Cricketer's Wife

“How many more do you need for the win?”

“Five. But we’re making hard work of it,” replied the skipper.

“Can I go on the pitch now and see daddy?” asked my boy. I relayed the information that the team only needed a few more runs and then he could see his dad. This wasn’t the response my three-year-old wanted. So he asked again.

“I can see daddy umpire. I can just go there.”

“Not yet.”

A four was hit.

“I won’t get in the way. Promise.”

Dot ball.

“Now, mummy? Now?”

The ball was hit and two runs taken. The game was won and, more importantly for the little one, he could get to his dad.

“Now, kiddo. Now you can go and run to daddy on the field.”

He raced onto to oval, as did two other kids who had been waiting for their dad, and it reminded me of when I used to do the exact same thing as a kid. I’d not thought about this end of game feeling for a long time but remembering it now brought a smile to my face.

I knew that excitement and urgency, running arms outstretched shouting, “DAD! DAD! Did you win?” And the happiness of cuddling my dad again after hours apart. His attention for most of the day was taken up by the game, but now it was done and he was coming back in. Now we’d get to be silly.

We’d run around the outfield, he’d bowl balls to me in front of the tractor garage, he’d get me juice and crisps from the bar, and on hot days he’d set the sprinklers up so I (and any other kids that were there) could dash through them.

It had been years since I’d thought about any of this but it all came back to me when my sons little legs of fury whisked him into his dad’s arms.

Going to cricket as a kid is fun. Watching the game and playing on the boundary is cool. Being independent for a while was formative. And time away from dad was a lesson in patience. But the feeling of rushing towards him after the game was special.