The weekend Transformers

The other day, my wife and I were tolerating the latest shock from the Transformers trilogy within the comfort of our living room, when it struck me. Of course, by “it”, I don’t mean Optimus Prime or one of its kith. I mean it struck me – the “it” that strikes you out of your stupor and into some meaningless realization.

I thought to myself, “Cricketers in the US are Transformers themselves, no?”

Not the type that run our electric can openers and iron boxes, although they do charge themselves up into a frenzy and conduct this sport in all its glory, weekend after weekend.

I was thinking more along the lines of taxi drivers from Brooklyn, investment bankers from Wall Street, gas station attendants from the Bronx, attorneys from New Jersey, IT consultants from every nook and cranny of the US and even a hat-seller from Manhattan all transforming from weekday wannabes to amped up amateurs on their off days. And like their on-screen counterparts, these transformations come replete with tires sticking out from their sides too. And in both cases, these tires serve as iconic reminders of the comfortable cushion that is their untransformed existence.

We even have the alien angle. Transformed, these men run around in white pants displaying their alien skills at “pitching” and striking a strange red ball to the locals while many of them are aliens themselves, if you were to take the guys with the US Immigration Services seriously.

There is also the transformation from within.

I was umpiring in a local league match a few weeks ago when the middle-aged captain of one of the sides placed himself at silly mid-off. As if to answer all questions about why that position has been named so, the very next ball was hit forcefully by the batsman straight towards the skipper’s face. He quite casually put his right hand 2 inches in front of his face and blocked the ball.

Far from flinching an eye, he engaged in the following repartee with one of his teammates, in Urdu, which went something like:

Laughter ensues all around.

My world wouldn’t necessarily be turned upside down if I learnt that the captain was a hypochondriac and his team-mate, a pacifist. There is something to be said about how these average Joes – who probably jump through hoops during their weekdays to buy medicines that are well within their expiry date, or to ensure that they stay as far away from violence as possible – are able to put themselves in harm’s way on weekends with such nonchalance. They even throw in a smile at coming two inches close to possibly never smiling again.

Oh, and there was also this other guy in this other match. It had been raining very lightly for three overs. The mat was wet, especially its ends made from canvas. The batsmen had just slipped while turning for runs. The bowler had slipped a bit in his delivery stride. Four balls remained to be bowled in the 20th over, the end of which would have ensured the match had a result. I had said that if I found any more evidence of potential danger to the players due to the conditions, I would suspend play. What followed was legendary. As I tilt my eyes downward toward the popping crease to observe the bowler’s foot landing, I see a huge lumpy thing land there instead. It was the bowler’s entire body. From all accounts of the incident that emerged later, and I have lost count of them, the guy had arguably feigned his fall. And what a fall it was! Humpty Dumpty couldn’t have bettered it to save his nursery rhyme celebrity status.

What makes these guys turn into such warriors? There’s no fame in it. There certainly is no money in it, at least no inflow. These anonymous acts of self-pride and glory flicker momentarily to be forgotten forever.

Whatever that ‘AllSpark’ is that connects these Transformers, it keeps cricket well and truly alive in the US and seems to have touched everyone who has ever set foot on a cricket field in whites.