Druid Death Plot

At the last minute, I managed to score a ticket to tonight's Twenty20 cricket match in Brighton. If you're not familiar with it, Twenty20 cricket differs from regular or first-class cricket in that a Twenty20 game consists of 20 overs per each side, a free-hit after a no-ball is bowled, short boundaries, and batting-friendly pitches. In other words, I have no idea. It's supposed to be a "faster" version of the sport, which I take to mean that the game should be over by Sunday. In ay event, I'll take the camera so I can make jokes about it later. Keep watching this space.

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So then. Just what is cricket?

Despite the world-wide popularity of cricket, enthusiasm for it in the U.S. varies from nonexistent to... well, "nonexistent" is probably the only applicable word, really. Not even the four-hour Indian cricket epic Lagaan was able to get Americans excited about this sport. And while Shaun of the Dead went a long way towards giving the tools of the game increased exposure in the States, its subversive depiction of their operation left many viewers, myself included, confused about how, for example, the cricket bat is properly used. Contrary to what Pegg (left) et al. would have you believe, overhand swings just don't exist, and there is a marked lack of aiming for any body part, let alone the head, in an actual cricket game. I attended the match knowing as much about cricket as the average American, which is to say none, although I did consult Wikipedia for guidance. No dice.

Counting Adele, our guide, there were 11 of us, including one of my classmates, Charles, who showed up more or less on a whim. Luckily, someone who'd reserved a spot didn't show up, and he was in. We took the train from Falmer Station, right across the A27 from campus, to Brighton and then to Hove.

From Hove Station, it was maybe a ten minute walk to the... what, stadium? Cricketing grounds? Whatever you want to call it (suggestions welcome!), as we approached it became clear that this was going to be well-attended. In fact, we got there a scant 15 minutes before the game was scheduled to begin.

"Food or seats first?" Adele asked, and we all voted for seats. Good thing, too, because seating was at a premium. She clearly thought we'd be able to get the "good" seats, but we were all quickly disabused of that notion as we made our way around the field. The "good" seats, in this case, would be the only ones with any elevation. Near the entrance were actual bleachers, maybe six rows high, and what looked like some box seats.

Naturally, these were all full of hardcore fans who'd shown up right at 5:30 to get the best seats possible, but opposite the entrance was a bunch of temporary seating -- wooden benches and folding chairs -- expressly designed for latecomers like us. Adele spent a good deal of time trying to find 11 seats together, but there was just no way that was going to happen, so we ended up sitting in two disconnected groups. Plenty of spectators didn't bother sitting at all, though. A few catering trucks, not to mention a makeshift bar, had set up in the open field behind us, which was plenty of incentive for several dozen cricket and/or alcohol enthusiasts to mill around in the background, close to the refreshments.

Our seats were all right, although I didn't have the easiest time seeing. Right in front of us were four or five hulking, thick-necked "blokes," I guess you'd call them, with distinctive "working class" accents. Talked like Andy Capp. Seeing wasn't a priority, though, as I pointed out to my fellow Americans. The more we saw of the game, the more confused we'd be, and who needs that?

The match was between the Sussex Sharks and the Kent Spitfires, although only the home team had a mascot in attendance (and I suppose the odds of Kent having a guy who dresses up like an airplane are pretty slim). I don't know if mascots are a regular thing in England, or if they're confined to Twenty20 cricket games. I'd be willing to believe the latter, since even the bare-knuckled boxers in front of us commented on some things, like music, that would be taken for granted at most American sporting events. Also, the idea of a mascot just seems so... un-British, in a way. I feel like they caught it from us.

The Twenty20 cricket game's limit of 20 overs per team means that it only takes about three hours to play a game. That's about how long a baseball game lasts, so it may seem hypocritical to mock cricket for taking so long, but we're talking about a typical baseball game, not some crazy Canadian-rules baseball where there are only seven innings and two home plates or something. So their "fast" game is the same length as our famously slow game. "And don't forget the halftime show," I reminded my school chums.

