About a year ago, Lauren and I went to a cricket match. It was so thrilling that it was another year before we felt able to go to another one.
Many Americans view cricket as only slightly less impenetrable than your average income tax form, and marginally less fun. In fact, the sport couldn’t be simpler. A pitcher is called a “bowler,” and a pitch is called a “pitch.” The field is called the “pitch” (except for the part outside the pitch, which is called the “field”) and when a pitch bounces on the pitch, that bounce is called a “pitch.” To “bowl” is to throw a pitch, to “bowl” is to engage in a period of several bowls, and to “bowl” is to get out. By contrast, a “bowl” is a turn at bat. Now that you have the basic terminology, explaining the game is simplicity itself. The bowlers bowl pitches which pitch on the pitch until the batter is bowled, and when that happens enough, the over is over. (Oh, I forgot to mention: an “over” is six pitches. No, not that kind of pitch. The other kind.)

After our first visit to a cricket ground, I was left with the firm impression that cricket is the perfect game for anybody who feels baseball is too fast-paced and basketball is too low-scoring. The only time I saw genuine excitement in the stands was when a drunk fan staggered over his own feet while returning with his latest tray full of beer and collapsed in a pile of suds to general applause. My only other memory of that game is of the moment when a ball from the field landed in the stands and an excited little boy picked it up. For one moment, I felt as though I was on familiar ground–until the boy politely threw the ball back onto the field.
But perhaps the difficulty then was that we were the only Yanks in the crowd. This time, we rectified that by going on a small outing specifically designed to introduce Americans to the sport. The organizer had kindly arranged the presence of a young man named Hamish who, like many British males, is endowed with the freakishly brilliant mind required to make sense of the game. (Englishmen who do not possess this level of mental acuity must settle for lesser tasks, such as discovering gravity or writing A Brief History of Time.) Before the game, Hamish sent us all a homework assignment: an essay called Cricket for Baseball Players. Lauren, who is a lifelong Red Sox fan, was able to understand this document fairly easily. I, however, found myself wishing there was a prequel called “Baseball Playing for Fans of Musical Theater.”
Nonetheless, I worked up my nerve, and accompanied Lauren to Lord’s Cricket Ground on a Saturday morning. Thanks to Hamish’s clear explanations and endless patience, I soon found myself able to understand the game reasonably well. (If you want this understanding translated into baseball terms, you will have to ask my wife. All I can tell you is that there are two bowlers; one of them (like Russ Tamblyn in “West Side Story”) drives the action while the other–the Richard Beymer, if you will–watches and waits for his turn to step in. Meanwhile, the two batters–whom I think of as Natalie Wood and Rita Moreno–run back and forth frantically but don’t actually accomplish much.)
Clear though cricket may now be, I can’t claim that it’s exciting. This is partly a pacing issue. Fans of baseball have tried to persuade me that part of its charm is that, in the middle of a game, you can have a brief conversation with your friends without missing too much of the action. Well, with cricket, you may have a lengthy conversation, then get up and go home, and then have dinner, a nap, and grandchildren, and when you return to the stadium, the same team will still be on the pitch. The players will now be ancient and decrepit, moving with the painful arthritic gait of the elderly, but fortunately, this will not change the pace of the game in any noticeable way.
You think I exaggerate? Lauren, Hamish, the Americans, and I were witnessing day three of a four day match. And in cricket, the word “day”–unlike the word “pitch”–actually means what you think it means. The match started in the morning, took a break for lunch, carried on until tea, and then started up again. And it had done the same thing the day before, and it would do the same thing the day after.
To give you an idea of the geologic pacing of the game: during the match, the fielder who was stationed closest to us was able to lean over the fence and engage in a lengthy chat with two pretty girls in the front row. Perhaps three times over the course of an hour, he had to excuse himself to chase after a ball, but there was nothing else to interrupt his flirtation. (Of course, one never reads of cricket players being charged with harassment or assault, so there may be something to the idea of having your first date in the presence of a referee.)
Even a one-day cricket match is only of limited excitement, thanks to a sporting innovation that is a true tribute to British ingenuity. In every other sport known to man, the teams take turns scoring, in order to preserve the illusion that some sort of competition is taking place. In cricket, by contrast, a team scores all its points for the day at one go, and then retires to let the other team do the same. It is not inconceivable, therefore, that a team will be 500 points behind at 2 in the afternoon and have taken the lead by 5 o’clock.
So, although I greatly enjoyed the company, I can’t say the presence of an alleged athletic competition affected my enjoyment either way. For Lauren, though, the cricket match was a success: she has finally convinced me that baseball is exciting. Relatively speaking.