The never-ending search for scoreboards can you take down unusual paths, emotionally and geographically.
Last weekend I came across this compact and sturdy cricket scoreboard in Maffra, a dairy town in eastern Victoria. It’s a permanent structure, this scoreboard; bolted onto the wall of the clubrooms. And the numbers are permanent too, on hooks that seem to come half-circle. All very secure. My emotions? Surprise. Delight. Pride. I’ve seen hundreds of scoreboards since Les Everett and I started this caper five years ago, so it’s especially a delight to come across old-fashioned ingenuity that’s lasted the test of time.
The ground also has an old footy scoreboard. It was loosely locked but I managed to prise open the door. Inside I found forlorn old numbers, some goal post padding , a rusty chair or two. As I explored, and hung some numbers up, I heard a thud – not quite a bang. The spring in my step turned to panic. A breeze had shut the door and I was locked in. Alone. Three metres up. My emotions? Panic. Foolhardiness. Stupidity. More panic. My phone was with my bike. My bike was outside. Three metres down. Common sense finally prevailed and, after a fruitless hip and shoulder of the flimsy door, I turned the handle. Freedom!