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My Cricket Kids
By Julie Irigaray
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.
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