Cricket by Chance

“Girls Cant Play Cricket” had retorted the boy from the opposite house with a ‘holier than thou’ look. It was the gully cricket played along the by lanes of my childhood house and I had just been bowled out. After some undeterred demands to be taught cricket, I was condescendingly let by the boys to play along with them. But my poor cricketing skills had let me down.

Call it ‘the grapes are sour’ attitude or the battered ego of a 10year old; I never bothered playing the game again. As I grew up, I realized that cricket or any sport for that matter was not my cup of tea. I was soon ensconced in my world of music and books. Cricket turned into a matter of sheer patriotism while the Indian team played. However, the same game morphed to become the root cause of TV remote wars with the male members of the family when the men in blue did not play.

Over the years my attitude towards the game remained unaltered .But my cricket free world was soon to be intruded upon. A few employees at work, including me had been asked to organize a CRICKET MATCH for all the members of my unit! To add salt to the injury, the management also wished to have each team with a female employee playing before the 3 down position (I googled for the meaning).Teams would be banned from playing if the rule was defied.

“Practice what you preach”, said the Bible and an organizer could not refrain from playing. Soon I found myself in a team of zealots who lived by the principle of “Eat Cricket, Sleep Cricket, Breathe Cricket”. Offside, Leg side, mid wicket, full toss and a bevy of technical terms whose names and count I have lost, were generously chanted everywhere. I watched wide eyed as my captain drew figures discussing ‘strategies’ and field positioning. “I can run fast”, I squealed to my captain who gave a mere courteous nod in response. I was seeing the bullying boy of my gully cricket days in almost everyone. Battered ego was again battling but was pacified by some 14 years of experience which I claim to be maturity. The thought of wearing a jersey of my team colour, celebrating a sixer or a wicket taken or shouting “ Come aan Come on Come aan” in a la Moin Khan style appealed to me .

The D day had arrived and my talent of yesteryears helped me coax some team mates to bowl while I bat. After all, I needed some practice. The boys were not as mean as I had thought them to be. A few encouraging words and some patient bowling brought my strike rate to a modest 20%.

It was the semifinals, the third match played by my undefeated team. Few balls were hit towards me while we fielded and those which were hit were misfielded . Thanks to the strong batting line of my team, I never had a chance to bat . While the child in me was eager to bat, my big fat ego wished that I did not bat . The ego was sensitive to dismissive jeers. Child won over the ego. The second batsman was dismissed when there was one more run to be scored with 12 balls remaining for us to win the match. I promptly walked to the striking end. The ball was bowled and surprisingly the bat managed to connect with the ball! The ball moved a decent distance on the field. “Run Run” screamed the child as I ran towards the non strikers end. The run was made, the match was won and most importantly, the battered ego was assuaged.