Maiden bowled over

By Amrita Dhingra

LET me admit at the very onset, I was not always like this. Strange as it may seem I did not think much of cricket until a while back. Comments like, "It’s boring. Twenty-two grown men making a big fuss over a ball! Honestly, how insipid can you get!", issued freely from me. Needless to say the general populace never agreed so I was shushed up vehemently and subjected to strange looks. The general opinion, it seemed, was that the sooner I saw a shrink the better.

But man is a mere puppet in the hands of fate. I saw a particularly exciting match played at Old Trafford during the World Cup. I was enlightened! What spirit! What atmosphere! Talk about grace under pressure! I was hooked good and proper. From that day I was a convert to the cult of cricket.

I am not one to let grass grow under my feet, so I set the ball rolling right away. Having a lot of catching up to do I read books and magazines, watched every single game on TV and learnt to rattle of scores by-heart. The mid-ons and mid-offs were soon learnt. I definitely did not want to get caught on a silly-point. True follower that I am, I learnt to appreciate the cricketing Mecca that is Lords. To me cricket grounds became the most beautiful places in the world and cricketing heroes became old friends I loved the gallantry and adored the camaraderie. The whole summer vacation was spent watching the World Cup on TV and yelling myself hoarse in the bargain.

After a while of hearing commentators say, "He needs to apply himself.... and go for the shots", I decided it was time to apply myself. Somewhere in my mind, I had the vague notion that this was to be my life’s work, that my great quest was over and I had finally found what I had been looking for. What I needed of course was a team, so that I could, umpire-willing, go on and score a few runs. It took a lot of persuasion. You would think that in a cricket-mad country like ours people would jump at the chance to join a cricket team. But no! They wouldn’t listen, I’m telling you they just wouldn’t listen! The whole venture tested my skills as a negotiator and when tact and diplomacy failed I had to resort to threats and blackmail.

Anyway, a very bleary-eyed and reluctant team presented itself at the ground on the appointed morning. We had only seven players but I didn’t let such trifles bother me, Ken and Ginny would bat, the rest of us would field. Having always fancied myself as a bit of a fast bowler, I decided to open the bowling. Clad as I was in pristine cricketing white I handed my hat to the umpire (my Labrador actually, because we could find no one else). I began my run up fast and furious, made sure my face was contorted ferociously and let the ball go at Ken. Problem was that it kept going, landed wide and rolled furiously towards the boundary. Of course the fielders chased it, but the dog also set off in hot pursuit. The ball was retrieved, the umpire reprimanded sternly and order restored, we continued.

I managed to get the next ball in all right except that it rolled the length of the pitch so slowly that Ken complained he’d fall asleep by the time it got to him. The third ball fared better and he hit it. It was in the air! In the manner of a much admired flame-haired hero, I tried to jump up and catch it. Believe me, there are other less painful ways of measuring your length on the grass.

Abandoning the over, I decided it was time for a change in the batting. The others protested profusely. But I was the captain, wasn’t I? It was my idea, wasn’t it ? Tan, my brother, came on to bowl. What can I say —- the ball whizzed past me so quickly, I didn’t even see it. We glared at each other down the pitch, as is customary. I was rather pleased. (I was being subjected to a murderous stare so my batting must be good!)

Putting my chin out pugnaciously, I managed to swing the bat and whack the next ball. But oh my goodness was it heavy! (The bat not the ball!) Shackled to it as I was, I ran towards the other end. It felt remarkably like a three-legged race. The dog came to greet me enthusiastically and I tripped over it, much to the amusement of everyone else. Two balls later I was back at the striker’s end. Tan and I went through our glaring routine. For what he did next I shall never forgive him. He bowled, I swung the bat and the next second the ball dislodged my stumps. I was out and furious! Tan did a little victory dance—-quite unnecessary in my opinion.

So the whole morning I leaped and jumped, ran and fetched. I put my back into the bowling, my heart into the fielding and my limbs into the batting. Needless, to say that the ball did not ‘swing’ my way. I tried very hard to ‘middle’ their guffaws at my attempts to bat, bowl and field. It seemed that everyone else was having a ball. Gone was the reluctance, instead they seemed disinclined to heed my hints about what the time was and how I did not want them to over-exert on the first morning of practice. To top it all, the field was muddy and squelchy. At the end I was as red as a lobster, my fingers were all taped, my ribs bruised, my elbows grazed. To cut the long story short, I looked like something the cat dragged in.

Dissuade me? Of course it did not! I have a theory about cricket. Life is like a big cricket game. You’ve got to get your line and length right, put your best foot forward and pick the right fielders. So I stick to my regimen and bowl the odd wide and no-ball, with the assurance of one who does get it right sometimes; and sometimes, I do bowl the maiden over.