Today I spent an hour watching the local guys play cricket in a sandlot. It was pretty insane. I don’t know much about the game. The dirt lot had a few wild pigs and dogs roaming it, which simply added to the vast array of obstacles already in place. Add two trees, two cars, one motorcycle, a bike, a million potholes, a bit of barbed wire, and of course, a homeless guy and his campfire, and now you have an Indian sandlot field. In America, the kids could not navigate it mentally. The narrow dirt plot was walled in by two nice houses. The sandlot was not long enough to accommodate the game, so the outfield extended into a rather busy street. I stood in, what would be in baseball, left centerfield, watching. The game was not affected by the traffic, and the traffic was not affected by the game. This was magical and unreal. It seemed at times impossible, but I stood and watched, impossible, for an hour. Beyond the street lay another haphazard lot that became the deep outfield, or the place where the ball is fetched by the American guy, me. These guys payed zero attention to the fact that cars, motorcycles (no helmets mind you), bicycles, pedestrians, cows, pigs, and dogs strolled the street. They would, with complete abandonment, throw and hit at will. Ball overhead, under foot, into the side door of the parked cars, through trees, and campfire, whatever, the game was played with laughter and joy. I’m assuming it was not their parked cars, so why not have a laugh. Cars went by, got hit, never slowed down to comment or care. Motorcyclist ducked, but did not slow down. One tried to actually hit the ball. I ended up playing. I have no clue to the final score, but I managed to get invited back tomorrow.