if people havenāt been exposed to cricket before, here is the experience. The person who likes cricket turns on a radio with an air of happy expectation.Ā āWeāll just catch up with the cricket,ā they say.Ā
An elderly British man with an accent - you can picture exactly what he looks like and what he is wearing, somehow, and you know that he will explain the important concept of Yorkshire to you at length if you make eye contact - is saying āAnd wā four snickets tā wicket, Umbleby dives under the covers and romps home for a sticky bicket.ā
There is a deep and satisfied silence. Weather happens over the radio. This lasts for three minutes.
A gentle young gentleman with an Indian accent, whose perfect and beautiful clear voice makes him sound like a poet sipping from a cup of honeyed drink always, says mildly āOf course we cannot forget that when Pakistan last had the biscuit under the covers, they were thrown out of bed. In 1957, I believe.ā
You mouth āwhat the fucking fuck.ā
A morally ambiguous villain from a superhero movie says off-microphone, āCrumbs everywhere.ā
Apparently continuing a previous conversation, the villain asks, āDo seagulls eat tacos?ā
āIām sure someone will tell us eventually,ā the poet says. His voice is so beautiful that it should be familiar; he should be the only announcer on the radio, the only reader of audiobooks.
The villain says with sudden interest, āOh, a leg over straight and under the covers, Peterson and Singh are rumping along with a straight fine leg and good pumping action. Thanks to his powerful thighs, Peterson is an excellent legspinner, apart from being rude on Twitter.ā
The man from Yorkshire roars potently, like a bull seeing another bull. There might be words in his roar, but otherwise it is primal and sizzling.
āThat isnāt straight,ā the poet says. āItās silly.ā
āWhat the fucking fuck,ā you say out loud at this point.
āShh,ā says the person who likes cricket. They listen, tensely. Something in the distance makes a very small āthwack,ā like a baby dropping an egg.
āWas that a doosra or a googly?ā the villain asks.
āITāS A WRONG āUN,ā roars the Yorkshireman in his wrath. A powerful insult has been offered. They begin to scuffle.
āWith that double doozy, Crumpet is baffled for three turns, Agarwal is deep in the biscuit tin and Padgett has gone to the shops undercover,ā the poet says quickly, to cover the action while his companions are busy. The villain is being throttled, in a friendly companionable way.
An intern apparently brings a message scrawled on a scrap of paper like a courier sprinting across a battlefield. āReddy has rolled a nat 20,ā the poet says with barely contained excitement. āAustralia is both a continent and an island. But weāre running out of time!ā
āIs that true?ā You ask suddenly.
āShh!ā Says the person who likes cricket. āItās a test match.ā
āWe wonāt know THAT until the third DAY.ā
A distant āpockā noise. The sound of thirty people saying ātsk,ā sorrowfully.
āAnd the babyās dropped the egg. Four legs over or weāre done for, as long as it doesnāt rain.ā
The villain might be dead? You begin to find yourself emotionally invested.
There are mild distant cheers. āOh, and with twelve sticky wickets tā over and tā seagullās exploded,ā the man from the North says as if all of his dreams have come true.Ā āWhat a beautiful day.ā Your person who likes cricket relaxes. It is tea break.
The villain, apparently alive, describes the best hat in the audience as ālike a funnel made of dove-colored net, but backwards, with flies trapped in it.ā
This is every bit as good as that time in Australia in 1975, they all agree, drinking their tea and eating home-made cakes sent in by the fans. The poet comments favorably on the icing and sugar-preserved violets. The Yorkshire man discourses on the nature of sponge. The villain clatters his cup too hard on his saucer. To cover his embarrassment, the poet begins scrolling through Twitter on his phone, reading aloud the best memes in his enchanting milky voice. Then, with joy, he reads an @ from an ornithologist at the University of Reading: seagulls do eat tacos! A reference is cited; the poet reads it aloud. Everyone cheers.
You are honestly - against your will - kind of into it! but also: weirdly enraged.
āWas that ā¦ it?ā you ask, deeming it safe to interrupt.
āNo,ā says the person who likes cricket, āThis is second tea break on the first day. We wonāt know where we really are until lunch tomorrow.ā
And - because you cannot stop them - you have to accept this; if cricket teaches you anything, it is this gentle and radical acceptance.
