“Thank you, Pud Laverty, for making me feel that the kid who could not bat, bowl or field was a part of the team, and Mr Laverty for endless patience.” ANTONIO DI DIO continues his Brief History of Kindness.

Some kids could bat, some could bowl, some were so hopeless they were prized for their fielding and batted at 11. And then there was me. 

My name was “scoreboard” cause I could do nil else. I was hidden at deep-as-possible fine leg and every couple of overs the skipper would ask me how many runs the opposition needed to win. Forty six off 11 overs, I’d say. Thanks mate, he’d reply. Can I have a bowl this week I’d sometimes add, fruitlessly and for good reason.  

Of course, even those few words were wonderful, so much better than the silence of returning to Australia, knowing few people, knowing few words of the language with enough confidence to use them. 

Our wonderful captain, one of the Taylor’s Arm Lavertys, would ask me the score and it was my huge joy to be of some use. Taylor’s Arm, a village in the Nambucca Valley in NSW, was where dad arrived from Italy in ‘52, and worked so hard for years to save up to bring mum out in ’56. 

He could not understand a thing about cricket other than it was pointless.  Neither did his partner on the bananas, a beautiful fellow southener called Vincenzo. 

The combined kids liked it though, and by 2014, Vince’s grandson Phil and I had played 51 matches for Australia between us, Phil dominating a bit.

Those days of the Simmos versus Thommos, and teams from other towns like Nambucca and Kempsey and Coffs, were wonderful. In the awful months preceding, our family had moved for a sixth time in nine  years. 

My uncle Orazio had mysteriously died, some cousins had endured a deeply upsetting time, I endured the shame of being a little homeless for a while, there was some minor enough bullying, and a constant feeling of embarrassment. 

All of it was forgotten standing at bloody deep fine leg on a Saturday at Thistle Park, in Macksville, with the big man of cricket, young Pud, leading a team of Lavertys and Donnellys (not many indigenous kids in the cricket team – but just wait till winter, and their complete genius on the footy field, they were artists!) around the park, and asking me what the score was. 

It was better than that. Taciturn men who would rather be back shielding a fortress in Tobruk than verbalise an emotion, never needed to, when in their generosity they’d pick us up in utes and drive us anywhere to play against other kids for no purpose other than the most important one – because it was there. 

Because we’re Australians and that’s what we do and you are now, too. Decades later I would sometimes pick up the kids of some mildly disinterested parents who never attended games and never resented it – but rather, celebrated the chance to repay those wonderful people who drove me around in my gormless undifferentiated state. 

In later school years Mr Valentine took me around the north coast debating, Mrs Welsh took us to a thousand Eisteddfods, Mr Carline took us to play soccer in a van I swear he rented out on holidays as a getaway/kidnap vehicle.  

One golden day back in ‘77 I took my usual first ball swipe and miraculously made a sort of contact, enough to gasp, run a two, and replayed it proudly in my lonely head for the rest of the season. 

It was my highest score of 1977/78, the year the Test tourists were India, who played a thrilling 3-2 series against us starred in by – of course –  Thommo and Simmo. 

I had the privilege of meeting those two skippers, Bob Simpson and Bishen Bedi, years later, as we enjoyed a Test together at the SCG, and told them of the incredible joy of being in a team when you had nothing else in life, and the gratitude to people you’ve never met for schlepping you round the hundreds of country kilometres to get to games and back. They knew it, too, and they equally felt that whatever they had reached in life was consequent to nothing less than the love, support and kindness of hundreds of people. 

Thank you, Pud Laverty, for making me feel that the kid who could not bat, bowl or field was a part of the team, and Mr Laverty for endless patience. If I made a list of the kind people who’ve helped me on my journey, I sometimes think it would include just about everyone I ever met. 

Antonio Di Dio is a local GP, medical leader and nerd. There is more of his Kindness on citynews.com.au