How I Started Playing Cricket As the Sole Woman in a Team of Guys in New York

'Cricket has put me in touch with myself and my mental state in a way that no therapist could have.'

Until 30, I had never picked up a cricket bat in my life, forget owning one.

Call it a midlife crisis, a passion, or craziness, suddenly playing cricket became as vital to me as finding my soulmate or getting promoted at work.

Of all places, I was in New York, where cricket was hardly played by anyone. But I found a group of brown men who played cricket weekly at the East River Park in Manhattan. Like me, they had imported their ‘Indianness’ to the United States (US). As they say, you can take the man out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the man.

On a Sunday morning, when I stepped onto the baseball field occupied by the cricket team, I felt seen in contrast to all the rugged brown men who blended so well together. Under the sunglasses, caps, and stubble, they looked similar, like they had collectively morphed into a single being.

Challenges To Blend In

I knew some of them, but they all acted like strangers in a cold, unfamiliar way – often as a parent does at a school meeting where the child is performing poorly. The aloof stare, the dismissive shrug, all the hints of their body language suggesting we aren’t responsible for her. Except for me, there wasn’t a woman in sight, not even a white one.

At first, the guys assumed I wanted to watch. That’s what women were supposed to do while men did exciting things. It was common in South Asian culture. Growing up, the only women I could spot at a cricket match were cheerleaders or part of the audience.

‘Hi, I am Rachita. I know very little bowling, some batting and no wicketkeeping,’ I practiced saying under my breath.

The truth was I barely knew how to play cricket. Like most girls, I had imbibed all my knowledge of cricket through osmosis. I had avidly watched cricket matches with my family since the movie Lagaan made it to the Oscars nominations.

I knew the basics, of course. There were three aspects to cricket: batting, bowling, and fielding. What the East River Park boys played was a version of gully cricket, improvised to accommodate restrictions on the number of players and playing conditions.

The guys continued their game, half unaffected by my presence, and the rest turning their heads to get a second look at me. Behind their poker-faced expressions, they could have easily masqueraded amusement, disapproval, or surprise. But I was relieved that I couldn’t read men and their thoughts for once.

If they were studying me as closely as I was studying them, they would know that I was new to this. I was wearing brand-new sneakers, a pair of white sketchers I ordered from Amazon. The spotless sneakers, the fumbling gait, and the look of unfamiliarity as I tried to navigate my way across the field would have given me away.

Playing for the First Time

‘Wanna play?’ one of the players, who was wicketkeeping, asked when I stepped closer to the group of guys huddled together in the centre of the field.

I nodded, quickly becoming a part of the fielding squad.

It’s that easy? Of course, it wasn’t. Throughout the match, my fielding position was changed three times. First, I was the third man — the position behind the slips and gully fielders. This position was initially created to prevent the ball from going to the boundary.

Confused about the location of the boundary, I realised that I had been standing behind the boundary line, and the group of men was cheering the batsman for scoring four runs, not for my exceptional fielding abilities. Rookie mistake, I mouthed while shaking my head.

Next, I was placed mid-wicket for a while until the guys found the perfect position for me — short leg.

I did have short legs, but besides that, the position was meant for catching balls that hit the bat by mistake. If the batman was right-handed, he usually hit the ball toward the left side. And I was on the right (just in the wrong game).

Of course, the batsman from the opposite team made use of my presence and found the perfect strategy to score runs: he hit the balls towards me.

I was panting heavily by midafternoon, wiping sweat beads off my forehead.

Once, the ball was in the air, and I heard a loud ‘catch it!.' The ball was coming right at me. I squinted and stretched my arms in the air. But gravity pulled the ball to the ground like a magnet. It took seconds. Before I knew what had happened, the catch was already dropped. I heard a few muffled groans and sighs. I don’t know if I should have been elated that the guys were expecting something from me or disappointed for letting them down.

Later, I would dream about this moment numerous times, repeatedly wishing that I had taken that catch, so that I could have shouted at the guys – ‘Aha, bet you all thought I couldn’t catch it! Look, look, you all misjudged me. How wrong you were about me.’

But I was terrible at cricket. I had no hand-eye coordination, and whenever the guys yelled at me to get the ball, I had a mini heart attacks.

When the wicketkeeper told me to pass the ball, I threw it like a girl. I heard a few laughs and felt silly.

Embarrassed for the Second Time

Why was I even doing this? Why was I putting myself through this torture when I could have just gone to brunch with the girls and sipped mimosas. I wasted an entire Sunday being humiliated. I ran away from the field even before the game was over.

To everyone’s surprise (and mine), I went for another cricket match at East River Park the following Sunday. At least this time, I had a bat. Clutching the bat like a sword, I charged toward the field occupied by rugged brown men. The repeated looks of surprise, exchange of smiles, and confusion followed my arrival.

Even though I was 5′3″, I felt tinier – like a dwarf among giants. ‘I want to play too,’ my voice sounded even tinier.

I was surprised they heard me. Their solution was to use me as a joker on both teams, so I would field and bat for both sides, and the damage cancelled out equally.

No harm done. It wasn’t such a bad idea and let’s be real, who was I to choose? I knew my position. Short leg and, well, silly point too. I was asked to alternate between the two.

Before the match began, each bowler practiced with all the batsmen, and I also awkwardly stepped in to bat. I couldn’t hit the slowest balls bowled to me, and in the end, I convinced all the guys through my batting that their decision to make me play as a joker was correct.

It’s not like I will score when you’re all watching me like that, I mumbled, trying to justify my lousy performance in my head.

Here’s what happens when you are put on the spot: you get nervous, and you fumble. Even before I had the chance to attempt to run out the batsman or catch the ball, the yelling, and the grunting (not to forget the bouts of machismo) distracted me from paying attention to the ball.

