My introduction to Cricket

I played my first game of Cricket on a sunny day in March, aged six and a half. I mention the half advisedly, because so much happens so quickly when your age is still in single figures. Also, a few years ago I happened to say, in the hearing of my adult daughter, that my age was so much and three quarters, and she protested that such fractions were permitted only to very young children.

So six and a half I was, and possibly a few days under. Even my daughter would have to agree that I qualified for the half. I know it was a sunny day because we were all wearing our solar topis – those khaki pith helmets which finally disappeared a couple of years later. In those postwar days, the rate of change was imperceptible. So our shorts were knee-length and baggy, and when the sun appeared in the sky, solar topis were the order of the day. The Primary Division’s playing field at the front of the school, was divided into three sections to allow most of us to be involved in a game of Cricket at the same time. The middle (and largest) section was for the nine-year olds, while the younger ones played across the field at either end. The Cricket equipment was assembled on the chapel steps for the youngest and newest boys, which included me. The rules were explained by an older boy, who was to stand as umpire. He was impatient and intolerant in equal measure, and he expected that we would pick it up as we went along.

In those days I had a tendency to switch off and daydream when I didn’t feel involved in what was being said, and I did so now. Instead of listening, I inspected the sticks and pads and gloves that littered the steps, wondering if I’d remember which piece of equipment I would need at each stage of the game :

The set up

There were 13 of us playing, two batting and the rest in the field. I was placed “over there”, which approximated to mid on, probably on the grounds that I had a vacant look and couldn’t do much harm in that position. It was an untidy collection of bodies around the tightly stretched brown jute matting which formed the pitch, with three stunted stumps at either end. The batsman’s crease had been marked with classroom chalk across the matting, bat-plus-handle from stumps.

Robert Taylor was batting. The second son of an English Tea Planter and his Nepalese wife, Taylor was 7 or 8 and pretty aggressive. He seemed to have played before (which he now denies) because he knew how to hit the ball. Now he was intent on making a big score and was flashing at everything, mostly missing, but occasionally sending the ball among the fielders.

Day dreaming

Gradually my interest faded. I stood rooted to my appointed spot, my solar topi in my right hand, arm fully extended in the manner of the batsman at the bowler’s end. Daydreaming again. From the bank-end, the bowler ran up, skipped and bowled, and the game carried on without any need for a contribution from me, until it happened. The incident that neither Taylor nor I would ever forget.

Robert swung his bat in a wild arc, the bat found the hard red ball, sending it curving through the air in my direction. I noticed it coming but was too disconnected to react. The Cricket ball’s trajectory dropped it smartly into my solar topi, where it rattled around before coming to rest. I just looked puzzled as some of the other fielders chanted, “Out! Out! Out!”

Taylor was furious. He refused to walk, resulting in a prolonged and heated argument. No one knew for certain whether or not he was out, so everyone got cross with me. There was no adult in sight to adjudicate, and no older boy within shouting distance knew the answer. The supervising umpire, whose previous playing experience had qualified him to introduce us to the game, was nonplussed. So he did what any nine-year old would do in similar circumstances he made it up as he went along.

Although I was out of favour for having caused a situation that exposed the ignorance of everyone present, I could see that our leader was in a bind. Struggling with several issues, he didn’t know in which order he should resolve them. He was cross with me that was easy, but he would have to do something about that. More importantly, he had to rule on the incident as a matter of law rather than opinion, and finally he had to deal with Robert Taylor’s intransigence. No “Daniel” to help. 

He had already decided that Taylor was not out, but he couldn’t allow a batsman (and a younger one at that) to usurp his authority as umpire and mentor. So, after a micro-second’s hesitation, he pronounced his verdict: “Not out.” Then wagging his finger at Taylor he added, “But next time … next time let the umpire decide if you’re out or not.”

My sins

Then it was my turn. Umpire and captain glared at me. Their wrath was joint and several. I had no business, they fumed, catching the ball with my hat. I had spoilt the game. And, worst sin of all, I hadn’t been paying attention. In team games, I gathered, it is essential to pay attention. If you didn’t pay attention, you were letting side down. You were not doing your share. You were not taking the game seriously. In short, they seemed to be saying, I had been a total nuisance, so would I kindly put my hat back on my head, pay attention, and try to catch the ball with my hands from now on, in accordance with the rules of the game. The English way.

I never did find out what the proper ruling should have been, but I’m glad that solar topis went out of fashion soon afterwards.