Seize the Ball
My first time at a cricket match
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I know nothing about Cricket; there’s a first time for everything. As I enter the stadium and I walk through the crowds, I take in everything I can.
“Welcome to the dream teams and ice creams” read the advertising banners. The sponsors’ blue, green, and yellow brands take more visual space than they should. The music in the background creates some hype. I find my row of seats and get set to watch on the plastic chairs, next to my friend who’s already there. Nothing’s happening on the field yet, but something in the air juices up the fans around us.
In between the armies of bouncing agitated folks, I find the stillest man alive; arms crossed, headphones tightly wrapped around his head, looking straight ahead — he’s wired in. Nothing can disturb his focus. A small kid near him pokes his arm: no reaction.
A couple of sellers with different stances and voices populate the scene. Soft serve becomes a repetitive song. “Ice creammmm! Ice creaaaammm…” Chips, popcorn, chocolates, and sweets are also on auction, but no one’s buying.
The Cape Town teams’ blue jerseys and sparkling numbers enter the field. The crowd cheers. The cameraman zooms on a few faces.
The Durban team they’re fighting against are in bright red jerseys with dark spider web lines. Two red players walk towards the pitch.
Before all the rules are explained to me, my eyes enjoy the round-cupped sports bums as they kneel and stretch. I hear about the buckets of cash everyone watching can get if they catch the ball, and what makes one team win and the other lose.
The show starts. The little white ball flies up and down, and down and up. I learn to clap when I have to. Some bowlers are fast and predictable, others are slow, then quick, and hit the right spots. The surprising ones of the lot I’d have in bed.
When the little white one is not flying or held by any notable hands, some tunes play. The loud bass resonates from the depth of my eardrums to the end of my nipples, and in between there’s the game and the sports commentators that burst out of the stadium speakers. I try my best to decipher but fail. My brain is given no break; it needs time to adjust to the constant entertainment.
Squared shoulders brace for more balls to get caught. Some of the bowlers come with too much power that gets blocked. Wild flames come out of black cylinders when the runs hit four and six. I like the heat — this feels like home.
A little boy with sharp razor-cut hair looks like he’s doing reversed push-ups as he raises his self-made banner with his tiny wings up and down.
A new ball hits a racket and then lands back in the arms of a blue bowler — there goes a wicket. Fireworks are launched, the blue team’s flags are raised by jumpy hands; the mouths celebrate — I catch the smell of gargling beer through spits of joy.
I almost become jealous of all the attention the little white ball is getting. Why do humans give so much power to something so small? What are games and winning really all about?
One man deepthroats his salty index finger after finishing his popcorn while another with greasy blonde hair in green track pants folds his upper body to pick up something that fell under his seat — maybe his underwear. His butt crack waves at me, I wave back, squeezing my generous breasts together with my arms.
More clapping is followed a while later by a few moans. A batsman loses his glove. Fixed stares, long eyes, the vision distorts if it’s not focused on the right apple. One blue player gets crippled in the middle; he lands face down on the grass, hurt. The male counterparts have compassion. “Oohhhh….”
The noise retreats. A couple of low balls roll and stroke the grass timidly. A high ball shoots in the direction of a group of people and makes them hope — the purses shake with excitement and keep the energy going.
A guy throws himself upwards hoping to grab his luck with both hands. He falls over the barrier and bites the dust.
The ball, they all want it. Stretch your arms, sharpen your nails, and get rid of the obstacles: it’s coming.
Concentrating on one thing, holding only onto one thing to win seems like a great scenario for an easy life. If only it could be that simple.
The red team’s score slowly gains ground; the blue jerseys’ shimmery numbers start to fade. A tiny blonde demon with skewed eyes holding a plastic bat in the crowd strikes the wind and comes at it from all angles while an angry woman raises her fist in the air with rage. Her engagement ring inadvertently damages another woman’s knitted jumper — lips tighten.
The sound of money cuts through the noise. The salesmen’s heads tingle, then swing in the right direction after pinpointing where the dough is. The chips man gets confused; he rushes to one row swinging bags loosely wrapped around his arms and hits a few heads on his run for the money — the buyer refuses him: the ice-cream man wins instead. As he hops in the rows of seats and brings his ice cage full of cream, he tramples on everyone’s feet and his bubble butt almost skyrockets someone’s reversed cap: everything goes for a sale.
I take a bathroom break. Toilet paper is running out in the ladies’ quarters; a woman distributes five squares per person — better not be a milky maid or a Mexican spice rack firing bulky seeds. I return to the face-off.
A large plastic bag enters the field at the same time as me; it floats in the stadium behind players and becomes the most graceful thing out there. I fantasize about it landing on the most important bowler’s face.
Back in my seat, I hear the ball’s getting rough and that’s a good thing. The rougher it gets, the better the grab and the score.
Pressure switches to the blue batting team. They could make it or break it; it’s all on them.
A small girl with braids and wide nostrils starts biting her nails. How many have bets and how much money is at stake is what I want to know. Who’s got the heaviest balls that can’t be tamed until they land the honeypot? A bold young man wearing an all-white outfit with white Crocs has the confidence of a sturdy fish swimming against the current; he could be the one.
A red Spiderman bowler everyone seems to know slaloms his way through the bends until it lands where it has to — several times. No applauds follow. The red dots on the field form a nest of ants.
The blue team starts to lose hope. Some of their fans leave early. I hear a kid’s voice behind me complaining about the score. The little white ball gets hateful snarls.
Soon it lands in too much fire, the red ants burn the blue team into oblivion until they dissolve and it all ends without roars or spikes. We leave the stadium with blue balls.
