My lifelong love affair with cricket began at the tender age of ten. While my own cricketing prowess was unremarkable, confined to the local YMCA fields, my passion for the game was anything but. The ABC Cricket Book was my bible, devoured cover to cover for every Test series, feeding my hunger for statistics and trivia. I could recite Doug Walters’ six out of the SCG and into Kippax Lake, and David Colley’s baseball exploits, with the same reverence reserved for scripture. A transistor radio, a treasured gift from my father, transported me to faraway grounds, allowing me to follow the 1972 Ashes series from the comfort of my bed, often drifting off to sleep with the echoes of the commentary and the feel of brand new batting pads against my skin. The heroes of that era, like Keith Stackpole, who finally achieved a deserved century after a string of fifties, and the mercurial Ross Edwards, with his memorable 170 not out followed by a pair, became ingrained in my cricketing consciousness. This was a time when cricketers were not the superstars of today, but held regular jobs, adding a touch of everyday relatability to their on-field feats. The sight of Doug Walters, my personal hero, a man of few words but immense talent, working in a shopping centre, solidified this connection. His laconic nature, reminiscent of Keith Miller, and his wartime experience, added a layer of depth to his cricketing persona. Walters was a joy to watch, a natural infielder and useful bowler, yet he never quite replicated his brilliance on English soil, a recurring theme in his career.
After a protracted period overseas, I returned to Australia at 34, driven by a burning desire to secure an SCG membership. The allure of those iconic green-topped stands, the prospect of rubbing shoulders with cricketing legends, prime ministers, and premiers, was irresistible. My return coincided with a period of change at the SCG Trust. They had seemingly realized that the lack of photo identification on membership cards had created a system where members, or rather their descendants, enjoyed a sort of immortality within the stands. An amnesty, of sorts, was declared, permitting the transfer of memberships to relatives. Seizing this opportunity, I proposed to my aging father that he transfer his membership to me. I would cover the costs and ensure he could attend matches whenever he wished. This arrangement marked the beginning of a cherished ritual.
The pre-match routine became a treasured part of the experience. Joining the throngs of fellow cricket fanatics at 5 am, we would patiently queue, a camaraderie forged in shared anticipation, until the “Paddington Gift” commenced at 7 am sharp. A flurry of activity would ensue, a good-natured sprint from the Moore Park and Driver Avenue entrances, a flash of membership cards, a collection of seat stickers, and a dash to secure the coveted spots. The prime locations, bathed in the shade of the Members’ stand, were the ultimate prize, with the Ladies Stand offering a respectable alternative. Latecomers often found themselves relegated to the M.A. Noble Stand or seeking refuge in the various bars dotted around the members’ concourse. While the MCG may hold the title of Australia’s Coliseum, the SCG Members’ area, with its lush grassy verges and shaded tables, provided an unparalleled setting for mingling and conversation between sessions, fostering a unique sense of community.
This cherished membership represented more than just access to cricket matches; it was a connection to the game’s history, a tangible link to my childhood passion. It was a privilege to witness cricketing greats up close, to feel the electric atmosphere of a packed stadium, to share the highs and lows of the game with fellow enthusiasts. The SCG became my second home during the summer months, a place where the world outside faded away, replaced by the rhythm of bat and ball, the roar of the crowd, and the timeless traditions of the game.
The “Paddington Gift,” that early morning dash for the best seats, became a symbol of this passion, a testament to the unwavering dedication of the SCG members. It was a spectacle in itself, a display of shared enthusiasm and friendly competition, a unique tradition that added another layer of charm to the SCG experience. The shared experience of queuing, the thrill of the race, and the satisfaction of securing a prime spot, all contributed to the sense of belonging and camaraderie that made the SCG membership so special.
This membership wasn’t merely a ticket to a game; it was an invitation to participate in a living, breathing tradition, a connection to a community of like-minded individuals who shared a deep love for the game of cricket. It was a membership I cherished, a privilege I valued, and a tradition I will forever hold dear. The memories forged within those hallowed grounds, the friendships formed amidst the excitement of the game, will remain etched in my memory long after my time as a member has passed. The spirit of the SCG, the camaraderie of the members, and the thrill of the “Paddington Gift” will forever be a part of my cricketing journey.
