Ian Thornton
The scene was just like home; quite, quite English. Lush green outfield, red ball, teams thankfully in creams. Not a pyjama or a white ball or a floodlight in sight, 1-0. The smell however was from a continent more distant still, as the players’ nostrils slowly filled with rafts of exquisite curry, 1-1 The sound tipped it in the favour of the sub-continent, with Bhangra, loud-haler advice for the batsmen to score more quickly and the gentle chatter of Indian dialects. India 2 England 1.

The Hyderabad cricket team were in town; and playing three games against an Ontario Cricket Association XI. Finely hosted by the O.C.A.’s Melvin John, I spent two fine days in the company of these cricketers. The tourists were led by the renowned Mr. Man Singh, who had led India to famous World Cup glory in 1983 in England (beating that great West Indian team in the final at Lord’s) and also managed the 1987 squad when the tournament was played on the sub-continent.

This correspondent stood in as a late substitute on days two and three, thoroughly letting the side down with cream jeans on, though I had a decent excuse, for my creams and kit sits in my mate, Ramon’s shed in Ladbroke Grove, West London. And anyway from where I was standing everyone was dressed correctly.

The score going into the third game was 1-1, the weather perfect and the inaugural trophy was at stake. The BBC were there to cover the game, and the show was broadcast yesterday. Between twisting one of my two troubled and bothersome knees for a relative gentle pick up and throw at extra cover and two scarily short spells batting (one was not out without facing a ball), I was happy to chat to the team from Hyderabad and the locals, a mix of players and umpires from India, Pakistan, Jamaica, Trinidad and Guyana, as well as local politicians.

The game went to the last over and the O.C.A. XI prevailed. The trophy was duly presented, but was then with dignity handed over to the visitors on the single proviso, that an invitation, which had been mooted, was made official in order for the Canadians to go to India and to have the right to bring it back. It seemed like a fair solution and that was that. More curry and more sweet tea, more smiles and more hands were shaken across oceans.

Having witnessed games in London and in Toronto, where the spirit of this finest of games seemed to have been forgotten, it was such a pleasant change to soak in the atmosphere of friendliness and everything which this great sport stands for. For these were men who were not only representing a club, but a country and even a continent. And seemed immensely happy and proud to be doing so.

It just shows what cricket can do. It is a huge unifier of peoples. There should be no room for cliques and divisiveness.

I enjoyed myself immensely as I only start to scratch the surface of the game in this country. Two weeks previously, I had the honour of meeting both Sunil Joshi and Wasim Akram, who were guests of the O.C.A., and I witnessed then the mania the game produces in the youth of Asia, and that was here in Brampton.

And so the smells and the noises of India had triumphed over the visual of England. But now, my attention turns to a different battle between those two great nations. For tomorrow is the swingers’ paradise of Trent Bridge, Nottingham, and the battle to be the best in the world resumes; this is Test cricket, the only thing that really matters.

England 1 India 0. Already, I salivate.

Ian Thornton