The secret world of American Cricket

My life has changed, just at the periphery, but the change is palpable.

It's one of those butterfly-effect things. The energy levels have changed here, just the tiniest bit. When did this happen? What does it mean?

I noticed the changes at about the same time bdnews24.com website started posting The Countdown.

Things have changed at the local convenience stores. Things are different at the gas pumps. Something's up at the local bank. My casual acquaintances with sub-continental Asians have always been cordial. Now, this relationship has transformed from shopkeeper/client to one of initiate and master.

Today, if I enter the convenience store or pull up at the pump, I do so seeking wisdom. I've already embarrassed myself on numerous occasions by asking many questions, revealing my naked ignorance in the subject upon which I seek to be enlightened. But if I want to enter the Inner Circle, I must be bold. I march into the local 7-11. I plop my purchase on the counter. It is the large coffee I was too lazy to make at home, but it's just a pretext. Now comes the real purpose of my visit. I dare to ask my question.

"So are you following the World Cup?"

I don't say "of cricket".

There's a woman beside me at the lottery window, a tattooed 400 pound blonde whose forearms are mostly aft arms. She informs me that there won't be another World Cup until 2014, and that anyway, "it's a Eurosport". She pays for her "dollar and a dream", and having schooled me, exits the building. I notice the NASCAR sticker on her window, right next to the Confederate flag, as she drives off. All I keep thinking is, "am I really in New Jersey?"

Now we are alone in the store.

Sometimes, if I attempt to talk cricket to an employee, the cashier raises his head and reacts to my question as if I've accused him of shirking his duties. Invariably, he will raise his voice, face the security camera and declare to some all-seeing eye, "My hours are long. Sadly, I cannot follow the games."

But I know better. "Where are you from?" I ask.

And I notice that they are never from Sri Lanka. Usually, they're from India or Pakistan, although I do have a Bangladeshi informant.

"What do you think your team's chances are?" I've spoken the secret words. I mention that I'm new to cricket, and that I'm rooting for the Tigers. I'm in.

How much information can I gather as this sporting comet passes across the heavens? This is only of secondary importance. For a fleeting moment, we have crossed a social barrier. We are communicating as members of a secret fraternity. Bangladeshis, Indians, Pakistanis, and Sri Lankans, wherever they are, and little old me, are bonded.

Their cricket ardour runs deeper, and their cricket dreams are more grandiose than mine can ever be. They root for their individual teams, but they share a common dream. The Holy Grail, the crown jewel in the secret life of the Asian shopkeeper cum cricket fan.

This is the 'Dream' — some day, there will be an American team.

Cricket, like the camel, was once native to these shores. George Washington played cricket with his troops at Valley Forge. According to my research, Benjamin Franklin brought a cricket rulebook to America and published his own edition in 1754. During a debate to determine what to call our chief executive after independence in 1776, John Adams railed against the idea of using the term "President". "Fire Brigades and Cricket Clubs have Presidents!" He whined.

Do my new friends know that those grim faces portrayed on the money that purchases my coffee would have been drawn into a smile at the thought of hitting for six? Even latecomer Abraham Lincoln used to attend cricket matches. These dead presidents are part of the secret fraternity. From the cash drawer, their spirits listen for the broadcast of the World Cup. They understand, though they cannot comprehend Nascar or Confederate flags.

So what is this common dream of the secret society of cricket fans, past and future?

Some day, we will have an American team.

Perhaps the children of these immigrants, on their way to attaining a high station in life could justify a parent's struggle for the American Dream by having enough leisure time to rise to stardom at some future World Cup. I think I can understand the fantasy, the pixilated voices on the other end of the pixilated Skype connection, the relatives back home, will know that this far off son of their soil has asserted his very American right to retain, and re-enforce an important part of his cultural heritage.

I understand this need very well. As an American who stands on the hyphen, a Hungarian-Italian, for me this week marks an anniversary we will celebrate when my mom returns from Florida — Arrival Day. On Feb 16, 1951 — 60 years ago — my grandparents and mother stepped off the General Muyire transport ship onto Ellis Island, in New York City. Sixty years later, my children are balanced on more hyphens, by virtue of my marriage to an already super-hyphenated Russian-Jewish-Dutch-Daughter of the American Revolution. But two of my children speak passable Hungarian, and two struggle with Italian. Three have visited the Old Country, and we have retained the connection with relatives across the Ocean.

But we can't retain every part of our cultural heritage when we come to these shores. We often only retain that which is valued the most by the people "back home"– religion (Italian), cuisine (both), dance (Hungarian), whatever our particular culture deems to be the import that makes feel superior to the locals. If Commonwealth immigrants wanted to erase all influence of their previous culture, they would enrol their children in Pop Warner Football, the youth league which is the pinnacle of all that is good and right and — American. If they are a little bit more ambivalent, they might want to enrol their children in Little League baseball. Cricketers make excellent baseball players, and I suspect that while the athletic prowess required to play cricket is greater than that of the skill set needed for baseball, a young ballplayer here would make an excellent batsman, and any cricketer would play stellar defence. I had many Indian friends in my University days. I introduced them to baseball, and soon discovered that they were better at it than I was, especially in the field.

Immigrant parents have expectations that they need to live up to. Here's one complaint: why, oh why, if my child understands what I am saying, does he insist on answering in English? Why do they hurry their American friends past the evidence of national origin with which we decorate our homes? What transformation happens at about age ten which forces our children to forget the lyrics of the comforting music from "back home" that we play on weekends?

Then there is cricket. Sport is the most universal form of bonding, not just between humans, but between mammals. Interspecies sport is common. We play fetch and dangle yarn in front of kittens, but even in the wild, wolves tumble with their cubs, squirrels play tag, and dolphins and whales engage in sporting competition. Sure, sport bridges social and cultural and even species gaps, but it also bridges the most bewildering gap of all– the gap between fathers and children. As I sit in my backyard, on this unseasonably warm day, I can see three fathers on my block tossing a baseball to a child, as brand-new baseball mitts are softened for the upcoming season. One father breaks off from play to tend his yard, but he is distracted. I know he is watching his son, and dreaming of the Major Leagues. I am sure that when my Convenience Store mentor dreams at night, has similar fatherly dreams of his own American-born son in a red, white and blue uniform, on a yet-to-be US National Cricket Team. West Indians, Asians, Europeans, Irishmen, Africans, sons of immigrants all, and his own son– what glory awaits!

For the next couple of months, I'll be able to relate to strangers in a way I've never been able to before. Cricket will be my key. The strange truth is that the culture of sport trumps the culture of nations. I'm betting, and I hope it's true, that whatever the outcome of this World Cup, fathers and children in the cricket playing world will find a common culture that trumps their own generational divide.

For those of you who are cricket immigrants, and whose children have not embraced the sport of the Old Country, I beg you to take heart. Take the time to teach them the sport. Force them to play. Your children will thank you later. And if they don't their well-paid therapists will.

As for this old-timer, I'm still hoping that one of my mentors will invite me to try my hand at the sport of the American and Bangladeshi Founding Fathers.

Now, honestly! Why are you reading this? Drop what you're doing and go watch the game.

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Frank Domenico Cipriani writes a weekly column in the Riverside Signal called "You Think What You Think And I'll Think What I Know." He is also the founder and CEO of The Gatherer Institute — a not-for-profit public charity dedicated to promoting respect for the environment and empowering individuals to become self-taught and self-sufficient. His most recent book, "Learning Little Hawk's Way of Storytelling", is scheduled to be released by Findhorn Press in May of 2011.