Mr.T scoring the double Cs, brought back some odious memories that I can reminisce a li'l tenderly - Since they are safely in the past.
My husband was an avid cricketeer (I made that word up) - He used to watch, play and dream cricket. I was proud in the elementary days of my marriage, of a sportsman husband: I had no conception of how time-consuming sports was at that time.
Back to cricket. So, here I was, in the aftermath of a glorious wedding, revelling in the fact that I'm actually in America.
Still in the time zone of being called a bride, I accompanied my husband to his practice session with the noble intention of supporting his interests.
In the spring-time early morning fog, blinking blearily and trying not to yawn, I was trying to process the soft sprouting grass and the incredible cold. For someone who has seen a 20*F winter, 55*F spring is 'warm'. For someone who landed here from sweltering Indian early summer, April is unbelievably cold. As Einstein said, it's the Theory of Relativity.
Add insult to injury, all the guys had stripped off their jackets and were walking around sweating after their warm up runs. They were also good-naturedly ignoring me belting out a stucco music with my chattering teeth, wrapped and bundled under an assortment of borrowed jackets. Did I mention it was cold?
Then the actual match. A total of 20 guys, they took turn keeping me boisterous company and playing on the field.
Now comes my dirty li'l secret - I have never in my previous unmarried part of life, seen a full cricket match. Sure, I would root for India towards the end of the match, I'll check score for my dad when he calls up from work and have crushes on handsome players. But I have never seen a match.
And sadly, my secret was out before the end of the second over.
There I was shaking and shivering; Swearing at my noble intentions about earning brownie points with brand new husband.
I couldn't figure out the game.
After one over, I knew the next ball goes to the one who was not batting. But instead of batsmen exchanging places, all the fielders and the bowler walked around and switched places! I watched this slack-jawed, ignoring the breeze trying to turn my teeth into frozen stalagmites. Eleven guys accommodating two men!
Next change of bowler, the same thing happened. It felt like a perfectly coordinated dance where the white costumed men were assigned spots and have to get there in a predetermined order. All of it performed to agonizingly slow music, I must add.
Five years and one child later, I still can't watch Mr.T's double Cs, even though I'm proud of him.
Update: The T is for Tendulkar and the C is for Centuries. He is an Indian Cricketer.