The Little Century: Benji’s Big Bat

The ball whispered off my index finger and skimmed low across the concrete like it had somewhere secret to be. It landed with a sharp pop that sounded right under my feet. The batsman’s eyes narrowed. I could hear Thando breathing behind me - steady, as if he counted his steps on the run-up - and the whole world for a second was the red ball, the seam, the squeeze of my fingers.

“Nice line, Benji!” Thando called. His voice came like a wave from Langa. I kept my own rhythm: one, two, three, plant. The air smelled of Leah’s lemon soap from the studio below and the frying oil from the stall by the park gate. Table Mountain lay quiet and wide, like someone napping under a blanket. The concrete under my sneakers felt rough and familiar, like the top of an old table my hands knew well.

I ran again. The ball left with a small hiss and the batsman swung and missed. It kissed his pad and hit the stumps with a clatter that made a small cheer ripple along the street. My chest filled up warm and noisy. I had been playing for the Observatory Otters for a while - tossing the ball in the nets, chasing it in the park - but lately my notebook had filled with sketches of run-ups and wrists, lines and angles, ways to make the ball move like it had a mind of its own. I carried a cricket bag with the usual bits - spare sunblock, tea bags, rescue supplies for stray animals - because that was how I liked to be ready. Today, I wanted the ball to do the talking.

Leah crouched on the low wall with her camera resting on her knee. Her scarf was bright as a stage costume, one she’d used when she toured as a dancer years ago. She peered through the lens and smiled the way she did when she was about to film something she loved. “Slow your arm after release,” she said, pointing with the camera like it was a baton. Her voice smelled faintly of rooibos tea. Her hands steadying me felt like they had learned how to catch rhythm and turn it into motion.

Thando took the ball from me and walked back to his mark. He was fifteen and moved like someone who had practiced his speed a hundred times. When he ran in, the batsman climbed up to meet him and the bat rang clean. Thando’s ball sang with air and the batsman fended. “Ready, Benji?” he asked when he returned the ball, a grin in his voice.

“Ready,” I said, and my knees felt like drummers. I took my run-up and let everything fall into place - the slap of my shoe, the release, the follow-through. This time the bat missed and the ball slid back toward the stumps. I darted forward, scooped it up and, because I had learned how to be quick wherever I stood, I flicked the bails off with a clean hand. Someone laughed, and Thando whooped. Leah clicked the camera. My body hummed like a tuned string.

Mr. Dlamini from the community centre walked over carrying a thermos of tea and a packet of biscuits. His smile was the small, steady kind you trust. “Busy day,” he said, pouring tea into paper cups. The steam smelled like the little herb garden in his yard. “You bowl and you chase, young man. That’s talent and work.”

We sat on the low wall drinking warm tea. The talk wandered to Langa and the match from last week - the concrete strip where the kids played with a rubber ball and stones for stumps. I remembered a boy teaching another how to stand with years in his feet, showing by movement not words. That night at dinner I had drawn a small map in my notebook: pins for places to visit, arrows for run-ups, a list that said, “See how kids play.” Leah had laughed softly and said in that kind, steady way, “You’re not going without me. Someone needs to document the footwork.” She always asked before filming, which felt like the most honest rule of all.

Thando dunked his biscuit and said, “We should do a charity match at Newlands. Bring some retired provincial players. Make it a proper day.” He talked like the idea was a kite and we just needed to find the right wind.

Newlands. The word made my stomach feel full. I’d seen it on TV with Leah and once from afar on a bus ride. I pictured the green, the wide stands, the sound of that old ground. “If we do it, we can raise money for gloves and pads for teams that play on concrete,” I said. I thought of blisters and bare feet and taped-up pads. I wanted kids to have what they needed to play without a hurt foot stopping them.

Leah tapped the camera strap and looked like she was deciding whether to do something brave. “We’ll need permission and a plan,” she said. “Thando opens the bowling. I’ll film. You focus on learning the openings.” Her eyes made me feel seen. “And remember - always ask before filming.”

That night I tucked two tea bags into the small pocket of my cricket bag and added a strip of plasters and a tiny soap Leah insisted we carry. I put my notebook on top and sketched a runway of arrows. I liked the idea of maps - small pieces of paper that could hold big places.

The next day, Thando took me to Langa to bowl at the concrete strip....