That's Not Cricket: Or How I Became A Cricket Widow

There just might be light at the end of the dark and gloomy winter weather tunnel as February nearly comes to an end and the days become longer in England.  This morning, I heard the birds chirping at 6ish and as sunlight began streaming through my windows, I nestled happily deeper into the covers.  Spring is finally here, I thought.  Then as quickly as that thought came, another entered my mind - this one produced a shiver of dread down my spine.  Spring and Summer means ... cricket season.  The most boring game, in my opinion, known to humankind. 

Of course, I've never expressed this to John, whose passion for cricket is unparalleled.  County games, the Ashes, etc. you name it, he's either listening, watching or reading about it.  When I moved near St John's Wood, he was very excited.  "We can walk to Lord's from your flat!" he marveled.  Erm ... ok, that's meaningless to me.

One day at lunchtime last summer, a colleague shuffled into the cafe area where I was sitting and slumped in her chair.  "What's the matter?" I asked her.  "It's Friday, you should be happy!"  "Yeah, except that I've become a cricket widow," she replied mournfully.  "What?  What's that?" I asked, even though I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly what she meant.  "My boyfriend Tom has been playing cricket almost every week day after work then goes to Lord's or the Oval on the weekend - I hardly see him anymore!"  I gulped.  My situation wasn't as dire, but I had been subjected to listening to cricket commentary during the Ashes and the constant checking of the score on a mobile when England was playing.

It's not that I haven't tried to get into cricket; I've studied the rules, watched the game, listened to the commentary, but I just can't get into it.  It's BORING.  And LONG.  A test match lasts for days (but apparently I've just been told you don't have to go everyday) and you're expected to bring a packed lunch to eat at the intervals.  "That's the beauty of it!" John tried to explain.  "It's so civilized.  The players have tea breaks!"  I just rolled my eyes.

And then there are all the rules and etiquette to follow, like this for example:

What?  Why the hell not?  "It's like ... it's like ... getting up in the middle of a ballet ... or a play!" said John.  "It's disruptive."  What, when a ball's flying through the air?  An over is a set of six consecutive balls bowled in succession.  Yep, that's right, the ball is "bowled" (even though it's thrown and bounces once before it reaches the "batsman") and the batter is called a "batsman", not a batter.  Ok, so I'm lost already there.  Despite how hard I "studied" the rules before attending a 20/20 game with John at Lord's last summer, I embarrassingly shouted out the wrong score each time the ball was hit. "THAT'S A SIXXXX!!!" I'd scream, while John would say, "It's a FOUR," through gritted teeth.  "Oh," I'd say, sitting back in my seat.  "Whatever."  Hey, at least I was getting into the game.  Sort of. 

Come Summer 2010, I've made a New Year's resolution to be a bit more positive about cricket.  I've tried to think of one thing I like about cricket and came up with this:  they have nice white uniforms.  That's about it.