Cricket is a sport I’ve grown up with, something that feels almost part of my DNA. As the famous song goes: I don’t like cricket. I love it.
My grandfather was my hero growing up. The most intelligent man I’ve ever met and the person who introduced me to the red ball and bat.
From playing in the garden and teaching me how to bowl, to taking me to my first match and telling stories about legends of the past, he enabled endless memories.
Jack Evans died 10 years ago this month, but to me, he is immortal. Cricket is the vessel through which he still lives.
It was his dream to see England tour Australia in an away Test series, and it breaks my heart that it never materialised. Now, the best I can do is make sure his love for this wonderful sport endures through me.
Last winter, I was lucky enough to watch England play during a trip to Australia. I’m not a spiritual person, but I felt my grandfather's presence every second. He might have been disappointed with their performance – England were hammered 4-1 – but I know he would have beamed to see me there.
It wasn’t just my grandfather who loved cricket. Both my father and uncle played at a good level, while my grandmother was also a big fan. It was part of the fabric of their home.
My grandparents, Jack and Eileen, were members at Lancashire County Cricket Club for decades, travelling to Old Trafford – the cricket ground, not the football stadium, for the uninitiated – come rain or shine. And when I was old enough, I was the lucky grandson they took as their guest.
It was never just about the sport. That’s one of the many nuances of cricket that I find is lost on those who scoff at the sport's seeming long-windedness. In England, county championship games are played over four days, while Test (international) matches are five days. But for my grandparents, watching their beloved Red Roses was a social occasion – a mini-holiday, even.
They’d take a picnic basket loaded with sandwiches and flasks of tea, and read their books during breaks. They’d never be seen without the newspaper, which was dissected ritualistically. He would start with the sport pages, while she would reach for the news. When they finished their respective sections, they’d swap. After that, they’d tackle the crossword together.
One of the most fascinating things about love is how people show it in different ways. The way my grandparents bonded over a day at the cricket, even after half a century of marriage, is still one of the purest iterations of love I’ve ever seen.
I still remember watching Sir James Anderson steaming in for Lancashire as an unknown academy product. I won’t have even been 10 years old, and my grandfather leaned over after Anderson’s first delivery to say: “We could have something here.”
He wasn’t wrong. Anderson has more Test wickets to his name than any other fast bowler in history and is widely regarded as the best swing bowler the game has ever seen. My grandfather knew his stuff.
What cricket has that other sports don’t is the ability to ebb and flow. There are spells, sometimes hours at a time, of intense sporting action. Then there are times when the game slows down, the sun comes out, and batters simply accumulate runs. There are long breaks for lunch or tea, or it can be paused for weather delays. Tapping in and out of the sporting action is one of the game's joys.
Yet between these moments of relaxation and a sense of escapism come bursts of excitement, ecstasy, stress, and agony … or all of the above.
To me, it's the niche nature of cricket that makes it so easy for fans to bond.
At the Brisbane Test match in December, as I watched England’s defeat against Australia with one of my closest friends, his wife, and her family, it occurred to me that our friendship had blossomed and grown stronger over the years thanks to our love of cricket.
Even talking to Australian fans during the game – us, bitterly disappointed; them, jubilant – we quickly became friends rather than foes. We had so much in common: a shared love for the same game.
I thank my grandfather for the time, love, and support he unflinchingly gave me throughout his life. I miss him every day and often find myself longing for his advice.
What I’ve found with cricket is that it somehow takes me to a headspace where I no longer miss him. Instead, I feel overwhelmed with pride and gratitude that I knew him at all.
As long as I have cricket, he survives within me.
