Almanac Cricket (and travel…and poetry): The Greeks play cricket?

 

Cricket on Corfu
Image: Wikimedia Commons

 

If I mention the word ‘cricket’ – the sporting type – I know some of my friends will almost immediately stop reading on.

They might probably agree with George Bernard Shaw when he wrote, ‘The English are not very spiritual people, so they invented cricket to give them some idea of eternity,’ and/or Alex Douglas-Home’s, ‘Oh God, if there be cricket in heaven, let there also be rain’.

They may even enjoy Paul Hogan’s take: ‘Cricket needs brightening up a bit. My solution is to let the players drink at the beginning of the game, not after. It always works in our picnic matches.’

I am more a cricket tragic like my young friend Liam Hauser, now a prolific author of books including A History of Test Cricket: The Story and Statistics of Every Test Playing Nation and The Immortals of Australian Cricket. We are more inclined to believe Harold Pinter’s, ‘I tend to believe that Cricket is the greatest thing that God ever created on earth’, although ,to be honest, even for me this is rather drawing a long bow. And maybe Denis Norden’s, ‘It’s a funny kind of month, October. For the really keen cricket fan it’s when you discover that your wife left you in May’, is a step too far (although my wife Marlene might not agree).

So why write about this (even for me) very strange game. Well, things can come in threes.

Firstly, Marlene and I are presently cruising the Dalmatian Coast in a European heatwave and on Saturday we stopped off in Corfu, a very pretty Greek Island, where I was most surprised to discover that Greeks play cricket. And of the 15 Greek cricket clubs, 11 of them play on Corfu, as well as the only women’s cricket clubs.

And then last evening we attended a wonderful historical talk on board our boat by Professor Ian Beckett titled ‘Cricket and Ginger Beer’ outlining a few of the lasting impacts the British had on Corfu. Apparently the first cricket teams were created there after 1864 following the departure of the British. To further clear the mist of my ignorance, I googled ‘Greek cricket’ to discover that there is a Greek National Cricket Team which is an affiliate member of the International Cricket Council. So far it has taken part in European cricket championships. Two of them have been hosted in Corfu – in 2009 the European Championship Division Five (which they won), and in 2012 the Division Two European Championship. Apologies for my unawareness to any Greeks and/or cricket buffs reading this.

The third cricket-inspired coincidence was an email from John (aka JTH) inviting all to my local wine drinking hole and eatery, the Tanunda Clubhouse in South Australia’s Barossa Valley, for our first Barossa Footy Almanac event – dinner with Rick Darling on Thursday, July 27.  In the tradition of Almanac events during Ashes series in England, the idea is to enjoy dinner and Rick Darling, and then kick back and watch the first day of The Oval Test. Please join in by first emailing John.

This all reminded me of a poem I wrote during Covid lockdowns when there was no live cricket being played anywhere on this earth. It was a ghastly time.

Cricket lovers, especially the spectator kind, probably take for granted the extended vocabulary this sport infuses. We know what the Duckworth-Lewis method means without any real idea how it is calculated. In my poem below I have attempted to include as many cricketing expressions as I can think of. You might be surprised how many there are. Let me know if I’ve missed any.

For those of you who don’t know cricket terminology – a language all to itself – the following will probably make no sense.

For those of you who persevere with my writing, the following is mostly nonsense:

When Donald met his match …

When Donald wooed a Yankee lass, we feared the repercussions of
A marriage ‘tween a cricket buff, and a lady from a far land mass.
Mind you, she should have realised; when he was down, on bended knee,
and took her soft hands, her ring field, and stated at, point of release,
“It’s all ‘bout building partnerships, my wicket maiden, don’t you see …
I’ll follow through, hold up my end, won’t leave you stranded, get my drift,
I am a keeper, super sub, a direct hit, no play and miss,
You’re my red cherry, jaffa, corker, dolly, doosra, direct hit,
So my request, my declaration – on front foot, I won’t Mankad
No nervous nineties, no death rattle. My appeal – a loud: ‘Howzat?’”

If truth be known, she tried to learn, the lingo of this unique game,
But soon retired, to the next room, when Don became vociferous:
“The man’s a bunny! Bowl a yorker! Catch him on the popping crease!
A sandshoe crusher! Mullygrubber! He’s just a right pain, in the ass!
He bounced our bowlers! Gave them curry! Sledged and brought back bodyline!
That’s out! You got him plumb in front! Oh crap, they’re checking DRS!”

Sometimes she thought he needed food, when hearing words like peach, French cut.
What did he mean by scrambled seam, farming the strike, meat of the bat?
And though she searched from end to end, cow corner clearly had no beasts?
And why would one, dirty their clothes, by diving headlong, in a crease?
And how could one be offered light? Why did they laugh at Box? Jockstrap?
To shoulder arms? Have a square leg? How did they get to kill the bat?
How sad for batters turning blind, and cruel, if tied down for some time.
And nasty when they dropped a sitter! To hurt a nanny is a crime!
The drop-in pitch, a featherbed? Then someone clever drives the leather?
The tail has wagged? A bad LB? The third umps wrong, and under pressure?

There’s someone in the covers now? The captain moves mid-off, mid-on?
A bowler in his second spell? And pulls up short? A hammy’s gone?
A wagon wheel? Bowled through the gate? It all just served up, to confound.
And why nightwatchmen, with the people, clearly seated, at the ground?
How hungry, nibbling outside off stump? How to play with a no-ball?
Hot spot? Hawk-eye? Stump-cam? Zooter? How could hubby be enthralled?
Tickle the ball? Oh, how on earth! And roll it to the fine leg fence?
Chin music? Wrong ‘un? Long hop? Hoick? This silly game just makes no sense!

And this went on till climate change forced everyone to stay inside,
With little else than watch TV, with reruns during holidays,
Now she was tired of crappy shows, so joined Don with a beer and chips,
And he calmed down and slowly taught. Test cricket goes for days and days!
And in the evenings, cool and crisp, they played the game with plastic gear,
And she excelled, and spun the ball, as well as Warney, from the rough.
The straightest bat, the Maker’s name, a cricketing phenomenon,
She soon bowled inswing, reverse swept, and ramped … she simply had no peer,
And said, “Will 11 kids be enough?” “Let play begin,” said Don, “C’mon!”

 

Read more by Andy Thurlow here.

 

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