Back-crop Cricket

In South Asia the only sport is cricket.

Cricketers are gods. I receive royal treatment because I’m from the same country as Glenn Maxwell.

Locals assume I love cricket as much them, even when I say ‘I’m not into it’. The following conversation consists of naming professional Australian cricketers since 2000. Ricky Ponting lights up their eyes with an excited head wobble.

All surfaces are wickets.

Alleys. Construction sites. Ghats.

In Varanasi, pull shots rebound off 18th century structures. Strong cover drives purify and liberate fielders in Maa Ganga.

On Sri Lanka’s south coast, ten minutes inland from Hiriketiya, villagers gather at sundown. Past the railway tracks dry rice crops are the only open spaces in the jungle. They stage the daily cricket match.

Kids wait until someone sources 200 rupees for the match ball. A low-grade tennis ball from the local store. Good for one hour of play.

Word moves quick if there’s a ball. Bicycles, motos, and tuk tuks fill the thin paths.

The wicket is weathered. Short leg marks a territorial edge between two street dogs. Fielders scramble over long crops for catches. Balls outside the thongs are wides. Elbows can bend if you bowl gas. Sarong chic extends to the pitch.

Their love for the game is infectious. Excitement to bring generations together every day on a rice crop. They play in the mosquito witching hour until dark.

They welcome me to play like I’m part of the village. They stop me on my scooter to let me know the game is on. I buy balls as a small reciprocation for their kindness.

My ‘buy me a coffee’ page exists for the channel of love and kindness to continue. Anything I raise above essential photography costs I donate to community projects.