Don't worry I'm not going to try to make you understand the rules of cricket (although they're pretty simple), a game which for most Americans is sort of like baseball only much sillier. You don't really need to know the rules for this story. All you need to know is that yesterday the Cricket World Cup arrived in Chittagong for the Bangladesh versus England match. Bangladesh was coming off one of the worst performances in World Cup history against the West Indies and faced elimination if they lost.
As we walked to the stadium we seemed to attract more attention than usual. What was remarkable (and later very unfortunate) was that despite the fact that we were all wearing Bangladesh jerseys, were covered in red, green, and tiger face paint, were carrying a large Bangladeshi flag, multiple people asked us who we were supporting or just concluded that we were supporting England. Our skin and their assumption screamed louder than any flare we carried. I'm still amazed by the power of expectations to erase what is really there.
The match started out well for Bangladesh, who are much better bowlers (pitchers) than they are batsman (hitters). We held England down to a 225 (not a very high score believe it or not) even though they towered over our players on the field making the Bangladeshis look like little boys with toy bats. Still, batting started out pretty good too and for awhile I thought we might eventually arrive at a solid, moving win. But I was wrong.
The heart of Bangladeshi team is the captain, a young kid named Shakib al Hasan. He's what cricket folk call an all-rounder meaning he can do pretty much everything. And he was, slowly chipping away at England (as my friend Calynn says, "Cricket is a war of attrition"), with his partner in crime Irmul Kayes. But then just as suddenly everything changed. Imrul got out and Shakib followed shortly after. The moment Shakib fell the energy seemed to be sucked out of the stadium. Two more wickets collapsed in quick succession and all I could do was hope Bangladesh's loss would be like the certain blade of the guillotine and not the prolonged torture of a slow bleed out.
Everything deteriorated. Half the crowd left. Some of the Bangladeshis sitting around us began chanting "England! England!" I was floored at how quickly some of the spectators turned. The irony was a group of Americans and a Nepali and were more loyal to a country we've lived in for seven months than many of its life-long citizens. Not everyone deserted the team. Some looked nervous and dejected but not yet ready to abandon their boys. We dwindled down to the last few batters, who were not batsman at all (pretend your'e pinning your last hopes for homeruns on two rookie pitchers).
All I can say is that the Bangladeshi come back was like a triple A team beating the New York Yankees at the bottom of the 9th with two outs in the final game of the World Series, or if you prefer basketball: sinking a three point shot at the buzzer in the NCAA Championship. The final two batsman resurected the disheartened crowd with a few miraculous hits and many more singles to follow. With the final remaining chances, Bangladesh at last pulled ahead and Chittagong erupted. The stands were electric, convulsing with a poetic rhythm. I never thought I'd dance in public in a country where men almost exclusively fill stadiums but as everyone around cheered and screamed and sang we all found ourselves without any other sense than that of the sweet joy of victory when defeat had seemed so certain.
(photo courtesy of BBC)
The other fans we'd spent the last 10 nailbiting hours with felt like family. Overjoyed groups of young men rushed to shake our hands, to thank us for our support, to assert that we were good luck charms. Basking in the triumph that felt every bit our own I was reminded of all the things I love about sports-- besides the winning: The game's ability to, even if only for a brief moment, make everyone forget about all the ways we are different and care only about the one factor in which we are united. For a few minutes last night, it did not matter that I was white or a woman or American or that I was not Muslim, married or wearing an orna. Everyone was the same.
But more than that-- I often find one of the most difficult aspects of life is truly living in the moment. I waste so much unintentional energy thinking about the past and worrying about the future. It's rare that I am inside a moment and and doing nothing more than just experiencing it. The few times I've been able to: during the madness of the campaign, the intensity of a high school crush, yesterday's cricket match are exhilarating and to be cherished. Sports often open this window into the immediate present difficult to find elsewhere.
The adventure did not end with the game. We still had to get out and find our way back to a very far away car. Upon exiting the stadium we saw before us a true mob of men who had not attended the game, surging forward, being beaten with sticks by the police. We ducked back into the stadium and as we saw the police begin to run, we ran too. Making it a safe distance into the stadium grounds I turned just in time to see an avalanche of shoes arch over the gates and shower down on us below. The crowd were launching its shoes at the cops, the ultimate insult (think George W Bush vs. Iraqi journalist). We had to end up leaving out the back with a police escort to the main road. Once we reached the main road we were on our own and suddenly my skin became a liability like it never had before. Boos echoed through the streets at the sight of us and we knew there was no convincing anyone that we were truer Bangladeshi fans than they were.
To make a long story short thanks to the help of an older man who spoke no English and a dear Bangladeshi friend with a car, we were scooped off the insane streets of the city and whisked away to Mahah's house where I promptly collapsed at 3 in the morning, still wearing my jersey.
The day was a day of being alive. The day was a great one.
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