Cricket – it’s all over for me
My mind is made up. From today onwards, I’ll be boycotting cricket. All cricket. Even “one hand bounce” played on a Saturday afternoon in the garden. Whether South Africa is playing matters not, if it’s a five-day Test or a day-night game, I refuse to engage. I’ll neither watch cricket, participate in cricket – not that high a risk – or speak about cricket.
Much like Dr Naledi Pandor, cricket is dead to me. And the fact that it’s the most boring sport on the planet by a six has nothing to do with my decision.
For reason alone of giving me cause to do this, David Teeger deserves the Rising Star Award. In my books, anyway.
I cannot believe I never thought of this before. For years, I was shamed into spending a day or five at the cricket. I would pack enough snacks for an average family to live on for a week, ensure that I had at least two Myprodol in my pocket for the inevitable heat and dehydration induced headache, sunscreen, after sun, an umbrella in case it rained – it always rains – a charger for my cellphone, and a book that would never open, but gave me some comfort just to have it. We would speak about seats for weeks before, strategise about parking, and then land up walking 6.7km on average to the gate. Carrying more than just the pantry.
The return walk to the car was always easier.
This was all to watch a “short” eight-hour game that might not even conclude with a winner. And if it did, it would be based on an actuarial calculation requiring a logbook that some legal firm of Duckworth, Lewis, and Sons had decided made the most sense. To nobody.
In all my years of watching cricket, I never understood Duckworth and co. But knew enough to know that it wouldn’t work in our favour. Ever.
Cricket is a game for numbers-people. Not word inspired ones. Who else would choose to spend days at a time calculating run rates, averages, and then doing it all again when it clouds over and starts to rain.
And then, just as progress is being made on the overs played, someone decides it’s time for tea. Yet, in all my pre-boycott years, I don’t believe I ever saw a cup of tea being steeped, poured, or drunk. Not ever.
Which is weird.
As a rule, I’m not a fan of boycotts. I didn’t support the Woolworths one – who boycotts the purveyors of Chuckles? I still listen to Michael Jackson, and would happily shop at the Oriental Plaza – because a deal is a deal. Boycotts in general push us further apart instead of closer, and they achieve very little at the end of it all.
But in this case, I’m prepared to make an exception. Not because of the appalling behaviour of Cricket South Africa. Not because of alleged government intervention. And not because the removal of David Teeger, the deserved captain of the team, is based on him being Jewish. But because cricket has stolen more of my time than TikTok has, caused more frustration than Eskom. And because this might be pretty much the only good thing that the African National Congress has ever done for me.