This Wild Catastrophe

Prologue The Fan

PROLOGUE : THE FAN

RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘JUICE’ BY TOBE NWIGWE, PAUL WALL

“…Percy, let’s do a quick recap of this year’s One Day International Cricket World Cup final match, shall we?” The commentator chats with his partner and gives a rundown of the score, so far. Ending with, “With only eleven balls left and twenty-four runs needed for a resounding final win with only four wickets in hand… Can the captain win the match for his team?”

I almost consider muting the damn commentator off. Especially as they go into a TV commercial break in the middle of the fucking over because the batter, the captain, is on a medical timeout. I mean, yes, it’s bad what happened to his thumb but come on, man! It’s the damn ODI World Cup final match. Play through the fucking pain.

The program then switches from the live feed to the replay of the supersonic ball that smashed into the batter’s thumb over two layers of protection. Ouch.

“Stop giving me the damn play by play.” My thumb thrums in sympathetic response, while I side-eye the pie lying next to me. It’s half-eaten because I, Simon Archer, the coldest CEO on Wall Street, need the comfort of carbs and sugar while I experience this traumatic moment on television, thousands of miles away from the MCG - Melbourne Cricket Ground.

The commentator comes back after the break and gives impressive stats of both teams. “Of course, let’s not forget the four World Cup Twenty20 championships already under this team’s belt,” he continues. “And the third Test World Championship clinched so magnificently just last year with a double century from the captain himself. I just?—”

I mute the TV, uninterested in stats and text the group chat cheekily called FOMO, Bro!

Is he okay? What’s the medical situation on the ground?

Idiot 1 aka Jace Archer answers back promptly.

Seems okay. Still standing.

Idiot 2, Cade Archer, sends me a selfie of the two of them peering through binoculars from the VIP box with shit-eating grins.

I send them profanities in response, get cussed back in return. I turn my attention to the screen, unmuting the TV. The captain is finished with the medic.

The commentator says, “…And he truly is great. Winning all the important cricket tournaments in six years is something no one has achieved. Ever. And, I do mean, he has won everything in his captaincy . International Premier Leagues, world cups in all the formats, individual series against the top teams in the cricket-playing world.”

“FUCK, YEAH!” I punch my fist in the air.

The batter has put on his white batting gloves (I privately think they are exactly like baseball catcher’s mitts) over the splinted thumb and is walking away from the medic. His stance is confident, and his jersey #22 is sticking to his back from the heat.

Excitement courses through my veins. I check the group chat.

Idiot 1 (Jace) –

Roger on the injury. He’s good to go.

Idiot 2 (Cade) –

Maybe he should get the sub in. Thumb splints are no joke.

The commentator replays what Idiot 1 told me just moments ago, almost word for word. Play resumes again.

The bowler sets up the ball. He is a pacer, a fast bowler, clocking at two hundred kilometers per hour, looking to capitalize on the captain’s thumb injury. It’s how I’d do it too if I was the other team.

I take a giant bite of the pie. It hits my system like a drug, making me feel better, almost hopeful even.

Dealing with stats is my day job. So statistically, the odds of my team, fine, our team winning are fifty-two to forty-eight. Because the other team is just about the best there is. They are ferocious today. And not above such tricks as injuring the captain.

Cade sends me a GIF titled ‘Missing you’, with a child blowing bubbles.

I silence my phone while the bowler runs up to the umpire, standing on his side of the twenty-two-yard pitch. Right where the stumps are. He is a six-five beast. His attack is lethal with a wicked curve on the ball’s tail. Hell, it almost took out a man’s thumb ten minutes ago.

The camera tightens on the batter, hunched over his three-foot willow bat, filled with sponsorship stickers and personal talismans, so it comes up to his waist.

His stance is impeccable while he shields his injured right hand. Sweat drips down his face over the protective helmet.

Cricket is not usually a brutal game, but it has its moments. Like today.

“Come on, come on, just play him off,” I chant. “No need to be a hero!”

My phone buzzes. My eyes widen at the text Jace sends.

But then I forget everything, even the pie on my fork as the white season ball arcs over the bowler’s shoulders in symphonic motion. It sails almost three feet over the heads of the umpire… the batter on the other end… and jumps the middle of the pitch. It is almost sure to hit the batter facing it, on the face. Its trajectory is true and unmissable.

But the batter adjusts his position quickly, pulls his padded foot up and swings his bat, almost widely, defensively and THWACK! The middle of the bat connects with the ball.

Physics does the rest.

As if in slow motion, the batter gently guides the ball and bat over his own head and pats it away. Then the film speeds up and the ball sails up and over the heads of the fielders spread around him and almost out of the stadium roof, the camera following its path faithfully.

