Beyond the picket fence
A creative piece exploring sexism in Australian culture
By Elly Pashen
The Allan Border Field was hardly a glamorous site. The faded green turf was indistinguishable from the cricket pitch and the humid Queensland heat wafted the sickly sent of horse manure from the neighbouring Albion racetracks. Even from the underground change rooms, Lilly could feel her nose hairs tingle as the smell seeped through. The men’s team don’t have to deal with this at the Gabba, she thought.
The young woman sat alone on the change room benches, repeating the game plan in her head. The butterflies dancing around her stomach gnawed at chunks of flesh from her inside. Lilly rhythmically tossed a cricket ball vertically in the air and caught it with two shaking palms. The rough red leather coating and spindling stiches felt familiar in Lilly’s fingers. The raised seam of the ball began to tear as she anxiously fumbled with it. Not quite the standard for a national athlete, but it’s all she’s got.
The ball brought back memories of childhood Christmases—when Santa brought her brother a cricket ball and she got a Barbie. Or Sunday afternoons when the ‘guys’ played cricket in the backyard. Lilly watched through the window as she reluctantly chopped carrots to help her mother prepare dinner.
A man’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker, jolting Lilly into the present, yet the words were barely noticeable through the static. “Welco- to th- firs- round of th- Brisba- Heat women’s cricke- season,” croaked the voice through the rusted PA. The broadcast was her signal to move. Lilly sprang to her feet, tucking her helmet under her arm and kicking open the change room doors. Her teammates waited eagerly in the hall, the eleven women she had devoted her life to for the past seven months.
‘If you’re not the best, they’re not gonna notice ya.” The raspy voice of her coach was eternally engraved in her mind after a myriad of training sessions and late night conditioning drills. Although the thick pads strapped to Lilly’s calves covered purple bruises from countless cricket ball impacts, she could feel the battle scars.
The team were donned in teal floor-length trousers and matching polos—awkward blank spaces where sponsors should be. The women bounced in place, pretending their physical manifestation of nerves was simply ‘warm up’. To say they were jittery was an understatement—female athletes don’t have the luxury of making mistakes. Their careers were balanced on the line.
Lilly’s captain approached her, pulling her thick blonde hair back into a low bun as she walked. The two stark white streaks of zinc resting on her cheeks creased as she smiled.
“You ready for this Rookie?” Jess teased, patting her firmly on the back.
Lilly shot back a knowing smile and slid the helmet over her greasy ponytail, “born ready.”
Light peaked through a beige concreate opening, illuminating a field expanding out before them. With one final glance at their teammates and a collective deep breath, they started to walk. The cancerous heat struck the women as they marched in a harmonious stride, past the white picket fence, onto the turf and—
—silence.
The flood of pride Lilly had been dreaming of dispersed into vapour as she glanced around the stadium. The few ticket holders clapped with a sarcastic rhythm—easily muffled by the crunch of Lilly’s footsteps on the grass. Her eyes darted around the stadium, every empty seat mocking her as she stared. Less than 150 people scattered across 6500 seats. Like particles of dust on a freshly wiped surface. Laughable.
Within minutes of stepping on the pitch, Lilly was batting.
First ball.
Her dance was practiced and perfected.
Left hand on top of bat. Right underneath. Stand sideways. Left shoulder to bowler. Feet shoulder width apart. Knees bent. Lilly tapped her bat on the overgrown pitch twice and stared down the eyes of the bowler.
The bowler’s spiked adidas shoes kicked up dust as she sprinted into a confident skip. Her arm was a razor as it swung above her head and released the ball at a sound barrier-breaking velocity.
Lilly watched the ball bounce in front of her and gingerly took her shot.
The bat hit nothing but air as she followed through her swing. The sound of the ball rolling past her feet quickly ensued. A hit and a miss.
Embarrassment overwhelmed her senses. If it weren’t for the thick metal helmet enclosing her head, the whole field would be able to see Lilly’s bright red cheeks. Not a good start, she thought.
“You bat like a girl!”
A bellowing beard-muffled voice chortled from the stands. The sound ricocheted across the empty stadium and the words were a harpoon to Lilly’s chest. A group of ungroomed men slapped themselves on the knees, spilling drops of beer on the seats in front of them.
Now it was personal.
Second ball.
Lilly forgot about her ritual.
She rolled her shoulders back, lengthened her spine and lifted her chin. She remembered the pain it took to get here—the endless locks she had to pick to get through a door already open for men.
The adrenaline was tingling in every muscle. Lilly inhaled until her lungs reached full capacity. The bowler’s incoming bullets didn’t intimidate her this time. The ball was her friend—she could read it. A patriarchal symbol of Australian strength that was never supposed to belong to her. But it did.
She struck the ball with an animalistic fury. A swing reverently carried by the anger of the generations of women who were told they couldn’t.
The ball glided through the air with angelic grace, above and beyond white picket fence. Lilly’s jaw dropped in jovial awe as it coasted into the stands. The little girl was hard to miss. She was covered head to toe in oversized teal merchandise, a loosely fitted cap continuously slipping over her eyebrows. Lilly’s heart leaped as the cricket ball fell perfectly into the kid’s outstretched keepers glove. The girl cried out a giddy laughter as she held the ball above her head. Lilly locked eyes with the child and grinned.
Damn right I hit like a girl, she thought.