Cricket ticket.

Doing things I've never done before is something I like to do as often as I can.  Expressing this thought, I've suddenly realised it's quite hard to express unambiguously.  I do new things regularly - that bit is not new.  It's the actual "thing" that I'm doing that is new.  Phew.

After spending a day visiting my home city I attended my first ever live, professional cricket match!  Those of you who read about the cricket saturation I've endured every summer since I was born may be very surprised at this.  Actually, I'm surprised too!  So how and why did this happen?

A (female) friend of mine is quite into her sport, including the cricket.  We were watching the tennis on my new television one evening and she was talking about having been to the actual tennis to see Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal play.  We then moved onto the cricket and suddenly, plans were being made.  A 20/20 match was proposed and I figured it would all be over in less time than most operas, so why not take advantage of living in the same city as the famous Melbourne Cricket Ground?

Cricket ticket. (c) divacultura 2012

I am amazed to say that I really enjoyed the whole experience.

We met opposite Flinders Street station to make the trek to the hallowed ground (as she put it), along with most of the other 64, 998 people who attended the game that night.  People were in a friendly mood, the weather was stunning and Australia had been killing India every time we met.  I quickly saw evidence of flag wearers - young men dressed for the beach and wearing an Australian flag as a cape.  Very sensible, I thought, although I had my pashmina in my handbag and wouldn't need the flag to keep warm if Melbourne forced us to experience its famously fickle weather.

Approaching the ground, my nerves started to take hold.  I knew that we were sitting up quite high and all I could think about was the incident I'd previously had at Etihad Stadium involving George Michael.  (To cut a long story short I could get up, but getting back down with my fear of heights was challenging for me and the person I was with.)  I was sitting up quite high, but the rake of the seats isn't quite as steep, so this wasn't a problem at the G - except when I looked up, bizarrely, or when there was a balloon being batted around by the kids in front of me.

I was very surprised at how different the live sporting event looks on site, compared with how it looks on television.

Firstly, there's the scale of things.  On television, it doesn't look as if the batsmen have very far to run.  I've always wondered what the big deal is if they can just take a couple of steps and wander across.  On television, it also looks like the bowlers don't go very far - I was amazed to see how far - and fast - Brett Lee ran when he was bowling his very fast balls.  And also the wicket keeper was as far behind the facing batsman as the distance Brett Lee had run.  Eleven people spread out across the ground leaves a lot of unguarded ground.  Especially when you consider there are only nine left after the bowler and wicket keeper have been allocated.  I gained a new appreciation for the work that the fields men have to do.  Cricket was starting to look like a seriously technical game of skill.

Secondly, there are the cameras.  The first one I saw was the Spidercam which is suspended above the action in the middle of the field.  I'm not sure where the operator sits, or if there is more than one operator, but watching it swooping and retreating and spinning was like watching a ballet.  When I watched the highlights on television, I now understood how those shots were taken.  Wonderful!  Dotted around the ground are the fixed cameras with huge zoom lenses on them for filming the crowd and there's the guy out in the middle riding the segway and filming things.  I'm not sure what that footage looks like.

During the time between innings, I was amazed at how much stuff was happening on the ground.  The Australian team came out to warm up, there was a pyrotechnic display and there was a KFC sponsored competition to catch a cricket ball fired from a cannon.  So much of it is about giving air time to the sponsors for the television audience at home.

If I was worried about boredom, I quickly realised that there would be no time.  There were regular broadcasts of snippets of music designed to elicit a united crowd response - the beginning of the Addam's Family theme (lots of clicking), the start of Queen's "We Will Rock You" (lots of clapping and stamping), Harry Belafonte singing "Day-o" (lots of day-o-ing).  Most of the time the expected response was clear, but I remain mystified by the regular Mariachi's trumpet snippet which resulted in something sounding like a cross between a groan and a cheer.

At times there was so much going on it was easy to forget that there was a game of cricket in progress.

The tradition of pitch invasion was perpetuated.  A bloke ran frantically, his bare feet slipping out from under him as he almost made it to the crease before security realised and gave chase.  Play stopped.  The crowd cheered.  Just before he made it, he was smothered by four men and escorted from the ground.  The big screens flashed the reminder that there is a $7800 penalty for doing this.  We figured it would be hard for him to say "it wasn't me, your Honour", given the number of camera angles available and decided that his mates must have chipped in to cover the fine as part of a bet.  The security response was more rapid when a balloon later floated onto the outer field.

