My Cricket Kids
I scan the pitch teeming with Englishmen wearing flannels with wickets and helmets.
Their aristocratic poise are for my expat’s eyes a lazier form of baseball, both noble and debased.
This is a gentleman’s game, a settler’s sport: their China cup skin let their blue blood appear.
White-collared and starched, they emerge from a Forster novel or Downton Abbey.
I scrutinise them with a sardonic smile until I realise my children might play cricket one day,
not hurling like their father nor pelota like me.
They will belong to a third culture, one which will escape me like cricket’s rules.