I met cricket before I met you

It has recently been brought to my attention that come September I shall be an uncle. A worrying thought indeed. An equally worrying thought, however, is that, by implication, my brother will become a father. Not that I doubt his ability to raise a child. I am sure he will take to the paternal role like any half-decent batsman does to my bowling. No, my concern, which I am sure is also the first thought occurring to all self-respecting cricket nuts (i.e. you), is how exactly parenthood is going to affect his availability to lounge about in a field every Saturday, dropping any red spherical object that may venture in his general direction, and occasionally, albeit generally rather briefly, attempting to prevent said object from rearranging three wooden stumps he has been charged with defending.

In short, will he still play cricket?

He assures me that he will, but I have heard similar expressions of confidence from many people I used to play cricket with. This raises an interesting dilemma that amateur cricketers like us face: how to convince our families, significant others, children etc. to let us, during the most pleasant months of the year, spend all Saturday, every Saturday, moseying about on a cricket pitch. Combine this with the almost compulsory post-game analysis (drinking), and the occasional Sunday Cup / Twenty20 / friendly match, and our nearest and dearest may consider themselves lucky if, on any given summer weekend, they happen to catch more than just a glimpse of us before we drag our noisome cricket bag out the door.

A lot is said and written about the difficulties faced by international cricket players as they try to juggle their sport and domestic lives: how touring is a constant strain on relationships, how unholy temptations may creep into cricketers’ minds during prolonged absences from loved ones etc. etc. We of the slightly-less-talented cricketing fraternity struggle with similar issues. Obviously we do not have to endure the professional cricketers’ burden of crowd adulation or traumatic tours to the stunning sights of Cape Town or the sandy white beaches of Barbados. Unlike the pros, however, we lack the one overriding counter-argument in the eternal conflict with our better halves: we are not paid to play.

As cricket is not our livelihood, it may be difficult for others to understand why we would willingly spend approximately 15 to 20 weekends a year playing our beloved game, precious time that could otherwise be spent with families, wives or girlfriends (although in some cases – I divulge no names – absence from these may be the sole reason for playing cricket). Not a Saturday goes by without at least one of my team mates having the usual dreaded phone call as he attempts to convince his partner of the following:

a) It’s a shame she didn’t watch the game as we did really well.
b) Would it be all right to have a few drinks with the boys tonight?
c) The 3rd team are short of players for tomorrow and will lose if he doesn’t play.
d) Of course, he doesn’t love cricket more than her. It’s just that they really need him to play tomorrow, and he couldn’t possibly leave the boys celebrating on their own tonight.

By and large these conversations do not have amiable conclusions, and the final sentence uttered by the (probably already somewhat intoxicated) cricketer is generally something along the lines of the following classic relationship-killer:

“Well, (insert partner’s name here), I met cricket before I met you, so deal with it!”

This is instantly met with a click and prolonged beeping tone from the other end of the line, followed by our team-mate politely inquiring if any of us may have a spare bed for the night.

Unfortunately this struggle is beyond our control, we act merely as innocent mediators between two opposing forces: the need to play cricket and the wrath of our partners. Hell may have no fury like a woman scorned, but cricket will always reign supreme.