I Don't Like Cricket

When I was a kid, I used to go with my dad to Headingley to see the test match - he wouldn’t take me to the football due to it being the ‘80s. I was there for Botham vs Australia in 1981, although I remember more clearly walking around to the pavilion and Alan Lamb and David Gower sitting on the balcony looking down at us looking up. Anyway, I became a teenager and my dad wouldn’t pay for me to go anymore because it cost too much, although we did take a trip to Lord’s in 2002  to see Yorkshire beat Somerset in the final of the One Day Trophy. Lord’s was pretty different to Headingley, which was quite fearsome for a 10 year old girl surrounded by a lot of drunken men. My dad had managed to wrangle tickets in the members’ stand, which was full of men in blazers, panama hats, and egg and bacon ties and an awed hush. I don’t think anyone spoke the whole day, except for the man next to dad who told us that Lancys hate Yorkies, something I already knew due to growing up in Yorkshire.

Anyway, I asked for tickets to a test match for my birthday and by luck or chance, or my dad doing some machinations again, we got places in the lottery for the first day of the first test at Lord’s. I read through the information with some consternation: No flags, banners, rattles, fireworks allowed in the ground. No fancy dress. The subtext being We’re Not Headingley, You Know. There were even rules about the types of alcohol you could bring in:- 75cl of alcohol between 6 and 18% abv. I half expected them to name acceptable brands  (Dom Perignon – yes, Ernest and Julio Gallo – no). Our bags and bodies were searched on arrival.

It was a gorgeous day; unfortunately our seats were in the Compton stand, under the media centre (“Geoffrey Boycott is above us,” said David. “I don’t mean in heaven”) and in the shade. An ill wind of doom whipped around the ground as England fell to 30-4 by midday. Then came Joe Root. I love Joe Root. I love his beautiful batting style, his beautiful blond hair, his shy grin, his touchy feelyness with his fellow cricketers.

And he did not let us down, making his way to 50 as England got to 100, making his way to 100 as England got to 250. But it was not to be, he was out at 98 and a tsunami of disappointment drenched the ground, apart from the cheering Kiwis behind us, who were lucky they didn’t get a slap. But that’s not cricket. I’ve never been on the receiving end of sexism or mansplaining as I have when attending football matches; you don’t get cricket hooliganism, although to be fair, the average age of a cricket spectator is probably 30 years older than the football fan. Though there was a lot of cheering when a New Zealand fielder fumbled the ball, like when a barman drops a tray of empty glasses in a pub, and more so when Brendon McCullum crashed into the boundary line,

At lunch and tea break we wandered around, sat in the picnic area, got my photos taken with Steven Finn, who is incredibly tall and much more handsome then when he’s knocking over bails (don’t worry Joe! I still love you the best  XOXO) and took full advantage of all the marketing to ABC1s that was going on. I was a little bit snarky about the announcement: “And now it’s the Harrogate spring since 1571 Hydration break”, whenever the twelfth man brought out some drinks, but we shamelessly scarfed as much free gear as we could: from cups and boxes of Yorkshire tea, to a cuddly toy (that I sold my soul for posing for a selfie with), to Bloody Marys and olives, to nectarine and mozzarella salad, to a notepad and pen, and an apron. Truly, I am a freebie whore.

After Buttler fell on the last ball, we wandered through Regent’s Park which very considerately looked beautiful in the pre-twilight.


....I love it.