1982, Boughton Park; picturesque postcard landscape. My debut for Weekley and Warkton Cricket Club, themselves with an identity crisis having recently merged with Kettering Taverners. I am an anxious 17-year-old, racked with self-doubt and loathing.
The car-park accommodates posh estates, Range Rovers, builders' vans and bicycles as much tokens of class-distinction as the various accents, manners, occupations and attire of those selected eleven.
But sport, and cricket in particular, with its stark white neutrality, is a great leveller. The team-ethic, collective disgust at the opposition's tosser of a captain or cheating umpire builds the strongest sense of belonging and community.
Friendships are forged and secrets are shared at the boundary's edge and the sense of grief at the gradual passing of the club's elder statesmen is greater than the loss of any distant family member.
After 35 years this is still my family for 7 hours on a Saturday afternoon.
Comments
Post a Comment