This summer I backpacked through Europe with two good friends.
You know, the whole cliche ““ not a lot of money, bathing or
shaving, and lots of sleeping on trains with transients.
We spent the first portion of our trip in England. I fell in
love with London and everything that makes it different from Los
Angeles; it’s dirty and has terrible traffic, rude people,
and a population that plays cricket.
Yes, cricket is more than a freaky six-legged bug.
In retrospect, I wonder how I, an isolated, jingoistic American,
managed to immerse myself in another culture and experience
something so wholly un-American as cricket.
If you have never witnessed a cricket match, for brevity’s
sake, imagine a perversion of baseball.
So after seeing some lovely Matisse and Picasso at the Tate
Modern Museum, Aaron, David and I walked to a beautiful, grassy
park next to the Parliament Building.
We found a bench and sat in contemplative silence, staring at
some dirty river, when two lads arrived, armfuls of cricket gear in
tow.
David and Aaron thought this was a great opportunity to
experience something inherently English, but I had tried that when
I ordered a meat pie at a pub, and thus preferred to sit on a bench
and ponder the implications of contracting Mad Cow disease. As my
friends spoke to the blokes, I began to realize that I needed to
seize this anthropological opportunity, especially since I could
wake up mad the next morning.
I joined my friends in their conversation with the cricketers,
who were very happy to oblige our curiosity. I learned that they
had been playing the sport since they were children, and came to
this park to practice when they could get off of work early. One
pitched and the other defended their makeshift wicket, a propped up
backpack. The men were nice enough to teach us how to bowl the ball
and defend the wicket and could only smile when we continually
smacked their ball into the adjacent street. I cringed at the
thought of losing the ball, and realized why everyone hates a
tourist.
Each of us was given a chance to bat, and as I strapped on the
leg guard and gloves, I felt rather regal. I imagined I was wearing
the immaculate white flannels of a proper cricketer, and that my
name was Nigel and that I wore one of those powdered wigs to work
and ate a lot of bangers and mash.
The paddle-shaped cricket bat is heavier than a baseball bat,
and is made of willow wood. The ball is made of cork and covered in
leather, and bound with a cord. The bowler throws the ball
overhand, but may not bend his arm, which makes for quite an
awkward throwing motion ““ but let me tell you, good bowlers
can really throw that ball; professionals chuck it at speeds close
to 100 mph.
Cricket is played on a large oval pitch (that’s a field in
cricket-speak) by two teams of 11. Two wickets are placed 66 feet
apart in the center of the pitch. Each wicket is 32 inches high and
contains three stumps, and on top of the stumps rests two bails
(wooden crosspieces); a batsman stands at each wicket, and a bowler
stands near one.
Philosophically, cricket is different from baseball in that the
cricket batter plays defense ““ he guards the wicket. The
bowler makes an out by knocking a bail off of the batsman’s
wicket, and his throws arrive on one bounce. Outs may also be made
if a fieldsman catches a hit ball on the fly. When the batter hits
the ball so that he and the other batsman can run to exchange
places, a run is scored.
The English call the bathroom a “W.C.” and the
elevator a “lift” so, as you can imagine, amusing
cricket terminology abounds. I’ll throw a few out there, and
let you ponder their meaning.
Howzat. Golden duck. Maiden.
This is funny because the average reader has no idea what these
terms mean.
The cricketers were polite and genial, smiling when we told them
that cricket is like baseball, only wimpier (Barry Bonds would be
good at cricket, for sure). In reality, cricket is an impressive
sport ““ one that requires physical toughness and mental
acuity.
Technically, a cricket match can go on for days, but after an
hour or so we felt we had pestered the men long enough ““
having asked them if they preferred Oasis or Blur ““ so we
went on our way, feeling quite cultured, having exposed ourselves
to this foreign sport.
Then we went to Starbucks for some frappachinos. Did you know
they have Starbucks in England? It’s great, it’s just
like home.