Cricket, The Game of Life and The Awkwardness of Adult-Kid Relationships The joys of cricket are so manifold, so generously giving and utterly unconveyable through such mere things as words.
Where would one even start. Say I was to explain the emotion that is cricket - where would I start? where could I start?
Would I start by explaining the beauty - nay, the poetry - nay, the geometry of a sweetly timed cover drive.
Could I possibly explain to someone that feeling - that indescribably pregnant feeling that hangs in the air and in heart of the ardent fain on the first morning of a test match - and you have nothing on schedule for the day and all you plan on doing is watching the cricket.
An in form Tendulkar picking the gaps in a packed off side field with surgical precision. Dhoni finishing things off with a six. Dravid frustrating fast bowlers with his stoic defence, session after session. The ebbs and flows of a test match - the way the fuse catches fire sometimes in the last few sessions of the 5th day.
The achingly long passages of play where nothing happens and commentators turn into philosophers - giving us metaphysical musings to ponder about. The sheer poetry of watching over after over go by languidly - the scoreboard ticking over.
The dopamine rush of a sudden flurry of boundaries or wickets. Oh the joy of leather making contact with willow. The sound. The feedback. That inimitable feeling of timing the ball exquisitely and knowing the moment it leaves the bat that it's headed past the ropes.
Oh how could I begin to explain all this?
How could I tell them about "Ashes to ashes dust to dust - if Lilee won't get you, then Thommo must"
or the feared West Indian pace quartet.
Would the names Marshall, Garner, Holding, Roberts mean anything to them? Hell, would the name VIv Richards mean anything to someone who isn't also taken by this most exquisite of afflictions.
Would they think you're merely a lunatic when you say that cricket does a bloody job of acting as a metaphor for life?
Expansive, take-no-prisoners style vs circumspect outside off stump?
Compact technique vs see ball hit ball.
Monastic marathon innings - 15 ball wonder-cameos . Oh would they see it?
The first morning of an ashes series.
The magic of Mccullium's last test innings.
The unreal events of Headingley 2019.
India vs Pakistan.
Oh I say.
The G Version
I want to talk about my love for cricket with you. It's romance. It's love. it's beauty. It's passion. It's aesthetics. It's joie de vivre. Sometimes I feel, it is life itself. The sight of a batsman in tucked in whites, padded up, taking guard - ahhh. That exquisite unspeakable perfection of even witnessing a sweetly timed cover drive - let alone playing one. do you know what i mean?
the exquisite comprehensiveness with which cricket acts as a metaphot for life. The addictive yet ever-fresh sensual pleasure of leather striking willow. The sweet sound. The feedback through the hands. The sweet rhythm of building an innings and reaching a crescendo. The bated breaths when totals are being chased. That air of expectation and possibility when a test is about to begin and it's time for toss. those agonising waits for the next day's play to begin. The thrill of watching MSD hit last over sixes. The unspeakable joy of watching rahul dravid defend ball after ball and making bowlers feel like even a six would be preferable, given all the effort they've expended. The feeling of mastery and utter imperiousness that one feels when one pitches the ball outside a right hander's leg stump and gets it to fizz into his off stump, rattling the woodwork. Oh even phrases such as rattling the woodwork. The linguistics of cricket is a whole other treat by itself. Creaming it through the covers. hasn't troubled the scorers. He's gone for a duck. I can't remember the others but i'll try my best to remember - they are poetry - the expressions, the phrases, the idioms. Those memories of walking bat in hand, through indian streets looking for a fellow who'd oblige and bowl a few - just to feel that rush of bat hitting ball. Those memories of commentary gold - "Mccullum's at it again - he goes over extra" AHHHH Tony greig screaming "It's all happening here - SASHIN TENDALKAR" Mccullum's last test. The first morning of an ashes series. The sheer poetry of a Lord's test. The unbearable heat of Indian summers and the hopelessness of fielding for 50 overs on the face of an unbreakable partnership. The sheer ecstasy of a breakthrough. oh the ebbs and flows of test cricket - Ben Stokes on the final day of Headingley. the feared and legendary West Indian pace quartet. The audacious genius of Viv Richards that I only ever came in contact with through legends. And that of Garry Sobers, Ian Botham, Imran Khan and Kapil Dev. The trivia itself - ohh - the trivia - of how Sobers stormed into the Aussie dressing room and gave a word of warning to new boy Lilee before going on to smash him to all parts. Oh the expressions again - Took him to the cleaners. Damaged his figures. Sent it flying over cow corner. shots both sides of the wicket. two paced wickets. A bit of nip. Lateral movement on offer. Flat track bully. elegant strokemaker. Slog overs dasher. Oh God where do I start? I love this sport. Oh but the pains. The pains of loving cricket so much and getting out for a first ball duck in your first innings in years. the pain of having to pretend that never happened while you go and and field for 50 overs - watching lesser batsmen who don't quite see the poetry of it all ike you do make runs for fun. Reading about a humdinger of a test match written by an inimitably wise cricket writer - oh what a tradition - cricket writing. Mark Nicholas. Richie Benaud. Oh where do I start?
