Cricketer's Wife

I’ve suffered a lifetime of birthdays ruined by cricket

Alright, I admit it.

That opener is a little very overdramatic.

I’ve had many amazing birthdays where I’ve been made to feel exceptionally special.

But there is a reason I feel somewhat fucked over by cricket in relation to my birthday and celebrating my latest trip around the sun. I’m born in September, you see.

In the Northern Hemisphere, where I was born and raised, September is the end of the cricket season. My birthday being in the last week of the month and, therefore, the closest weekend was usually the last weekend of games for the season.

This was an annual diary clash for my Dad.

What should he do? Play and enjoy the end-of-season revelry that comes with village cricket?

Or go to his daughter’s 7^th, 10^th, 13^th birthday party?

The answer: we’d generally find a work around that meant everyone stayed happy. Weekend birthday parties would be in the morning, but a Friday evening was better.

Once I outgrew the need to have my parents at every birthday celebration, I thought my cricket-party clash days were over.

I was wrong.

After a year or so living in Australia, my husband decided to join a local cricket club. I encouraged this wholeheartedly. Spending the summer sitting on the boundary, watching cricket, while sipping fizz and eating cheese with the other wives was fine by me.

But here’s the kicker.

It turns out the cricket season in the Southern Hemisphere starts towards the end of September.

I can’t win.

And so it’s back to juggling cricket fixtures and availability with birthday celebrations. Are you a September bub in a cricket-mad family? What experiences do you have of needing to organise celebrations around the cricket season?