Who's on First? ...   

Where is First?

by sonya hammond

As one who persists in viewing the world with humor-tinted glasses, I am an avid admirer of the British who are addicted to laughing at themselves with great style. Public Broadcasting's 'Britcoms' are usually great examples of this talent, but recently OPB has dredged up something called Outside Edge, an offering that might as well be broadcast in Sanscrit.

Let's face it, Americans are genetically incapable of comprehending a series whose basic premise screams for someone to write 'Cricket for Dummies'.

It's not as though Cricket is merely background to some more intelligible plot line, thereby allowing us to trot off to the kitchen for snacks whenever the subject comes up. The entire plot of each incomprehensible episode centers around the endless Cricket activities of a group of suburban males with long-suffering wives and minimal interests in such brief moments of real life as they may encounter off the playing field.

For those lacking even a basic grasp of Cricket, and this includes at a minimum the entire female population of the U.S., staying awake through Outside Edge offers a considerable challenge.

All activity, such as it is, takes place at the playing field and clubhouse of a middle class team whose members apparently hope to achieve higher social status through Cricket, a game they rarely win. It is unclear whether this is due to rampant lack of athletic expertise or the remarkably dysfunctional sex lives from which they all seem to suffer.

The snail-paced activity, such as it is, takes place on an immaculately mowed and rolled grass area that deceptively resembles a baseball field without any discernable bases or boundary lines.

Furthering that illusion, one player hurls a ball somewhat in the manner of a softball pitcher, another player stands in a posture vaguely reminiscent of a baseball player at bat, and a third player stands behind the 'batter', presumably to catch the ball if it is not hit. This rarely occurs possibly because the 'bat' is flat, and since it appears to be wider than the ball it is meant to hit, batters have to be legally blind to miss a pitch.

The pitcher, who does not stand on a mound, tends to run menacingly at the batter from some distance away before hurling the ball with what appears to be malicious intent. Since his follow-through involves continuing to run, and since the batter, having hit the ball, occasionally runs directly forward rather than to one side as in baseball, collisions between batter and pitcher sometimes occur. Why they don't occur more often may be due to the fact that even when the batter hits the ball, he often inexplicably stands around looking pleased with himself.

Once the ball is hit, it tends to float rather majestically in a low trajectory toward the 'outfielders', most of whom are clustered into a disorganized group, often in front of the pitcher.

In what may be the best case scenario, if everyone manages to avoid colliding, the batter sometimes runs directly ahead to reach a short piece of lumber stuck in the ground [this may be the 'wicket', for some mysterious reason referred to as 'sticky'].  Having accomplished this feat, the batter immediately turns around and trots casually back from whence he came, a round trip covering all of perhaps 20 feet. This is fortunate since several players in Outside Edge, appear to be in their 70's.

In the meantime, the disorganized fielders attempt to catch the ball before it drops to the ground from the incredible height of 3 or 4 feet. Should someone manage this feat, and amazingly few of them do, the runner stops [providing he has moved at all], mumbles a few polite British expletives and wanders off to the clubhouse for a consolation pint of that warm stuff the British get away with selling as beer. If the ball is not caught, the runner foregoes the expletives, but nevertheless trots off for a pint.

In either case, the results are greeted by polite applause from 10 or 15 spectators seated a few yards away in a collection of lawn chairs and chaises in which some of them, not surprisingly, tend to doze off periodically.

Points seem to be scored either by the runner who makes it back to the clubhouse before the ball is caught, or by the other team whose member catches the ball. Neither of these may be the case, but it's tough keeping track of who scored, to say nothing of determining who is on which side, since the mandatory apparel that constitutes a sort of fashion statement cum uniform, is pristine white for players on both teams.

Although the women in the OPB series play extremely minor roles, they may provide insight into their husbands' obsessions with cricket ... their sex lives, which they are prone to discuss in explicit detail, vary from awful to downright peculiar even for the British.

The wives do, however, offer occasional relief from the inactivity on the playing field, as inside the clubhouse they take turns providing refreshments in quantities that would stagger Henry VIII. The quality of these repasts varies with the competitive spirit of the wife in charge, but occasionally one of them shows the good sense to forget her duties entirely, leaving the players to wander about aimlessly once the game is over since the meal seems to constitute an integral part of the formalities.

It's possible the Brits deliberately contrived Cricket with an esoteric set of rules that Yanks would never be able to 'Americanize', but regardless it is not surprising that the game has never caught on in this country. For one thing, it lacks even one of the basic elements that might qualify it as an American 'sport': heavy body contact, millionaire players, traditional spectator snacks, or the possibility of severe or even fatal injury.

On the other hand, maybe ... duh ... we just can't see any point to it.

Either way, an OPB series featuring it merely makes me long for baseball season to start as soon as possible.