Adele came over early in the game to try to explain the rules to us, but even she had to call her boyfriend for clarification. At first, the rules made about as much sense as blernsball, and for the first hour or so my neighbors and I kept asking each other if what had just happened was good or bad for the Sharks. Following the crowd was no guarantee; for all we knew, we were surrounded by Kent fans.

After a while, though, we started to piece together the rules of the game enough to follow the action and even predict the outcome. Let me see if I can explain cricket to you by comparing it with a popular American sport.

So, as you can see, in both sports it's possible to wear a sweater. Hopefully that clears a few things up.

Near the end of the Spitfires' inning, Charles and I had the bright idea to get something to eat before the interval to avoid the rush. I had my stomach set on fish and chips, hoping to erase the memory of the fish and chips I ate on the pier, and so had to wait in quite a long line, but Charles opted for the less-popular jacket potato, which was probably a good call. He was back within two minutes to taunt me with his food before returning to our seats while I "queued" for another ten or fifteen. It was moving unbearably slow, especially since the crowd behind us kept erupting into cheers. Every time they did so, we'd all turn around to see what was happening despite the fact that there was absolutely no way we could catch even a glimpse of the pitch from our vantage point. The two guys in front of me were especially anxious.

Of course, with only four people ahead of me in line, one of the women behind the counter calls out "Out of fish!" which kind of negates my whole raison d'attender, but I stuck with it and made the mistake of getting a hamburger instead. Take my advice. Don't eat the hamburgers at the Sussex County Cricket Grounds.

I got back right when the interval began, and was surprised to find I hadn't been kidding about that halftime show. A small percussion ensemble was trooping the stands. I was pretty jazzed about this. The last thing I'd expected to see was anything resembling a drumline. Luckily, I remembered that my camera also records audio. Is there anything it can't do?

When the Sharks were up in the second half (in skiing terms, each team only gets one "run," as it were), it was looking pretty bleak at first, but then they started to get some four- and six-run hits and the tide began to turn. Because there's no foul zone, the front of the seating area meets the edge of the playing field, and some Kent "outfielders" ended up just on the other side of the low partition from us. This made things awfully convenient for a spirited group of hecklers only a few rows away, who took a particular interest in a player named Dexter. They constantly harangued him with everything from a sing-song Daryl Strawberry-like "Dex-ter, Dex-ter" to an inquiry as to whether the number on his jersey (21) referred to his mother's dress size. Eventually, he was replaced with number 41, van Jaarsveld, much to their disappointment. Some of them took up a little song: "Where's your Dexter gone? Where's your Dexter gone? Far, far away." Van Jaarsveld pointed to his right, which was, indeed, where their Dexter had gone.

The audience participation didn't stop there. At the gate, each of us had been issued a red cardboard sign with a big "6" on one side and a "4" on the other, which, Adele told us, we were to hold up whenever one of our batsmen scored a six- or four-run hit, respectively. It seemed kind of odd to me, but given the complexity of the scoreboard, which was about as easy to understand as the Mayan calendar, I was willing to accept that we were actually helping the referees keep track of things.

Suddenly, it was over. Kent won by 11 runs. No sooner had the game ended than the pitch was full of spectators with their own cricket bats and balls. It's tradition, apparently, for the fans to get a little cricket in after the game, which I think is pretty cool. Adele led us onto the field as well get some pictures taken, but it soon became apparent that standing around on a field surrounded by children wildly swinging cricket bats was a dangerous proposition. "Let's get the hell out of here," I said, "before one of us gets hit in the head with a cricket ball!" And then one of us was, but she's all right. Apart from the blurred vision.

All in all, a good time. I'd go again. Unfortunately, this was something like the penultimate game of the season, so it doesn't look like I'll get the opportunity to repeat the experience (on this trip, anyway). As if all that weren't excitement enough, on the train back Charles came across a truly shocking article in the newspaper. It seemed a fitting end to the night's outing, in that it was completely irrelevant.