Many people left before the end when it looked certain that India was finally going to win, but the game finished with a very exciting final over.  The Romantic in me was hoping for a tie, but it wasn't to be.  I was very glad that we had stayed until the end.  It seemed unsporting to do otherwise.

Walking back to Flinders Street Station, the crowd was a little less exuberant but still polite.  A group of boys ran shouting a redesigned version of the warcry: "Oi! Oi! Oi! Aussie! Aussie! Aussie!" they shouted, leaving everyone hanging.

$36 for three and a half hours of interesting entertainment is pretty good value.  My friend happily answered and explained all of my annoying questions.  A friend like this is an essential accessory for the first timer, although exactly how LBW works is still beyond me.

The most amazing thing is that I think I could see myself going again.  Maybe.

The cricket's on! Everywhere.

Seemingly endless test cricket matches monopolising the television during summer is a fixture of Australian life.  The languid pace and drone of the commentators hypnotises and harmonises with the hum of the air conditioner or mosquitoes.

The only thing worse than cricket on the television is cricket on the radio.  Trapped in a car on a long, straight highway to nowhere with only the sound of  "clock" as the bat hits the ball, it seemed that the trip would not be over before the cricket was, so we all just had to stick at it in the hope that either the road or the match would finish.

Sometimes interesting guests join the commentary box.  Their purpose seems to be to distract from the mysterious monotony of trying to understand cricket on the radio.  I do remember a pleasant encounter with Hugh Jackman when he took in a chocolate cake his Mum made to share with the commentary team.

Occasionally though, the cricket will suck me in.  Like today.  I've been glued to the television cheering Captain Michael Clark to reach his triple century.  He seemed interminably stuck on 299 runs and I fervently hoped he wouldn't get out before he made 300.  (In case you're wondering, he made it and declared the innings with 329 runs and when his batting partner Michael Hussey reached 150 runs.)

To the non-enthusiast, cricket seems to have more laws than the nation itself.  There are no fewer than ten ways for a batsman to get out and sometimes it's very, very subtle.  Trying to understand LBW (leg before wicket) is enough to make my head spin and I'm not a stupid person.  I've also just discovered, today, that "tea" is not the same as "drinks".

Growing up with male members in the family who are obsessed with cricket meant that when there wasn't cricket on the television or the radio there was negotiation over backyard cricket.  With my brother it went something like "if you bowl me ten overs, I'll play dolls with you for 5 minutes".  Talks would continue until a middle ground of "I'll bowl four overs if you play dolls and let me dress you up for 20 minutes.  The deal is off if you get out and you have to convince Mum to be the wicket keeper."

Implementation of the deal required further discussion.  Would the Hill's Hoist clothesline be the wicket for the batsman and the tank stand hit on the full be a 6?  Or was it better to set up a cardboard box as wicket and include the dog in the fielding line up?  Was over the fence to be counted as out or as a 6? Once these details were settled, play would commence.  Before long I would be accused of being half-hearted in my bowling. My brother would try to convince me that if he failed to hit the ball it didn't count.  Further negotiations would occur and my determination to bowl a decent ball waned even more.

The whole game would either finish in tears or when the dog wouldn't give the ball back.

Then the board game "Test Match" came on the scene.  The game consists of a grass coloured mat representing the cricket ground and tiny plastic figures for the players.  The ball is a ball bearing.  Given that the plastic figures can't run to chase the ball, the chances of taking a wicket are remote and an innings could go on for longer than a game of Monopoly.  Initially I was enthusiastic, dreaming about release from the requirement to bowl in the backyard.  Pretty soon though I was putting dozens of overs on the negotiating table in an effort to release me from the requirement to play "Test Match".

The obsession with cricket extends to adulthood.  I've been in meetings where men have called a break so they can check the cricket score.  I've been in workplaces where the television in the tea room is on all day and people drink more cups of tea and coffee than they ever have in their life so that they can check the score.  Now they probably don't even do that.  An app. on their smartphone probably means they can keep track without anyone knowing.

My five year old niece turned to me over Christmas and said solemnly: "There's cricket on the television in the other room too."  Then she sighed.

"Get used to it. Cricket is everywhere."

She looked sad.

I could have added, "resistance is futile" but I didn't want to break her heart.