Another childhood cricket memory

I think I was eight years old when I heard my father ask my mother, ‘Can you remember where I kept my cricket boots?’

This could mean only one thing. He had decided to resume his cricket career, which had ended before I was born. Older cousins who had seen him in his prime told me about his many batting feats. His eldest sister pulled me aside and showed me newspaper clippings with photographs of him posing in his whites. His majestic demeanour, oozing sportiness and good health, shone through the smudged, inky images. I could not take my eyes away. That’s my Daddy, I whispered. My aunt smiled and nodded, and I fell in love with cricket. I badgered him about playing cricket again. I wanted everyone in the world to admire my father. I wanted to read gushing newspaper reports about him. I wanted to boast to my classmates that my father belted the ball to all corners of the field. His reply, always the same, was that cricket was a young man’s game.

Now, overflowing with excitement, I jumped up and rushed out of the bedroom.

‘They must be in the storeroom,’ my mother replied.

‘I’ll get them,’ I said. I knew their exact location, in a box with a strap-on protector at the back of the storeroom. I’d spend the odd afternoon standing in my father’s too roomy boots, with the protector tied in a mess of straps and strings under my shorts, imagining I was a world-class batsman.

It turned out to be a government services tournament the following Saturday. My father was a member of the Customs team. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t a top-grade tournament. It didn’t matter that the papers were unlikely to splash photographs and accounts of his heroism. I wanted to watch him bat, and I wanted to remember every shot he played at the famed Sinhalese Sports Club ground.

The Customs team fielded first. I’d have to be patient for a few hours. The time lumbered by as I watched alone, on a chair just behind the boundary rope. The moment arrived in the middle of the afternoon. 

Resplendent in white trousers and white shirt, sleeves rolled up to display his impressive forearms, my father limbered up by waving his bat from side to side as he strode to the batting crease. Standing on my chair just behind the boundary rope, I chewed my fingernails as I fixed my eyes on him, not daring to look away.

With an outstretched hand he beckoned to the umpire to check his guard. He dawdled for a moment as he looked around the field, eyeing each of the fielders as if he was counting them, and then he settled down on his bat to face the bowler who had already begun running up to the wicket. I thought his first shot, a majestic, field-piercing cover drive had three runs in it. He thought so too, but his batting partner stopped after the second run. My father paused a fraction before heading off for the third run anyway. That minute hesitation brought about his undoing. Run out for two. He hurried back to the pavilion as if it meant nothing to him. I froze, at first refusing to believe what had just happened. And then the reality of my shattered dream burst through. 

Tears welled up as I scrambled to the ground and ran to the carpark. By the time I reached the car I was crying. My mother, sitting in the front passenger seat, looked up from her knitting. At that moment I wanted more than anything else in the world to rush into her arms. But she remained in the car, inaccessible, aloof, unsure. I wrenched open the back door, slammed it shut behind me and buried my face in the back seat. When she asked me in an even tone why I was upset, I couldn’t find words to tell her how I felt. She shrugged and returned to her knitting.

I didn’t cry for long. There was a cricket match to watch. I left the car, returned to my chair behind the boundary rope and tried to revive interest.

‘Ah, there you are,’ my father said, ambling up to me. ‘Your mother said you were very upset.’ He must have gone to the car before coming to find me.

‘I wanted you to score a century.’ My eyes began to swim again.

He laughed, then squatted down and fastened his eyes on me. ‘Cricket is a cruel game, especially when you are batting. One small mistake, and you are out. You don’t get a second chance.’ I understood what he was saying, but still ached with disappointment. ‘Look, I know how much you love cricket. You will be a fine cricketer one day.’ Like an eagle, those words swooped down and grabbed me. I soared to heaven. Praise from my father was spare and never flippant. We watched the rest of the match together.