.jpg)
It was cold today but the sun was shining, with a calm breeze, and it feels like the perfect beginning to the weekend in many ways. On my daily morning walk, I felt my face catch some of the warm sunlight as I made my way through the shade of buildings and trees then while taking the absolute perfect deep breath as if it were to be my last and, it was in that moment that I felt truly present. Immediately after, for some reason, my mind threw me a memory of playing a cricket night match with my friends in Karachi. I thought to myself, what a precious time that was and so I immediately decided to memorialize it by ensuring I write it and share it with you all. So, I invite you to take a trip down memory lane, my memory lane, with me. Let’s begin.
Football may be the most popular sport in the world (it’s my favorite too), but in Pakistan, there’s nothing more popular than Cricket. In the moment of either being played or watched, it’s the one thing that dissolves religious and political divides, unites the rich and poor, and in my opinion is the creator of life-long friendships. It was no different for me growing up in Karachi. I, along with many other, would gear up two hours before the sun set and descend into the neighborhood streets to play to our hearts’ content (or until the sun set because if I wasn’t home by then, I’d be grounded for days). If you were good at either batting or bowling then you’d be picked first and if you were really good you could eventually become the captain of the neighborhood team. Yours truly was a captain for a period of time. It was a true meritocracy, okay?! Looking back, those time were so ridiculously fun but then there were the night matches.
On a breezy weekend night in a suburban Karachi neighborhood, under dimly lit street lamps, a core group of guys would gather to setup our stadium in the streets. Two-man teams were assigned to collect and organize the various items required to transform our humble neighborhood street crossing to our very own coliseum where teams of legends would play a knock-out tournament, all night til’ sunrise. These two-man teams would be responsible for purchasing enough bats and balls to last all night, borrow ladders from the local electrician to setup the lights, grabbing enough dainty wired lights and the chalk to draw in the pitch of our local coliseum. Once collected, we would regroup an hour before the first ball was bowled and climb up the borrowed ladders and hang up the wired lights diagonally from one street pole to the other until we had at least sixty yards covered. Then there was the matter of the “kunda”, which roughly translates to “electricity theft”, where we had to decide how the installed lights would be lit. So, depending on which uncle was the meanest, we’d choose their house’s electric meter and hook up our “kunda” so we could have a brightly lit street. Alas, there we were, under the lights.
The pitch was drawn in meticulously, at least once everyone was done arguing about its measurements. The wickets or rather bottle crates from the local bakery, that the owner so graciously let us “borrow” (he didn’t), were set up. The balls were wrapped in white electric tape, a hallmark of street cricket, to ensure batsmen could see the balls clearly. The boundary lines would be drawn north and south of the pitch to ensure there were no debates on when a shot would be considered for a run of “four” or “six”. The guards at the gates would be “incentivized” to notify us if they saw corrupt cops approaching to ensure none of us would get in trouble for the “kunda”. Finally, we would have to distract the neighborhood uncles returning from evening prayer to take their post-prayer catch up to another side of the neighborhood to ensure they didn’t notice the “kunda”. I’m telling you, this “kunda” business was no joke because someone was getting a huge electric bill that month.
Now, this was not a tournament to be taken lightly. We were hosting multiple neighborhoods. Our Block-10 team may have been the organizers but we had teams from Blocks 6 through 11 on their way to challenge us on our home court. We had to be ready to compete, and to win. Right around midnight, after the tournament brackets were set, the games would begin. Everyone was motivated to win but there could only be one winner. Slowly teams would get knocked out and call it an early night but the finalists would end up playing the last match in the early morning hours. I remember noticing the thin sliver of sunlight making the sky glow as a sign that the tournament was coming to an end. Playing in the final was a matter of pride, whether you won or lost. If you performed well, your stats would be added to the records (I'm sure we have a record book somewhere!) and you’d be regarded as one of the neighborhood greats!
After the final had been played, whether win or lose, our organizing group would clear up the street by erasing the pitch, disconnecting the lights, returning the ladders and carefully placing the crates at the back entrace of the bakery. As the morning arrived, it was like the night match never even happened as the unsuspecting uncles made their way to the mosque for their morning prayer. We would then load up either on the bus or squeeze into a car that one of us was lucky enough to own and hit up a breakfast spot where we would pick out the highlights of the night; what was the reason we won or lost, the triggers for the fights that broke out or how scared everyone was of my mom showing up at 2 in the morning trying to tell me to come home. To their credit, the whole crew had my back and convinced her to let me play until the end. These were my brothers in arms, the guys that went to war with me and for me, my Block-10 team.
These night matches under the lights are a part of my core favorite memories. It wasn’t just because of the sport but because of the connections I formed, the trouble we got into and the absolute pandemonium of fun it was. It evokes so much gratitude for my experience as a teenager growing up in Karachi. I don’t know where all the guys are in their lives today but if you are reading this, thank you for giving me some of the best memories of my life. You made it better and I hope to see you again so we can reminisce about how I was the best bowler in the history of Block-10! There you have it, a snapshot of what it was like to be a part of our infamous night matches. If you made it this far into the story then thank you for reading and allowing me to share my gratitude for the contribution of others to my memories. Today, I hope you think back to a core memory that you are fond of and sit in the gratitude of its existence for a few minutes. Have a great weekend!