‘You stay here. It’s always the same with these people.’
Then, as the argument on and off the field continued – ‘You thiefing we, umpire! You thiefing we!’ – my eye was drawn to a figure walking slowly in the direction of the parked cars. I kept watching him because there was something mysterious about this person choosing to leave at such a moment of drama. He was in no hurry, it seemed. He slowly opened the door of a car, leaned in, reached around for a few moments, then stood up straight and shut the door. He appeared to be holding something in his hand as he strolled back into the ground. People started shouting and running. A woman screamed. My teammates, grouped on the boundary, set off in every direction, some into the tennis courts, others to hide behind trees. Now the man was ambling over somewhat uncertainly. It occurred to me he was very drunk. ‘No, Tino,’ somebody shouted.
‘Oh shit,’ Umar said, starting towards the baseball diamond. ‘Run, run.’
But, in some sense paralysed by this unreal dawdling gunman, I stayed where I was, tightly gripping my Gunn & Moore Maestro bat. The fielders, meanwhile, were backing away, hands half raised in panic and imploration. ‘Put it down, put it down, man,’ one of them said. ‘Tino! Tino!’ a voice shouted. ‘Come back, Tino!’
As for Chuck, he now stood alone. Except for me, that is. I stood a few yards away. This required no courage on my part, because I felt nothing. I experienced the occasion as a kind of emptiness.
The man stopped ten feet from Chuck. He held the gun limply. He looked at me, then back at Chuck. He was speechless and sweating. He was trying, as Chuck would afterwards relate, to understand the logic of his situation.
The three of us stood there for what seemed a long time. A container ship silently went through the back gardens of the houses on Delafield Place.
Chuck took a step forward. ‘Leave the field of play, sir,’ he said firmly. He extended his palm towards the clubhouse, an usher’s gesture. ‘Leave immediately please. You are interfering with play. Captain,’ Chuck said loudly, turning to the Kittitian captain, who was a little distance away, ‘please escort this gentleman from the field.’
The captain tentatively came forward. ‘I coming now, Tino,’ he called out. ‘Right behind you. No foolishness, now.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Tino muttered. He looked overcome by exhaustion. He dropped the gun and left the field slowly, shaking his head. After a short break, play resumed. Nobody saw any reason to call the cops.
When the match ended, both teams came together by the old clubhouse and shared Coors Lights and whisky Cokes and Chinese takeout and talked gravely about what had taken place. Somebody called for quiet, and Chuck Ramkissoon stepped forward into the centre of the gathering.
‘We have an expression in the English language,’ he said, as silence began to establish itself amongst the players. ‘The expression is “not cricket”. When we disapprove of something, we say “it’s not cricket.” We do not say “it’s not baseball.” Or “it’s not football.” We say “it’s not cricket.” This is a tribute to the game we play, and it’s a tribute to us.’ By now, all chatter had ceased. We stood round the speaker, solemnly staring at our feet. ‘But with this tribute comes a responsibility. Look here,’ Chuck said, pointing at the club crest on a Staten Island player’s shirt. ‘“Lude Ludum Insignia Secundaria,” it says here. Now I do not know Latin, but I’m told it means, and I’m sure you’ll correct me, Mr President, if I’m wrong’ – Chuck nodded at our club president – ‘it means, “Winning isn’t everything. It’s only a game.” Now, games are important. They test us. They teach us comradeship. They’re fun. But cricket, more than any other sport, is, I want to say’ – Chuck paused for effect – ‘a lesson in civility. We all know this; I do not need to say more about it.’ A few heads were nodding. ‘Something else. We are playing this game in the United States. This is a difficult environment for us. We play where we can, wherever they let us. Here at Walker Park, we’re lucky; we have locker-room facilities, which we share with strangers and passers-by. Most other places we must find a tree or bush.’ One or two listeners exchanged looks. ‘Just today,’ Chuck continued, ‘we started late because the baseball players have first right to play on this field. And now, when we have finished the game, we must take our drinks in brown paper bags. It doesn’t matter that we have played here, at Walker Park, every year for over a hundred years. It doesn’t matter that this ground was built as a cricket ground. Is there one good cricket facility in this city? No. Not one. It doesn’t matter that we have more than one hundred and fifty clubs playing in the New York area. It doesn’t matter that cricket is the biggest, fastest-growing bat-and-ball game in the world. None of it matters. In this country, we’re nowhere. We’re a joke. Cricket? How funny. So we play as a matter of indulgence. And if we step out of line, believe me, this indulgence disappears. What this means,’ Chuck said, raising his voice as murmurs and cracks and chuckles began to run through his audience, ‘what this means is, we have an extra responsibility to play the game right. We have to prove ourselves. We have to let our hosts see that these strange-looking guys are up to something worthwhile. I say “see”. I don’t know why I use that word. Every summer the parks of this city are taken over by hundreds of cricketers but somehow nobody notices. It’s like we’re invisible. Now that’s nothing new, for those of us who are black or brown. As for those who are not’ – Chuck acknowledged my presence with a smile – ‘you’ll forgive me, I hope, if I say that I sometimes tell people, You want a taste of how it feels to be a black man in this country? Put on the white clothes of the cricketer. Put on white to feel black.’ People laughed, mostly out of embarrassment. One of my teammates extended his fist to me, and I gave it a soft punch. ‘But we don’t mind, right, just so long as we can play? Just leave us alone, and we’ll make do. Right? But I say we must take a more positive attitude. I say we must claim our rightful place in this wonderful country. Cricket has a long history in the United States, actually. Benjamin Franklin himself was a cricket man. I won’t go into that now,’ Chuck said quickly, because a frankly competing hubbub had broken out amongst the players. ‘Let us just be thankful that it all ended well, and that cricket was the winner today.’
There the umpire stopped, to faltering applause; and soon after, everybody headed home – to Hoboken and Passaic and Queens and Brooklyn and, in my case, to Manhattan. I took the Staten Island Ferry, which on that occasion was the John F. Kennedy; and it was on board that enormous orange tub that I ran once again into Chuck Ramkissoon. I spotted him on the foredeck, amongst the tourists and romantics absorbed by the famous sights of New York Bay.
I bought a beer and sat down in the saloon, where a pair of pigeons roosted on a ledge. After some intolerable minutes in the company of my thoughts, I picked up my bag and went forward to join Chuck.
I couldn’t see him. I was about to turn back when I realised he was right in front of me and had been hidden by the woman he was kissing. Mortified, I tried to retreat without attracting his attention; but when you’re six feet five, certain manoeuvres are not easily accomplished.
‘Well, hello,’ Chuck said. ‘Good to see you. My dear, this is –’
‘Hans,’ I said. ‘Hans van den Broek.’
‘Hi,’ the woman said, retreating into Chuck’s arms. She was in her early forties with blond curls and a plump chin. She wiggled a set of fingers at me.
‘Let me introduce myself properly,’ Chuck said. ‘Chuck Ramkissoon.’ We shook hands. ‘Van den Broek,’ he said, trying out the name. ‘South African?’
‘I’m from Holland,’ I said, apologising.
‘Holland? Sure, why not.’ He was disappointed, naturally. He would have preferred