I can barely hear the cacophony of sound and drama.

The commentator shouts, “It’s a six! It’s a SIX!” Six is the highest number of runs a batter can score with a single ball.

The crowd roars wild and my heart goes ballistic. I gobble down more pie.

My team makes three more runs to bring their run chase down to thirteen off the last six balls. It’s not impossible odds but this is cricket. Any fucking thing can happen here.

And, of course, something happens.

The first two balls of the last over, gives the other team wickets, followed by a catch appeal. I pace through the next two balls until the commentator says, “It’s the last ball of the over. Six runs needed to win the match. And just one wicket to lose it. Can we see history in the making today?” The commentator’s box is full of grins and then the camera moves to the bowler who’s practicing his run up.

He’s just about to begin his descent down the field when the TV goes black with a squick.

The power did not just go off right before the last ball! I pay astronomical sums to make sure of such exigencies.

“What the…” I put my hands up and look for the cause.

“I am sorry to disturb you.” My wife, the love of my life, who just casually shut off the damn TV right before the last ball is about to be bowled, yawns. “But I just need this back pain to stop. I held it off for as long as I could but now my lower back’s killing me.”

“Moonshine.” I almost run over to her, touch her hugely pregnant belly. “You should have come sooner if you were in pain.”

In the back of my head, I know the match is over. One way or another. My team won or they didn’t. But all of my focus is on my wife.

She shrugs. “I could hear you yelling at the TV. Figured it was life and death. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You can interrupt me anytime you want, you know? You’re more important than all the life and death situations in the world.” I squeeze her back and drop my head on her shoulder, bending my knees to accommodate the differences in our height.

Lia is a tiny thing and I’m a six-feet tall idiot who was yelling at the TV screen when I should have been taking care of my very pregnant wife.

She grins and shakes her head. “Oh, please. It’s not me you’re concerned about, buddy. It’s the Bump.” She affectionately pats the beach-ball sized bump on her stomach. “I used to think you were protective of me…”

“I still am,” I protest automatically.

“You didn’t stick me with one of those med-watches because I wore heels during House of Niamh’s New York Fashion Show showing before, right?”

“You were almost four months pregnant,” I correct her stiffly. “I was just trying to make sure I could rectify the situation, if you decided to overdo it, Madam CEO.”

It was sneaky, I admit. How I’d gifted her a watch monitoring all her vitals and pulses and had the data linked to my devices so I could constantly be assured of her well-being and The Bump’s.

I’m a first-time father. There’s no playbook here, is there? Apart from the mountain of parenting books my wife insisted I read to prepare for the changes to our lives.

“Rectify the situation!” She laughs. “It’s a baby, sweetie. Not a corporate takeover.”

We leave the cavernous family-come-entertainment room and enter the passage of Silverine, the antebellum mansion my incredibly doting wife gifted me on my last birthday. But I also spent a fortune on restoring it to its former glory, including taking a hand in its renovations when we were first married.

I touch the replica mansion dollhouse, complete with removable hinges and doors my siblings had had commissioned as a gift for the next Archer. A warm glow fills me when I imagine The Bump checking it out with wide eyes.

My gift to her is the castle in Ireland where we’d spent our honeymoon…and I fell in love with her. Again.

We step out of the elevator I’d had installed for Lia’s pregnancy and into our private sanctuary on the top-most floor.

She makes a beeline for the bathroom and mutters about pea-sized bladders. I arrange the cloud-like, ergonomic body pillows I’d had the company invent just for her. They’re in the shape of clouds too, to give it that fluffy feeling.

She comes in and immediately cuddles into my outstretched arm. Her spine gives slowly, curving into the hard contours of my body.

Since we aren’t fooling around, I just gently caress her back. “Next time, come find me as soon as you are in discomfort, okay? I hate the thought of you in pain.” I drop a kiss on her exposed neck.

“Hmmm. Okay. Now do your thing, please. It’s the only thing that stops your daughter kicking me.” Her order is sleep-husky and extremely desirable. But then again, I’d desire her when she was ninety and a creaking bag of bones to my ninety-five.

I obey her because I want her to rest more than fucking her into oblivion.

“Listen well, Q,” I begin in my best storyteller voice. A little deeper than the timbre I use to flog global stock markets into submission. “Because I’m about to tell you a real tale. Not a fairy tale. It has real, brave people and secret fears, nail-biting finishes, and drama too.”

“ Hmmmm .” My wife hums against my hand. “More, please.”

“Once upon a time,” I intone. “In a beach town much like ours, let’s call it Barrons Bay, there lived a young woman named Queenie. And this is her story…”