How the attack of the curmudgeons started

Confession being good for the soul, I feel obliged to explain how I became a curmudgeon. The discovery took me quite by surprise. After all, I’ve always thought of myself as a relatively sweet-natured soul. Not so, it turns out.

I first diagnosed the onset of curmudgeonhood (if that is the appropriate word to use; I’m not entirely sure) while I was on vacation in Britain a few years back.

Reg, my brother-in-law, was watching a TV sports cast of a most peculiar game. The players were clad in luridly colored garments—ill-designed sweatsuits, positively plastered with advertisements. The field on which they were playing appeared to be made from Astroturf and was similarly plastered with advertisements. The spectators were a howling mob.

All of this was most peculiar since the game, itself, seemed vaguely reminiscent of Britain’s national pastime—a decorous, gentlemanly, and time-consuming pursuit called “Cricket.”

“What on earth are you watching, Reg?” I asked.

“Cricket,” Reg replied.

Suddenly black spots clouded my vision. I felt light headed and faintly sick. “It can’t be cricket, Reg,” I cried. “Tell me it’s not true!”

At this point I should explain that cricket was always played in white flannel trousers, white flannel shirts, white woolen sweaters, and white canvas, or buckskin, boots.

The only color players were allowed to display during the course of play was on their caps—rather silly little affairs—on their belts, and around the neckbands of their sweaters.

Spectators at cricket matches (it would be quite unseemly to call them “fans”) took pride in their stoicism and restraint. They unfailing applauded the “visitors” (a.k.a. the rival team) and defeat was accepted graciously, with faint murmurs.

The pitch upon which the game was played, moreover, was an immaculate rectangle of finely-manicured grass surrounded by a wide stretch of lush, well-trimmed lawn of the sort one finds only in England.

Now it might sound unpatriotic, but in the interest of accuracy and personal integrity, I need to confess that I have always found cricket a crashing bore—not a patch on that superlative game of all games called Baseball.

Indeed, cricket used to be as slow as molasses in January—so much so that, when forced to play it at school, I would always volunteer for the outfield. There I could read a book, safe in the knowledge that, in the unlikely event that a ball was to come my way, my team would have time to alert me.

Be all this as it may, when I left England cricket was not merely a game, it was one of Britain’s most cherished national symbols—an only slightly more mobile equivalent of the Statue of Liberty, so to speak.

As long as the smack of leather on willow echoed in the land (cricket balls are bound in leather and bats are made from willow) one could rest assured that there would always be an England.

Now it is true that smack of leather on willow still echoes (assuming polyesters have not taken over the artifacts of cricket in the same way they have supplanted white flannel). but that is all that seems to remain of the time-hallowed sport.

True, most cricket matches still provide the traditional “beer tent,” but doubtless the top selling offerings are Budweiser and a nicely chilled Chardonnay—so they are really quite different from the days when the only drinks available were draught and bottled Bass, and lemonade Shandy.

Next thing, the tea tents will be serving up espresso and lattes. Who knows? They probably already are!

A worrisome aspect about the culture shock arising from my “cricket trauma” is that it has affected my appreciation of the Olympic Games. I confess I find it hard to shed a tear as America’s basketball “dream team” loses to Upper Volta or Outer Mongolia.

Actually, there is something almost poetic about bunch of highly paid athletic prima donnas getting a David & Goliath-like comeuppance. Besides, why on earth are professional athletes permitted to compete in the games in the first place.

The Olympics were once the sole preserve of amateurs and to my mind they should stay that way. Okay, so Russia cheats. But then they have always cheated. The way to deal with them is to disqualify them, not join in the cheating.

Things were different in my Great Uncle Tom’s day. He represented England in the first modern Olympics back in 1896. Tom was officially a member of the gymnastic squad, although he took part in a number of other events as well because a number of athletes failed to turn up, having lost their way, run out of money, or been kidnapped by brigands in the Balkans.

Back then, to qualify, it was not only necessary to be good at one’s chosen sport, but athletes had to foot their own bill for travel and lodgings … You know, there’s something really quite appealing about that idea … Aaaaargh, black spots are clouding my vision … I’m feeling light headed and faintly sick … Stop me before I curmudgeonate again! GPH✠