Escape from New York...
Fortunately for America, immigrants who still enjoy status in these parts made possible a cricket event to upstage the Super Bowl.
Please don't worry; this post, in the main, will be about cricket.
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With or without Donald Trump, I am starting to understand patriotism in America runs deep—I must have been asleep at the wheel previously.
This trip, the American people's prefixation with anchoring to the flag, is as visible as the country's absolute mess. Most of the world is broken, too—just not as overtly as here.
Benjamin Franklin and Abraham Lincoln were cricket fans. I have a column half-finished on Jimmy Carter and his connection to the gentlemen's game. America has the Philadelphia Cricket Club and the St George's Cricket Club's ground at what is now 30th Street and Broadway (then Bloomingdale Road) in Manhattan, which hosted a significant game between the United States of America and the British Empire's Canadian Province in 1844.
Then there are Joe Biden and Trump—God Save Us. We can categorise them with most of mainstream America, which has little understanding and care of cricket.
As an Anglo—Australian—which is sketchy—I travel on a British passport and enjoy permanent residency in Australia (please let me know how that defines me). Anyway, I am rooting for a U.S. cricket revival; or at least a re-start. (How many mixed metaphors can you employ?)
Yesterday, New York hosted a cricket game expected to be viewed by twice as many people as the Super Bowl. As said, most of America is oblivious to the rules and nuances of cricket. If you're in that tribe, you will need a particular type of friend: one with unlimited patience and preferably some cricket schooling in South Asia, Australasia, Southern Africa, or England. That narrows the funnel somewhat!
I spent the day (Sunday) in Boston, separating myself from two wedding-dress-shopping females—actually, truth be known, I was herded off. Fortunately, I know the city and continue to be perfectly happy with my own company. The tube/subway system is affectionately called the 'T'. Bostonians love to bag the 'T'—being an infrequent user, I actually don't mind it. As always, with this type of service, you might travel with some interesting characters. Sunday did not disappoint. Long story short: two gentlemen started conversations with themselves, both increasing the volume as the other got louder until a point where one cracked the shits, big time. A confrontation was imminent; this was happening right in front of me; then, magically, the doors opened, and both got off to carry on their discussion. I think the station was Roxbury Crossing. Viva Roxbury. Perhaps it’s a daily ritual—I hope both parties are OK.
I could tell that neither of the protagonists was talking about cricket. My final destination was North Station. TD Garden, home of the Boston Celtics and Boston Bruins, is located within North Station—it would be akin to Docklands stadium moving to Flinders Street. I thought this might be an excellent spot to see if I could find some cricket-talking companions. The Celtics were playing Dallas that night in the NBA championship finals. Cricket, not a chance. I asked three random's if they knew of the game in New York; two brushed me completely, and the other showed glimpses of interest until I told him India was playing Pakistan.
From there, I wandered past the state capital building and into Beacon Hill, a beautiful part of the city. Of course, this is home to the Cheers pub! Surely, Cliff would be across the India—Pakistan game. First, I couldn't locate Cliff, and second, seats are at a premium. Warning for travellers: be ready to wait for a seat at the bar. Nevertheless, Cheers is a great spot.
And the cricket:
Pakistan won the toss and bowled well—they usually do—less so the fielding component. India closed posting 119—on this New York wicket, it represented a Scottie Scheffler-like under-par total. Pakistan are hardly reliable in the best of form, on this pitch, and against the world's premier T20 attack, this was always going to be a bum-twitcher.
Through the nine innings, India was just too reliable. The IPL has shaped them in their pressure plays. The captain is cool, his bowlers cooler still, and they actually field and hustle with the best. Pakistan finished seven runs short. The deficit was wider than the result. Pakistan gassed it, and India knew they would.
Forgive my baseball analogy!
But India has cricket's ultimate pitcher, Jasprit Bumrah.
Bumrah bowls no-hitters for the first four innings when the outfield is forced into the infield. Then, after a stint in the long grass, he returns as a fast-ball-throwing closer without a peer. He should be paid in gold bars.
His 15th over dismissal of Mohammad Rizwin, who had absorbed much of India's offensive intent, signalled the end for Pakistan, India's fiercest cricketing and geopolitical rival.
I can at-test to America's stringent border control. It is understandable and warranted. But can cricket legitimately make it past this first line of defence?
America does an outstanding job of exporting its culture to the rest of the world; unfortunately, this looks like a two-way street that will be long in the making.
