I have recently concluded participation in my first cricket tournament. And where better to make my debut than in India? Unless you live under a particularly heavy, dark rock, I assume you know that the Indians take their cricket very seriously. And why wouldn’t they? They are pretty good at it. (Not as good as the Aussies, of course, but the result of the 2023 World Cup is still a sore point so I probably won’t mention that again).
To be completely honest, I wasn’t fully intentional in my application to take part in this particular cricket tournament. I had heard rumours of its existence as an annual high point in our new residential compound’s social calendar, and I was aware that sign-ups were taking place some time back in late November/ early December. But that was all I knew and with no clarity around the time commitment required of the players, the dates of the tournament or even, perhaps most crucially for cricket, the format of the matches (was it one-dayers, five-dayers, T20, something different entirely), I wasn’t sure I should sign up in case I wasn’t going to be available given my work, motherhood, Christmas holiday and impending visa run constraints. I found the application form online and duly filled that in the hope that it might lead me to the details I was after. It did not and so I decided not to pay the tournament fees so as not to complete the submission.
Apparently, not paying did not mean my form wasn’t submitted (that’s a lot of negatives, sorry). That is to say, despite not paying my fees, my name still made its way into the hat. The next thing I knew, a fellow expat (who I had yet to meet in person but of whom I was aware due to our mutual presence in various expat WhatsApp groups) was messaging me in excitement over being in the same team. I was as confused as I was concerned about what I had got myself into.
At the same time as she was messaging me, it transpired, there was a live auction taking place in the ballroom (a facility available in our compound) for the 150 odd players signed up for the women’s league. Team owners were fighting over committee-designated ‘marquee players’ and self-proclaimed batting or bowling aficionados. Unknowingly, I was in the catalogue and on sale for 9 lakhs (900,000) somethings. The somethings were not rupees, I am assured, because that would be the equivalent $10K USD and apparently there are some limitations around just how much Indians love cricket (not many, but some). I just hoped I had given an accurate representation of my skills (or potential lack thereof) and had at least correctly selected whether I was right or left-handed in my hasty completion of the form.
My membership of the Starline Auto Stars team didn’t get off to an auspicious start. I missed 9 calls from the owner and when we did finally connect, I had to break it to him that, not only would I miss all the pre-tournament training due to being in Australia for Christmas, but that I would also only be available for two of a potential 4 matches due to needing to travel to the UK for a new visa. His strategic decision to ‘take all the foreigners’ was looking rather like it might work against him. Despite my patchy availability, he convinced me that I shouldn’t try to back out of the tournament entirely and, in return, I promised to train while I was away.
I reminded him that I would be in Australia, alluding to the fact that the Aussies know a thing or two about cricket, especially where tournaments to be played on Indian soil are concerned. Of course, it was still too soon for comments about Australian cricket successes, so I realised I probably shouldn’t mention that again.
Our two weeks in Australia saw Dylan, Fred, Jasper and I visit the nearby cricket nets on multiple occasions. We even recruited Austin and Kara to make a proper party of it on a particularly beautiful evening. Dylan and Fred were playing for old time’s sake, to challenge one another and occasionally to assert dominance over (read: inflict pain on) one another. Not having ever played anything more than some casual beach cricket, and (historically) not having had any particular interest in spectating the sport for any other reason than to drink pints of Pimms, my motivation was slightly different.
As you may know, Jasper appears to be something of a gifted sportstoddler. Since his early days in the kitchen spoonball leagues, he has gone from racket-swingin’, ball-kickin’, target-hittin’ strength to strength. In 2022’s Mango Tree school sports’ day, he won a 40-yard dash by 30 yards. However, while his coordination lends itself very nicely to victory and success, his current attitude does not. At this year’s school sports day he did not perform. And by ‘perform’, I mean, ‘do anything that he was supposed to do’. He didn’t march, he didn’t sing, he didn’t do his yoga routine and he didn’t complete a single race. He clocked my yellow hair doing a very poor job at hiding amidst the crowd of brunettes, blinked and started to cry so hard that he had to be carried off by his nonplussed teachers who had expected him to thrive on sports’ day. The jury is still out on exactly what caused the dark and thunderous cloud to settle over this head that morning. One theory suggests that not getting his way as far as entering a nearby playground may have contributed (toddlers, eh? It’s all play, play, play). Another school of thought is that if he can’t be the best, he’d rather not participate (a trait my own mother claims could be hereditary, but I am choosing to ignore such baseless accusations). The one time the dark cloud lifted was when he started a running race, but half way down the track he appeared to suddenly remember that he was grumpy …or did he realise that he wasn’t in the lead?
Wait for it...
Whatever the cause of his unshakeable negativity, the result was that he didn’t participate and didn’t have fun. Participating in sports and having fun doing so are as close as we have to family rules and so, after me winning the mums race and Dylan the backwards dads’ race (backwards running, not backwards people) did nothing to enthuse Jasper, I realised I had to take it up a notch. This is where the cricket tournament came in: to demonstrate to Jasper how much fun can be had through sports, even if the sport you are playing is not your favourite, nor the one where you excel.
As soon as we returned to Mumbai in early January, I submitted myself to (half) the gruelling training schedule already well underway for my team (twice a day, every day) and started to really enjoy getting out of the house and onto a sports field from 8 - 10pm. I never made the morning sessions because that’s family time and it’s enough of a battle trying to get Jasper into clothes and out of the house at the right time without trying to bowl an over or smash some sixes before I do. But I talked about my cricket training and team and matches a lot, to try and show Jasper how much I was enjoying it (and, to be honest, because I genuinely was enjoying it).
