For
six November days, the dusty town of Pushkar in Rajasthan hosts its
celebrated camel festival, interest in the plague of malodorous
quadrupeds adding 250,000 to its tiny population almost overnight. It
was day one, and having just enjoyed the dangerously uncontrolled
entrants in the camel cup career off of the track and into the
crowd, I was looking to occupy myself. The PA cranked into life. Were
any foreigners around who’d like to play in a cricket match?
Always
keen for a knock, I immediately offered my services at the main arena.
A square had been busily squashed and dyed, leaving the large sand
enclosure looking perfect for a spot of beach cricket. Or so I thought.
Do not be in any doubt about how seriously India
takes cricket. After planting two sets of stumps fresh from the
wrapping and opening a new box of ‘official cricket tennis balls’, we
were instructed to form an XI.
The
selectors weren’t given too much of a headache. Only four antipodeans
and two poms actually understood why six small poles were now waiting
to impale anyone not watching where they were going. Luckily, two
Israeli chaps, although freely confessing to never having even seen a
cricket match, were very keen. Despite having some difficulty with
fine-leg being on the pitch and not up a sari somewhere in the front
row, they made eight. It seems Poland won’t be emerging as a cricketing superpower anytime soon either- the young fellow from Warsaw
we persuaded to play considerably more adept at running for cover with
his arms wrapped around his head than collecting anything sent in his
direction. A rather portly but enthusiastic American made our tenth and
final recruit, a loan Indian embarrassingly required to complete the
set. After close inspection he turned out not to be Rahul Dravid, but
we kept him anyway.
Although
slightly confused by how we’d only found six players in such a huge
volume of people, we were ready. Worryingly, their team looked a little
more ready, strangely choosing matching turbans, whites and trainers
over assorted vests, boardies and flip-flops. We feared the worst.
It
was, perhaps not surprisingly, absolutely baking standing around in the
middle of the desert and we were keen to get cracking before heatstroke
depleted our squad any further. No-one was rushing anywhere though,
nearly an hour passing while they rustled up a local dignitary to pose
for photos and preside over the toss. Concerned that our hosts didn’t
seem to fully comprehend either how slapdash our side was or the ‘just
for fun’ ideal, our skipper finally flicked the coin. Opting to let
them bat first in order that the game last at least long enough for the
announcer to read the team sheets, we were underway.
The
format was an inventive Fifteen15, some powerful hitting required to
bypass the rather absorbent outfield. Having five players who claimed
to have at least bowled before, we were quietly confident of keeping
them below 300. One of the Aussie’s took the first over. Almost
straight away, their opener generously sent one straight up, high into
the air. I watched it happily for sometime, excited by the chance of an
early wicket, before realising it was up to me to catch it. Stumbling
through the sand with the sun in my eyes, I somehow managed to get to
it and hang on, sparking rapturous high-ten celebrations all round.
Perhaps it mightn’t be so bad after all.
It
wasn’t. Wickets tumbled regularly, diligent field placings and no pace
whatsoever on the ball seeing catches go everywhere. One of the
Israelis took a beauty and was subsequently delightfully confused by us
all rubbing his chops and calling him ‘Jonty’. I also managed a little
something with the ball, one of my devious off-breaks tempting their
other opener into gifting one straight back to me. I’d have had two
more bar some decidedly one-eyed umpiring, the officials for the game
notably supplied by India.
Unfortunately,
they were punishing our bad balls and although nine down by the end,
had made a respectable 107. Still, we were delighted with our efforts.
If two or three of us could get some runs we might even win.
Unfortunately,
as with most sporting endeavours involving the English, we capitulated.
Our fantastic Kiwi wicketkeeper headed out to open with the other
Aussie. The pair hardly covered themselves in Glory. The Australian’s
first hit went straight to Indian hands, shortly before his neighbour
played round a straight one. 0/2. An Indian-Kiwi partnership followed,
some pleasingly aggressive strokes taking us to 30 before another
wicket sent me in.
I
won’t offer too many excuses for my 7 ball duck except to say that a)
the second innings surface of a sand pitch is marginally less
predictable than that of a ploughed field, and b) using the half tree I
was presented to bat with really required some sort of mechanical
apparatus. I watched 5 wides, blocked one, and then nicked to the
‘keeper. Oops.
After
our ‘I’m really more of a bowler’ captain, our rather lengthy tail
sadly didn’t wag very much. The Israelis again did themselves proud to
get us past 50, thanks in part to some slightly modified ‘newcomer’
bowling. Impressive, particularly when one had to be assisted by the
bowler after trying to face his first ball with the bat the wrong way
round.
All
too soon it was over though, a credible performance but still inferior
to the locals by some distance. Amusingly enough, the press were soon
back in force but with very little interest in the victors. Swarms of
locals surrounded us with scenes surreally reminiscent of the real
thing. Great fun, although doing a post match interview for CNN’s
national evening news is a little odd, especially if you normally play
in front of more sheep than people.
