The box, protector, and cup—a brief history of men's priorities
On cricket's most sensitive topic, its most colourful storyteller, and one very holey pink litesome box
It started with a Friday evening text message, received Saturday, due to my own weekend eve libations. The message came from my next-door neighbour, Anne, who, most Fridays, with her partner, Pete, enjoys a local German Bierhaus, which is, interestingly, owned by a group of Indians.
Confused? Fair enough! It went like this:
“Hi Nick, Pete and I are with the neighbours at Das Bierhaus having a bit of a discussion. Wondering why the cricket box is called the box, without looking like a box. Happy for you to call in and set us straight, or send a message?”
I did neither after being too engaged in the Geelong vs Western Bulldogs game. My bad. It did get me thinking, though, and armed with fresh intel, I would get back to Anne later.
So, I’m led to believe the term ‘box’ is almost certainly a late-Victorian euphemism. Its origins are likely rooted—no pun intended—in the practical, albeit cautious, naming conventions of that era. Paradoxically, it was thought that the word “box” would allow mixed-company conversations to remain polite. We can leave that there! I sense that overarm bowling—introduced in the latter part of the 19th century—would have initiated the need for a testicular guard.
Comedians have also profited from this confusing phraseology. Fittingly, it was a female comic who coined this gag.
“‘The first cricket testicular guard (Box) was used in 1874, and the first cricket helmet was used in 1974.” So?
“It took 100 years for men to realise that the brain is also important, too.”
A quick modern-day counter to this train of thought is that it shortens the phrase “tackle box”—take note: we are in a country of prolific name-shortening. I think there is some merit to this opinion.
Other notable possibilities are:
The Tower of London - where the crown jewels are kept.
Female Canadians call it the “Jills”—you might link the male version as “Jack’s”—and then extend to “Jack in the Box.”
Boxes have not been widely adopted in Australian Rules Football; in hindsight, they might have been handy protection against the ghastly “squirrel grip.”
We have a Tasmanian hockey entry that lists it as a “Frog”—no explanation given.
My first interpretation was a “pink litesome” housed in the “litesome jockstrap”—so “jock” could also be a contender.
Anyway, enough of the preamble.
Friend of SpeakingCricket, David “Bumble” Lloyd, gave the humble box more exposure than any person in human history. Anyone who’s played the game knows that deathly feeling when the ball nips back, misses the inside edge, and cannons into the abdomen. “Nurse!” Then the laughter, and the finisher, “Don’t rub ‘em, lad, count ‘em.”
It was 1975, and England were touring Australia. David “Bumble’ Lloyd is the protagonist here, but every story needs a villain, and that was a youthful tearaway quick, Jeff Thomson. Thomson was operating over the wicket with a wide release point. Bumble, left-handed, likely had a blind spot to such bowling, not uncommon to southpaws. Set in his normal side-on position, Lloyd shuffled across the crease to an unspectacular angled delivery that, on pitching, nipped back, missed the inside edge, and the rest is history.
Bumble’s protection was a pink litesome box, “It had holes in it!” he said. “Completely useless for the job it was supposed to do—you can use them now in bathrooms as an accessory, you can put your soap in there, that’s about as much use as they are!” He recalled, with characteristic diplomacy, “Everything that should have been inside this useless pink box had found its way outside through the aforementioned holes.” Ouch.
Thomson remembered it differently. “There were bits and pieces everywhere. It was a delicate operation to salvage the bits on the outside.” Less candour, same image.
And then the kicker — when Bumble finally made it to the rooms and the doctor, his Accrington humour didn’t fail him. “Doc, can you do something about the pain, but leave the swelling?”
Every February, Bumble Lloyd suffers a temporary loss of voice, all due to a blind spot, a useless pink box, and a friend called, Jeff Thomson.
I wish I had a tenner every time I’ve heard this story. Gold.
And what of the cup? We suspect American cultural imperialism is at work here, although I don’t know for sure. Baseballers are protected by the cup; a 100mph fastball could no doubt inflict similar carnage.
My son played four years of college lacrosse and refused to wear a cup—anyone who’s held a lacrosse ball knows this is madness. He grew up in Australia and was influenced heavily by the term, box, to the point he refused protection on principle. Thankfully, he survived with pride in place—still no grandchildren, though.
Anne, I hope this helps.
