A funny thing happened today.
I decided to drive to the office to pick up my portable hard disk drive, as I was committed to churn out a blog post.
Its quite a challenge getting into my office on a Sunday. Its located very centrally, off Little India!
That’s when our hordes of foreign workers from the Pan Asian region come out to enjoy their rest day. But I was determined to be a good blogger, so I went ahead and drove in anyway.
With mission accomplished (And discovering a nuffie working on a sunday!), I proceeded to drive out by the big field in Farrer park, and thats when I spotted it.
My mind went into random thought mode, I did a quick check in the rear view mirror, did a little top gun reverse thrusters manoeuvre and turned into the field carpark.
What I spotted was this.
A game of Sunday cricket.
I walked in amongst the bemused crowd of foreign workers watching the game. They seemed suitably amused that a local was here watching the game too. Even more so, when I whipped out my trusty BB (Galaxy S3 battery was dead!), and started taking photos. They probably thought I was some government agent spying on their activities or something.
Why was this scene so special, and why had I stopped in my tracks to watch the game?
The answer lies in this next photo, which I took off tomsyard.com via Google images.
This is parker’s piece, in Cambridge, where I spent 2 of my best years studying my A levels.
On a Sunday, one of my favourite things to do, would be to walk by here, plonk myself on the carpet grass, and watch a game I used to enjoy playing myself. I would take in the scene. And admire it.
The classy whites of the cricketers, the arch of the bowler’s form as he delivers his ball, the “thwack” of a good swing, the bustle of the field as fielders scurry to contain the damage.
It was like art. And I loved it.
What stopped me in my tracks and made me turn into the field was the realisation that I would not pass this by in Cambridge. What was making me pass it by here?
Alot of us travel overseas, and enjoy other people’s cultures. But do we even realise that we share many similarities and that the grass is not necessarily greener on the other side? (Thats just my bb photo as opposed to tom yard’s SLR btw haha).
I stood there for a good 20 minutes, and throughly enjoyed my Sunday doing it. These were hardmen, I concluded, playing with bare feet on the rough and rocky surface. Even the wicket keeper did not have gloves. I shuddered slightly at the thought of a cricket ball hitting one of them in the balls or face (because both has happened to me, and I had protection!).
There was no cool spring breeze, no smooth carpet grass, or cathedrals in the background. But it was art, a piece of art that belonged to us, and I admired it.