And then came match day—the first of two to which I had committed: I stepped up to the crease, I swung and I missed. ‘All swing, no ding’ I could hear Dylan chirping in my mind. I looked around for him and Jasper, who had, only moments before, been sitting on some chairs around the edge of the cricket field. But they weren’t there. I intuited that Jasper must have gone full dictator mode and dragged Dylan away from the spectator stands to go and play in the playground. So much for a cheerleading squad. They wouldn’t even have needed to hang around because, before long, I stepped out of my crease and was stumped. Out. And I wasn’t even batting.
That was my first taste of cricket’s guillotine cruelty and I didn’t like it. In most, or perhaps all, other sports I play, there are second chances: in hockey, if you miss an interception or are tackled, you grit your teeth and dive in for a second attempt; in tennis, if you hit a duff shot, you curse under your breath and promise yourself you’ll do better next time; in squash, same thing; in yoga, well, nothing because you are only competing against your own body. But in cricket, out is out and there are no second chances. It’s brutal and I had no idea.
What I also had no idea about was that this match, and all other matches in this tournament, was being live streamed on YouTube—with commentators! And replays! And multiple camera angles leaving absolutely nowhere to hide! Talk about a baptism by fire. And so, back to the training ground I went, this time mainly to learn the rules of cricket or, as I discovered, to learn the many, many ways in which you can get out.
Match two went a little better, not from a scoreline perspective, but from a personal performance perspective. I won a trophy! The trouble with our team, I had discovered, was that we were all far too nice, and nice very rarely wins matches. Sure, it makes for a lot of fun in training and a great sense of camaraderie on the field, but it does not lead to high run rates or slick fielding. The teams with tyrannical captains who came bearing down on teammates who fumbled, or who initiated mind games with the opposition, or who (rumour has it) had track records of hair pulling and mild violence in the previous year’s tournament— they won matches. Not necessarily with dignity or grace, but a victory is a victory. In this match, I had to bowl as well as bat and I was terrified. The advice being flung at me from my team, clamouring behind the netting, was ‘don’t bowl wides!’. Now, if I were, in fact, able to control where the ball went and thereby capable of not bowling wides, I would, most likely, be playing professional cricket. But I cannot, and I am not, and with the fear of wides blurring my vision, my arm appeared to double down on disobedience and I handed a slew of runs to the opposition. As well as being cutthroat for the batsmen, cricket is also like thumbscrews for the bowlers, it turns out. Bowling, in this case, didn’t look how bowling usually looks—the women were allowed to bend their throwing arms giving me what Dylan calls my ‘chicken arm’. I assumed this description was unfair until I saw the photos.
As well as a YouTube live stream, the tournament also had professional photographers whose non-stop snapping took no prisoners. Using the facial recognition software provided to the players (of course there was facial recognition software, what do you think this was, amateur hour?) I located more than enough action shots of myself to confirm that, yes, it’s a chicken arm and no, it ain’t pretty.
After match two, I was due to leave for the UK on my visa run. I excused myself from training and took a backseat in the WhatsApp group. That is, until I realised I missed it: I missed my team, I missed the training and most of all, I missed having a match to look forward to. I can only assume this is Stockholm Syndrome, and my brief foray into cricket has left me psychologically altered. Jasper having a fever tipped the scales in favour of me delaying my trip to the UK and I decided I would stay for our team’s final match. We hadn’t won either of the previous games and so were unable to progress to the final round, but we weren’t dead yet.
And boy did we bring that to the wicket. At the only training I attended that week I saw fire in these ladies’ eyes: a burning furnace of ambition and aggression and previously undiscovered competitiveness. Where this had been in the previous matches, I have no idea. What had unlocked this hidden passion and energy, I also have no clue. But it was there and it was electric and we took it to the other team in spades.
Our final match was So. Much. Fun. There were ups and downs and overs and outs and runs and slides and catches and drops and ‘oh no we are losings’ and ‘hang on, we might wins’ and at least three wide balls, all courtesy of yours truly. Batting second, we were in for the chase and (partly because of my wides) had an uphill climb. People went in, people got out. I got my twenty and retired with a bow (retired as per the rules, bow was all my own) and then screamed myself hoarse as my teammates edged closer and closer to the target.
Turn up the volume on this one: the commentary is priceless.
I don’t know how much time you’ve spent with a group of women, but I can tell you, we can make some noise. And then make that a group of women in and around a sports team, and the volume doubles. And then make that 16 Indians, 2 Americans and a Brit staring down a cricketing victory and windows start to shatter.
We went in as definite underdogs and came out as triumphant winners! As I bounced around on the field, celebrating and laughing and discovering I had won another trophy (apparently 20 runs off 6 balls is fairly good), I realised that Dylan and Jasper had never made it down to the pitch (not Dylan’s choice, I guessed). But do you know what, it didn’t matter, because they were watching our sporting prowess in cinematic scale via the YouTube stream on our TV at home, while the entire Australian family tuned in (and chimed in on messenger) from Queensland.
Once the dust on the pitch settled (mostly into my socks) and the whoops and cheers cooled, I took stock. Taking part in this tournament was so much fun; I’ve made some really wonderful friends, and I will definitely play next year, but at the end of it all, I can safely say, I don’t love cricket. I am also not sure if my plan to help Jasper see the fun in team sports worked, because he tried very hard not to watch any of my matches.
But what I do know is that as an Anglo-Australian family living in India, it’s going to be very hard not to watch and play an awful lot of cricket over the next few years. May the best team win!
Jasper wearing his Jasprit Bumrah shirt. We know whose side he is really on.
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