Some people are easy to buy presents for. Others are downright impossible. My Dad falls firmly into the second category, making occasions like Fathers' Day (tomorrow, by the way, in case you've forgotten) a bit tricky.
Because we live on opposite sides of the world, gifts which can't be posted relatively easily or cheaply are out, as are ones which might get broken in transit or anything which doesn't comply with the uber-strict Australian quarantine regulations. Nearly all of his favourite foods fall into the latter category, annoyingly; customs officials don't look too kindly upon kippers. Or pork pies.
Then there are some things which *could* be posted but are still problematic. My Dad, doesn't, for instance, wear ties. I hadn't really noticed this until it came up in conversation one Christmas, just as I was about to hand over his carefully chosen and rather beautifully (if I do say so myself) wrapped present: a tie. He already has more golf-balls than you can poke a 5-iron at. Ditto golf gloves, umbrellas, tees, and related accessories. He doesn't do novelty socks (or novelty anything else, actually), gadgets just pass him by, and he's never been a particular fan of tinkering about with the sorts of things that might require him to own a set of tools. My Dad has never, to my knowledge, even set foot in a shed, let alone pottered about in one.
It all makes shopping for him a bit of nightmare really. Which is why, when this book popped up on my radar this morning courtesy of Me and My Big Mouth*, I nearly squealed with excitement.
This is the product description from Amazon:
"What I Love About Cricket" is the story of a summer when a 'master' cricket obsessive teaches his novice 'pupil' the wisdom of the game. Sandy Balfour is cast as the supposed master and his sixteen-year-old daughter's new boyfriend - the skateboarding boy wonder - is the reluctant pupil. This beginner's guide to the infuriatingly perverse game of cricket is a love letter addressed both to those who utterly fail to understand it and to those who need reminding why they fell in love in the first place. What unfolds is wonderfully observed, very funny and as much about fathers and daughters, love and life, as it is about cricket
He is going to love it.
My childhood summers were stuffed full of cricket; if it wasn't on the telly, it was being played in the back garden or at the beach, or in the local park; anywhere there was a spare bit of space and a rubbish bin to use as a wicket. Greg and Ian Chappell, Dennis Lilly, and Rod Marsh were plastered over my brother's bedroom walls and the sports pages of the daily newspaper; heralded as gods in baggy green caps. Debates about such controversial matters as underarm bowling and whether one day matches should be played at night raged for weeks.
Despite this constant exposure, when comes to cricket I don't, as you may have spotted before, know much. But I do know that I definitely fall into the category of "those who utterly fail to understand it".
Other sports are fine. I can get excited about most of them if I try hard enough; give me a reason, any reason, to root for one team over the other, and I'll be right there with everyone else, shouting at the umpire, watching the scoreboard with one hand over my eyes, and feeling my heart soar with hope one minute, then come crashing back down the next. Cricket is the exception. I just can't get it, no matter who is playing and how much I care, or should care, about either of the teams. It all seems so pointless. And time-consuming.
I know there are people, because I've met them, who argue that it's about the long game rather than what's going on mintue by minute, and that the mind-numbingly slow pace doesn't necessarily detract from the excitement or tension. Fair enough. I appreciate that it's a sport with an incredible history and which is full of grand traditions. I know that cricket matches can sometimes test the players' behaviour and sportsmanship as much as their sporting prowess, and that occasionally the game will provide an opportunity for a player to do something quite remarkably noble. I get all that. I still just don't get cricket.
My Dad, who doesn't so much gets cricket as positively devour it, knows this, and stopped trying to convert me years ago, but his attempts to have become one of those ongoing jokes which tend to run on and on and on in families, until no one even really remembers how they started in the first place. He's coming to visit next week, and for the first time in years, I can't wait to give him his Fathers' Day present. I might even have to have a sneaky read of it first.
*Scott Pack's blog; the same Scott Pack who runs the Firestation Bookswap in Windsor. Two quick things about Bookswap, which I went to again this month: First, it was just as good as last time I went, which you can find out all about here if you are so inclined. Second, if you live in London and think Windsor is too hard to get to on a school night, there's a bookswap in London on August 5th.**
**You're wrong, by the way; it's really pretty easy to get there. About an hour on the train, tops. Windsor is a lot closer than you might think.
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