The other guys didn’t have too much of a problem. They had grown up in this rugged environment and were all immune to it. At least I made them feel good about themselves. I bet the second-worst player already felt like the best player on the team.

Towards the end of another game, the team had unanimously decided it was me who was the worst at the game.

I also evoked pity in them. The players shared batting advice with me. I learnt about ten different ways to hold a bat; everyone had their own technique and they generously tutored me until I at least hit some balls.

Getting the Hang of Things

With each passing week, I was getting slightly better. The appearance of the guys also drastically improved over the weeks. They all looked different from the first day I saw them; some of them even started wearing colognes, new T-shirts and going as far as shaving their beards.

I practiced batting in my free time, using the laundry dryer balls. When I clutched the handle of the bat, I felt strong and powerful. I don’t know exactly how to say this, but I felt that if I could do this, I could do anything.

On a deeper level, cricket allowed me to enter the hidden world of guys. This included the locker room boy talk, the smooth display of masculinity, the cricket jargon, and the ease of making friends simply by sharing the same love for a sport. For the first time in a long time, I felt part of something bigger.

Cricket also made me grow as a thinker. I conversed in internal monologues while playing a match. A firm, confident 'you got this' played under my breath. And I repeatedly fist-bumped myself.

Cricket had put me in touch with myself and my mental state in a way no therapist could have. Not only did the sport promote a feeling a social inclusion and a sense of community in a jarring city like New York, but it also taught me the most important life lessons practicality.

It’s no surprise that some of my most practical friends are guys. Even if it’s a stereotypical perspective, it’s something that I have noticed based on my observations.

Whenever I have talked to my guy friends about a certain problem, their advice is focused on the solution, not the problem. My best friend’s favorite advice still is ‘what’s done is done, you can’t fix it,’ or ‘such is life.’

When I dug deep philosophically into the world of cricket, I realised that the rules of cricket are pretty much like the rules of life: vague and luck-based. A game which literally starts with the flip of a coin, cricket prepares the boys for the real world in a way no academy can.

Like life, not all rules of cricket are fair. For example, when a bat misses the ball and it crosses the boundary anyway, it is still considered a four. In this case, the batting team utilises the speed of the bowler, not the skill of the batsman, to get ahead by four runs.

What the guys do is obey the rules and still try to win, instead of sulking about the unfairness of the situation. Once an umpire gives a decision, even if it’s a wrong one, players still respect it and move forward.

The Divisions Between Boys & Girls

I wondered why South Asian girls are taught to play indoor games like ‘kitchen, kitchen’ or ‘house, house’ while boys are encouraged to play out in the open.

Is it an agenda for women to always remain confined within walls, while boys have open fields? Boys who cross boundaries are cheered, while girls who cross boundaries are warned not to repeat it.

Why is it that we women are only accepted in society if we stay within the parameters of the male-dominated discourse of what is normal?

According to boys, the only girls who should play cricket should be tomboys with a boy cut, not girls with long hair who paint their nails red.

These are also the sorts of things that male comedians capitalise on. That’s why people who want to change the status quo are frowned upon. Discomfiting thoughts are often suppressed, and yet they are the ones bringing about the most potential growth spurts.

My presence annoyed some boys, who probably still thought that they had a shot at making it to the Indian cricket team. I was seen more as an intruder than a player. When I probed into the matter, I realised that they weren’t comfortable playing with a girl.

I tried my best not to appear "girly" in more ways than one: I suppressed my giggles, dressed neutral, masked my muscle-pain and cramps, and made it a point not to flirt around.

I followed these instructions in every game. I even tried standing like the men: bent my knees, crouched towards the batsmen, scooped my hands, and stood at ease with an agile expression on my face, in that inorganic, contrived way which felt rehearsed and unreal.

In the end, howsoever hard I tried, I couldn’t stand like them, and I couldn’t be like them.

The Scourge of Patriarchy

We have grown up in a patriarchal society and that reflects in sports like cricket. No matter the geographical location, I remain a woman. Labels define us everywhere. In India, I am a woman. In New York, I am an immigrant brown woman. But it still changes nothing in the context of a cricket game in East River Park. I am still a woman.

A particular guy, let’s call him RT, asked some of my friends if I was coming for cricket to hook up with guys. Well, we all have our motivations. Mine were complex (but thanks RT for that considerate analysis. I give you a lot of credit for my waning enthusiasm for showing up for cricket matches).

Despite this, I realised that not all guys were feudal when it came to women playing cricket. Some of them were so chivalrous, they reminded me of cricket being a gentleman’s game.

They bowled to me with patience, never showing the slightest hint of frustration if I missed the ball. They always instilled in me a sense of confidence that I would get better with practice. Some told me how their own wife/girlfriend wants to play cricket now that I have started playing along with them.

Seeing the same people on a weekly basis cemented a feeling of solidarity and familiarity in me. I didn’t get skilled at cricket, but at least I felt less alone.

Sometimes the guys would exchange food and match updates, other times they exchanged greetings, like a simple ‘kya haal chaal hai?’ (What have you been upto?). We had brown communities at work, but none of them had addressed loneliness in a tangible, effective way.

Cricket did something strange. It unlocked a whole new world in New York City. A world of less boundaries and more possibilities.

In a generation which is growing individualistic, team sports like cricket are an opportunity to unite people sans race, caste, creed, religion, boundaries or gender.

Cricket should be made mandatory for both boys and girls in school. It’s as important (if not more) as concepts of physics and math. It shows you how to bounce back from the lowest curve i.e., resilience, something theorems and formulae don’t address. It safeguards one’s mental health.

And lastly, why should boys have all the fun?

(Rachita Ramya is a New York-based writer with a background in public health and medicine. This is an opinion piece and the views expressed are the author's own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for them.)