On the last day of March, a friend of mine, temporarily in London, wandered into a pub. It was night in India, but afternoon in England, so there was just the odd drinker around. My friend persuaded the pub’s owner to switch the channel to Sky Sports, so that he could watch the World T20 semi-final.
The request was acceded to. My friend ordered a beer, sat down on a stool, and began watching the match. The customer next to him was an English lady in her thirties. “Who is India playing?†she asked. “West Indies,†was the answer. “Then West Indies will win,†she remarked, “my father told me they always doâ€.
The Englishwoman’s cricket-loving father would have grown up in the 1970s, when Clive Lloyd and his men made Tony Greig’s team grovel. He would have then followed, with a mixture of admiration and disgust, the ‘blackwashes’ of Botham, Gooch, Gower and company in the 1980s. Those were the memories the father still carried with him, and which he passed on to his (otherwise cricket-ignorant) daughter.
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