An Intelligent Discussion On The Subject Of Crickets

This week, for Mutual, I had the experience of playing cricket. "What is cricket?" I asked myself. All I knew was that it was some sport over in Britain, and I had only ever heard of it in old English books. They never mention exactly what the game is, or maybe I just wasn't paying very good attention while sleeping through the book. So basically, in going to the activity, all I really knew was that cricket was not a game where you try and stuff the most bugs in your mouth.

Turns out, cricket starts when a person "bowls" (translation: throws) the ball towards the batter, who tries to protect what looks like the top of a hammer on sticks by trying to hit the ball, and, if successful, runs back and forth from the hammer to a base, and then back, scoring points. "Sounds easy enough," you're saying to yourself. If you did talk to yourself, maybe you should check out some mental help. And I have a rebuttal. These ball are rocks. Not literally, but they sure felt like it. These were the type of things that you would rather not hit some part of your body, causing internal bleeding. And yet the guys who taught us to play, who were Indians (literal Indians, mind you, the type of people who might answer your questions when you call a computer help hotline, not to mention being Asian), were running around catching the balls barehanded, despite the fact that the balls were leaving craters in the field upon landing. I got up to bat, thinking it would all be fun and games, but when the first "bowl" went by, I think my underwear was about as wet as my swim suit is after practice. "How does it feel to have a rock flying at you at upwards of the speed of light?" you might ask. Not good. Thank goodness this "Casey" struck out at the bat alive.

So why hasn't this game caught on in America? Well, as an American people, we've exceeded cricket. We have our own batting and base running game with rock hard balls that would go through you if you came in contact with them. Yes, the great American pastime, baseball, has surpassed anything that the British could ever come up with, mostly because you're allowed to dump the peanut shells on the ground when you're watching the game. It's what truly makes our country great.

As a side note, at the activity, I also had the opportunity to try a "chocolate cricket." "If I eat this, will I be able to work it into a blog somehow?" I asked President Ludwig. "Probably," he answered, probably more intent on watching me gag than me getting full credit in English. So, I grabbed one of the ugly chocolate blobs and lowered it into my mouth. "Mmm... I'm gonna eat this gross disgusting bug," I declared, hoping to collect some comments of how manly I was. None came. Closing my eyes, I inched closer to my mouth. I put it into my mouth and chewed. Nothing happened. It was the anticlimax of the century (though the century is still young). I mean, all it tasted like was bad chocolate. It tasted a lot like the worthless chocolate you get at church functions during the Easter Egg Hunt, i.e., old chocolate. So next time dares you to eat one of those, don't do it. Just go and get out your old Easter Egg chocolate. Cause that's just as good, and a poor little cricket didn't have to give up its life for the chocolate.