Gradual changes have altered the cultural make-up of Australia’s cricket audience.

I must have only just reached two digits in age when I first went, and on an overcast December morning, a future long-standing tradition was only in its second year. I follow my dad and older brothers through the turnstile into a great oval shaped monolith, more Cathedral than sporting venue. Despite spending most winters worshipping the brown and gold at the same church, this mass felt completely different. The sensation of walking across beer-smattered concrete makes each step feel like a small trip across ice. The crowd buzzes around me, separated into three distinct groups: Those in green and gold, beer in hand; strange lobster-skinned foreigners in white and red; and lastly, a group looking on in bizarre curiosity, walking with trepidation. Their eyes glancing from sign, to ticket, back to sign, then back to ticket. They wear no obvious uniform, save for a slow walk and contradictory look of awe and fear.

We’re here hoping to see history. A career 700^th wicket, something in sporting terms akin to seeing Halley’s Comet. A key difference however is that the next arrival of the comet is a scientific certainty, 2061 to be more precise. But seeing another career 700^th wicket? You’d better start praying to your respective God. I take my seat with my dad and brothers alongside nearly 90,000 others. After a rain delay, play begins. Yet after the first few overs, my childish restlessness takes hold, boredom sets in. Something interesting takes my eye. I become transfixed, not on the wicket, but on the electric atmosphere generated by thousands of my new mates. The crowd heaves. Chants from the lobster-skinned foreigners echo through the oval walls. Replies roar from the green and gold, tinged with an alcohol-induced slur. A Mexican wave in full-flight tears along the tiers. Beer cups and whatever else can be found are launched into the air in its wake. Beach balls bounce through the air along with what I then thought were oddly thin cylindrically shaped balloons. Beer snakes are assembled. I learn new words. I am mesmerized.

The hypnosis deepens as I forget my purpose for being there. I find myself unable to break my attention free from the action happening in Bay 13 and its surrounds as the green turf fades into the background. Suddenly a roar goes up- only a little bit louder than that given to the man sculling a four-pack of Carlton Mids. But this time my dad and brothers are on their feet applauding. I break the hypnosis of Bay 13 in time to see Shane Warne, index finger up, running along the turf. I’d missed it. Despite being right there, I never saw Warnie’s 700^th Wicket.

It’s now 2020 and I’m back again 14 years later. I haven’t skipped a Boxing Day Test since missing Warnie’s 700^th Wicket. The 90,000 strong crowd has been whittled down to 28,000 thanks to COVID, but I’m just glad to be there. However, something else has changed over those 14 years. The crowds have, on average, gotten bigger. Day 1 of the 2013 Test being notable for holding the world record for single day test attendance. But something is missing. Maybe it’s me getting older and actually spending the majority of my time at the cricket watching well… the cricket, along with the little green radio attached to my ear. Or maybe it’s been the gradual moralising of the crowd. Gone are the chants, the reverie and relative insanity of Bay 13. At the 2019 Test, the MCG went so far as to place a giant marquee on top of it, lest any energetic young men get any bad ideas. Perhaps it’s for the better. A calmer, more politically correct crowd allowing for a more welcoming and accessible atmosphere, especially for women. The term ‘family-friendly’ is thrown-up as a general slogan to cover this intent by the MCG, ICC and Cricket Australia. The irony in my eyes is that what is now ‘family-friendly’ and meant to protect children is the antithesis of what I loved about going to the cricket as a child. The chaos and debauchery electrified my 11-year-old brain. Maybe I’m just jealous. Now at the age of 25, I’m the target market for what would have been Bay 13 insanity. Or maybe I’m just upset that I missed Warnie’s 700^th wicket.

By J.A. Kimberley