Cricket

At this time of the year, our family is blessed with the pursuit of dual sports as the death throes of the football season overlap with the genesis of the cricket season. While I don’t get Football and all who sail in her, I do find cricket mildly enthralling. It is played by nicer people who behave nicely, at a nicer pace with nice white summer outfits, which would hang far better if made from Linen. It is one sport where my husband and son can take the field together, leaving me with the day; as long as I look like I am paying attention from some part of the boundary, they will be happy. Questions at the end of the game about a particular passage of play can be awkward, but talked around.

Each year we have a day at the Test match and a few days at our local county ground. Unlike the dreaded football, the players are incredibly accessible, it is possible to watch them warming up for the game from only a few yards away. I can confirm that Andrew Flintoff is a greek god, Shane Warne slightly sleazy, and that Dimitri Mascarenas has the twinkliest of eyes. I have fluttered my eyelids at Mark Ramprakash from only a few feet away, who asked me if I was suffering from hay fever, and brushed against Kevin Pietersen as he moved from the Nursery ground to the pavilion at Lords. Of course all of this close contact with sporting superstars leaves my husband and son starry eyed. My husband particularly conspicuous amongst a group of twelve year olds asking for their mini bats to be autographed. One year at Lords, my husband managed to have a particular impact on the days play. As usual my husband and son had devoured the statistics in the match programme, we had moved to the area where the players move from the nursery ground nets back to the pavilion. England were mid innings overnight and looking to set the opposition a target for later in the day. One particular England batsman was 92 not out overnight and was making his way back to the pavilion after a short time in the nets to prepare to continue his innings at the start of the days play. My husband and son were in position, and as the batsman in question passed by my husband burst out

“Oy ******, no way are you 5ft 10in tall, like it says in the programme, I’m 5ft 9in and you’re shorter than me.”

****** turned on his heel and scuttled off to the dressing room. Emerging half an hour later to bat, in what can only be described as a pair of cricketing Cuban heels, needless to say he was run out in the first over as he struggled to make the crease in his newly improvised footwear; England collapsing and losing the game the next morning.

At the moment my husband and son play for something like the third or fourth team of our local village club. I will happily watch the game all afternoon, sitting in the sun happy with my own company or chatting lazily to wives, girlfriends or people dropping in. I can read a book or a paper. Check out the young buck who has just been asked to field in front of me, and who’s well muscled profile I must look past to dutifully watch my husband’s attempts at the game. There is nowhere to plug an iron or a vacuum cleaner in, and no meals to be cooked, cricket being a civilised game where food is provided at tea.
This week I was sat on a bench among half a dozen of the regular watchers loosely strung out around the boundary, when Brandi an American divorcee, who has just moved into the village, passed the ground, saw me sitting alone and came over to say hello. In her view, as an abandoned woman, (albeit an incredibly well rewarded one) lone girls should stick together and seeing me there on my own she could feel my need for company. My attempts to explain that I was more than happy on my own, fell on very deaf ears; something that I found rather surprising, Brandi being a devotee of the cosmetic surgeons knife had undergone extensive work on many parts of her body, had recently spent a five figure sum on new ears and they didn’t seem to work at all well. She also has a very stretched forehead, Cherie Blair smile, and a nipple showing through her blouse that seemed to be a long way away from where it should be. All of these thoughts I kept to myself as Brandi returned from a brief visit to the pavilion. A cry from the middle as a wicket fell distracting her from resuming her verbal onslaught. As the dismissed batsman came back to the pavilion, Brandi exclaimed loudly,

“ Gee Honey, that guy over there in the shed was talking about a problem with no balls, look at the unit on that guy with the bat, he is packing some meat! what a swell set of balls!”

The elderly major sat on the neighbouring bench, coughed and spluttered, the self conscious batsman scuttling into the pavilion as the girlfriend of the dismissed batsman, who also happened to work in the village butchers, shouted across the field

“Oy Joelene, keep your eyes off. Any meat he packs at the weekend is for me, and me only”

Brandi sat back down, and after I explained that the batsmen wore a form of codpiece while batting, she continued to talk at me for the remainder of the game; mostly about medical issues with the occasional shout of encouragement at inappropriate moments. My peace shattered I was in a fairly foul temper by the close of play, my mood not enhanced by my buoyant husband whose team had won, exclaiming,

“That new girl Brandi is a great laugh isn’t she? I saw you two chatting. She seemed to enjoy the match; she’s popping by tomorrow for coffee so I can explain the game in greater detail. “