Cricket in Ireland
Blood sweat thunder passion and tears
“What are you passionate about?”
The question was put to me a few weeks back. Can’t say it’s something I’ve given much thought to previously. I don’t know if I resonate with the word passionate. I don’t really know what it means. I didn’t give much of an answer. Bit of a cop out all things considered.
A not-insubstantial amount of my weekly 45-minute appointment with my Irish Life Health Insurance-funded therapist revolves around my relationship with work. It’s complicated. I remember an intern several years ago saying they were passionate about commercial law. That certainly prompted some discussion. There are parts of my job that I like, or perhaps even really like, but I’m not sure I can—nor do I necessarily want to—describe and advertise myself as passionate about the legal technicalities and intricacies of mergers and acquisitions (but if a past or present employer or colleague is reading this, I disclaim this as a tongue-in-cheek comment).
I do like my cricket though. What an exceedingly stupid sport. I take myself along to training at Merrion Cricket Club once, sometimes twice a week. I spend much of my time at work refreshing Cricinfo. Kagiso Rabada has just taken nine wickets. South African accents are hilarious. I need to turn comments on this document, but like, Temba Bavuma has an exceedingly large ass. I read a few cricket-related publications each morning and send a reminder to a friend that Bavuma is severely underappreciated (for his batting). Steve Smith has just been dismissed by a part-time offie. What an idiot. I ignore the fact that I’ve been dismissed by spin in six of my seven innings this season. On Tuesday evening, I say to the ex-Irish-international-representative-cum-coach that I want to incorporate a reverse sweep into my game. Perhaps I need to take a more contemporary approach to my batting. Maybe I need a new bat. What is the corporate law equivalent of a pervasive fear of the short ball?
My teammates have taken to calling me Buckets. I’m now self-conscious about the size of my hands in photos. Could be worse—one of the other players was called Buster by a romantic interest. Jarring to hear of someone being Buster-zoned in this day and age, but I suppose it can happen to anyone, anywhere. Gotta stay vigilant. Occasionally I’m called the “Overseas” and sometimes my teammates call me Cormo. The latter is a little too close to the name of an infamous senior member of PCC for my liking. I don’t tell the fellas that. That would only make the nickname stick. The lore surrounding Gormo’s lost testicle and his other more problematic mannerisms feels like too much of a cultural gap to bridge at this time.
Three weeks ago I was given a send-off. We found ourselves playing out at Greystones Cricket Club. Quaint. I’m not actually sure I enjoy batting. It makes me anxious. My preparation for an innings consists of a few squats and some breathing exercises. Four in, seven hold, eight out. I tried to hoik the left-arm orthodox 45-year-old over cow corner. Out for not many runs off even fewer balls. Yes, that’s a 100+ strike rate flex. A thinly-moustached 20-year-old with a vaguely Iberian name told me to fuck off back to New Zealand. I don’t know how he knew I was from New Zealand, maybe someone explained the Overseas moniker. Alex cared to point out some technical deficiencies of mine as I departed the crease. Very thoughtful. And another week is gone.
I go to work the next day. I ruminate over my dismissal for the next six days. I’m not sure I actually like batting, or even the sport. I think it’s everything else that goes with it. The inane chatter. Time outside and the sun. Green spaces. One of the other players said he was told—rather unpolitely—that you need to be good at two things: if you bat, you need to be able to field; if you bowl, you need to be able to field; if you keep, you need to be able to bat. I’m reminded of Dewey Finn // Jack Black’s “those who can’t do, teach and those who can’t teach, teach gym.” RIP George Bernard Shaw—you would have loved School of Rock.
Perhaps this is the week I sort out the gap between my bat and my pad and otherwise address my lizard-brain tendency to see-ball, hit-ball. I Google Kemar Roach’s stats. What a player. Maybe I need a new bat.
Cricket the following weekend is rained off. I go on holiday to Spain for two weeks and I’m checking the team’s scores throughout. I wonder how Alex the Iberian from Greystones is doing this weekend — hopefully not well. I drop some inflammatory comments into the team WhatsApp about their performances. This coming weekend will mark a month since I last scored a run, but no one else seems to have noticed. I’m once again internalising a really complicated situation in my head, bro.
There are other things I like too. Shitposts, for one. Hiking. Trips to Spain. Cooking, eating, and sharing my cooking with others, and sharing the experience of eating with others. Reading and writing, and reading and writing about cooking. Music also. Charli XCX is in Baile Átha Cliath this week and playing at Malahide, the home of Irish cricket. Nancy is coming and we’re going to watch (Charli, not the cricket). Sam Whyte is in Baile Átha Cliath and we’re going to Zach Bryan. He’s playing at Phoenix Park (Zach that is, and music not cricket). John Green should write a book about how everything is cricket. I ordered some cowboy hats off Amazon for Sam and naturally they don’t fit my head. Maybe I need a new hat.
