far-off Mr Whippy vans, I hear the unmistakable sounds of breaking voices uniting in messy appeals and anxious relatives yelling out, “Hit it, Simon, you idiot”, which signals to me that another season of junior cricket has begun.

Pick up any metaphorical rock on any oval in any part of suburban Australia during summer and you’ll find the complex world of junior cricket. During my eight years as manager of my cousin’s son’s cricket team, I experienced this world first-hand. I tasted all the food groups: success, failure and frustration, and I was confronted with the quandary that’s intrinsic to the game of cricket – should one play this game fairly
or to win?