A Religion called Cricket

This post was selected for BlogAdda’s ‘Spicy Saturday Picks’.

I am writing this post fully aware that I might be at the receiving end of some well-aimed over the waist no-balls or yorkers soon.

So the World Cup fever is on. Burning bright. Sachin is once again God. Ow! That was the first no-ball of the day. Let me rephrase that. Sachin is God. Period. Now and till kingdom come.

Sorry for my warped insight into religion but cricket is still just a game for me. Yes, I do puff my chest with pride when India wins, while guiltily admiring Shaoib Akhtar’s hair. But I am drawing the line there.

My Facebook feed is groaning under the weight of cricket status updates. Wickets, balls, runs, overs, blah blah blah…

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The husband has taken to IPad-ing all the time. I sleep at night and wake up in the morning to see him chuckling away at crickety tweets on Twitter (Cursed be the day I introduced him to Twitter).

He gets home from office, pulls off the tie, gives the Offspring a cursory nod and reaches for the remote with outstretched arms and eyes filled with longing. A tender moment it is. Their reunion every evening.

As I walk into the room, I can see him gazing lovingly at the cricket channel. Just about manages to tear his eyes from the wonderful action to reward me with a dreamy smile. Owing to the action onscreen no doubt.

Throughout dinner, the TV stays on. The hubby transforms into a multi-tasking marvel at the table. Looking at the TV, checking the commentary on espncricinfo.com Gulping food down his throat, roaring with laughter as someone tweets yet another ‘hilarious’ tweet involving balls or bollocks…all the same to me!

I gnash my teeth in silence at the opposite end. My chapathis have been grinded into mushy mulch, with all that anger-induced mastication. Hubby continues coaching the Indian cricket team from our cosy little dining room miles away from Delhi.

No! Damn! He could have caught that!

Come on, that should have been a six!

I fantasise about pleading ‘temporary insanity’, after I have plonked him over the head with a cricket bat. Quite a touch of irony that would be wouldn’t it? But too many witnesses if a police investigation came about. The Offspring might decide to stop babbling in baby language and start speaking just about then.

All of a sudden, he pauses, stares at me sharply. I gulp. Did he read my murderous thoughts? Suddenly, his face lights up. Ah! Maybe no. Then he thumps his hand on the table and roars “Sachin is God, you hear me? God!“

I huff and puff for the rest of the evening till he notices.

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Ah! That always means something.”

“Hmmm…” Non-committal response from me. Biding my time.

“Out with it.” His hand is already creeping for the Refresh icon on the espncricinfo.com page. A clear sign of ebbing interest.

Out with it, silly! My mind screams. You will lose him any moment. Cut the crap and talk!

“Well”, I start pouting a bit hoping I look suitably cute “It’s just that you have been so -“

“WICKET!!! Oh my god! Sachin is out!”

The stadium goes silent. My husband is up, having his own mini heart attack in the living room.

And there we go again. Back to gnashing of my unfortunate molars for me.

Author’s Note: I have a Facebook fan page which is starting to show signs of dehydration in terms of fan count. So if any of my kind readers would do me the favour of going and liking my page, ‘ppreciate it a lot!