Boys of Summer

OK I've stolen the phase from the USA or more precisely Don Henley, but last Thursday saw the start of the English Cricket Season. After a long winter where the Ashes were won, endless meaningless ODIs were played, and the World Cup was contested, cricket is coming home. Sunday afforded us the chance to go to the Oval and watch the third day of Surrey v Northamptonshire. Now it wasn't the most enthralling four hours of cricket I've ever watched, but frankly it didn't have to be. The chance to sit in the sun, relax and let the game wash over me was all it took. At this moment I realised what it is I dislike most about the English winter. There is something particularly English about watching cricket, the battle of bat and ball. The tactical battles, the play and miss, the misplaced shot, the appeal. Watching the scoreboard reflect the day's activities. The chance to catch up with the daily newspaper during breaks in play, to engage those I've met before in conversation, to walk round the boundary at lunchtime. It didn't matter that on the day there was no result, indeed we left before close of play - the fact was cricket had returned.