Work Text:
🏏
Patrick finished unpacking the last of his belongings into the floral wallpapered room that would be his home for the foreseeable future. He was relieved when his chatty new landlord had invited him to watch the big game with him tonight. Some normalcy amidst the chaos of uprooting his life was just what he needed.
“Howzat!” Ray yelled at the TV, his arms raised victorious, as Patrick walked down the stairs.
“So, what’s, ah, what’s this?” Patrick asked. It turned out the big game was definitely not baseball.
“India versus Australia. The third test.”
“I see,” Patrick said as he sat on the couch. Patrick, in fact, did not see. Any appeal, at all, in cricket. “I thought you meant the Blue Jays versus the Tigers.”
“Baseball? No,” Ray chuckled good naturedly. “I guess I bowled you a bit of a googly there, didn’t I?” He continued to look at Patrick, a goofy smile plastered on his face.
“I’m sorry, you what? Patrick asked, his brow furrowing, preemptively regretting the question.
And thus began the longest five days of Patrick’s life. It started with a definition of a googly, followed closely by an explanation of the mechanics of said ball delivery technique and then a demonstration of the correct finger placement on an actual cricket ball.
“So, kind of like throwing a change-up?” he asked hopefully.
“I don’t know what that means. I don’t play baseball.”
So, Patrick sat, and watched, and listened as Ray explained the rules of cricket as the game unfolded on the screen in front of him.
“Wow, he really knocked it out of the park,” Patrick exclaimed.
“He knocked it for a six. Yes.”
“Why is he just standing there? Shouldn’t he be running to the other base?”
“You mean the crease. And no. It’s a six.”
As the days passed, Patrick and Ray settled into a comfortable comradery. Patrick translated, as best he could, the terminology of baseball into that of cricket.
Pitchers became bowlers. Catchers were wicket keepers. The short stop was silly mid-on. Somehow, by day three—and by some kind of miracle—Patrick became invested in the game. By day four, he’d decided to root for Australia. By day five, he felt hoodwinked, enraged, and defeated. He felt cheated! He’d invested days of his life to this endeavour and it yielded nil returns.
“That can’t be it?” Patrick implored. “Tell me there’s overtime or an extra innings or a sudden death hit-off. Something!”
“Well, there’s the fourth test next week.”
“Who’s playing that?”
“India and Australia.”
“Against each other? Again? For another five days?”
Ray nodded enthusiastically. “Next time we can—”
“Oh, there’s not going to be a next time, Ray. I can’t do that again. This sport is ridiculous!”
Ray gasped, clutching at his chest. “Agree to disagree.”
Patrick nodded. “Yeah, agree to disagree.” He hoped to hell he’d never have to hear another word about cricket for the rest of his life.
🏏
Not two weeks later, Patrick found himself sitting across from a striking man dressed in black who declared, “I don’t play cricket.” And Patrick smiled for what felt like the first time in forever. As he handed David Rose his business card, he wondered if he could ask Ray to teach him some cricket idioms because he suspected he was going to enjoy teasing this man, who doesn’t play cricket.