The Meadow Game with the Beautiful Name

I played my first cricket match on foreign soil a few days ago. It was a practice match against a medical college on a typical English club cricket ground and everything was so picture perfect that I found myself feeling the same as I did when I saw my first live international test match when I was 10. I was in love, again.

I was awestruck by the whole atmosphere from the moment I walked on to the ground with my whites on. The lush outfield, the grass-laden pitch, (nothing like I had batted on), the old school pub, the groundsman reading a tabloid and sipping a pint of ale, the wicket keeper and slips taking the piss out of the batsman, the batting camp smoking fags and, for once, talking about everything else besides the weather, I remembered this was one of the reasons that made me come to England.

That day for me the sound of the leather hitting the willow was far greater than the strumming of a guitar, the rustling of waves, the scream of pleasure or even the rattling of drums. I was in love, again.

The sport that made everyone think I am a crazy little kid, who wants to waste his time swinging his bat rather than solving math was still very much part of my life. I was in love, again.

For someone who grew up playing on dusty maidans and concrete compounds this setting was so alien yet so blissful. No wonder, the English call cricket the meadow game with the beautiful name. I was in love, again.