I never imagined I would ever watch a cricket match, let alone attend one, let alone join tens of thousands of others at a venue 20 minutes from my house.
I left for the ICC Men’s T20 World Cup with an open mind. The work required as much.
Just blocks from the entrance at Eisenhower Park in East Meadow, there was no hint that one of the biggest sporting events in the world was taking place. Traffic was minimal. Promotional material fell through the cracks.
I arrived at the Nassau Coliseum parking lot for the first time since the Islanders said goodbye in the 2021 Eastern Conference Finals to find the concrete filled with blue and orange. Virtually every fan is adorned in the team colors of India, the tournament favorite, set to face Ireland, whose handful of fans look like they got off at the wrong station. The New York metropolitan area has the largest Indian population in the United States. Diversity brought the World Cup here, but it disappears in a venue where it appears roughly 97 percent of attendees have Indian heritage.
Tailgates consist of coffee and quiet conversations. One fan practices his bowling (cricket’s version of pitching). Flags are waved and unfurled, when not being draped. Mini versions are being hawked, two for $5.
Jehovah’s Witnesses are here. They’ve come to the wrong place. The assembled already have religion: the most popular sport of the most populous nation.
They come from Hicksville and Queens and New Jersey, India, England and Canada. They speak Hindi. They speak with thick accents. They speak with Long Island lilts. They carry signs mocking Pakistan and Bangladesh.
The stadium is roughly one mile away. Some line up for the shuttle bus. I join those on foot, passing the police officers with assault rifles and the bomb-sniffing dogs.
I grew up going to Eisenhower Park, playing soccer and golf. On this Wednesday morning, it is unrecognizable, walking through security and spotting a (temporary) 34,000-seat stadium the tournament organizers spent $30 million to construct. Almost every fan who enters stops to snap photos in front of the black-mesh-covered metal beams that support the bleachers. A quartet of Irishmen double-fisting beers at 9:12 a.m. are happy to join.
There is general glee, like they all can’t believe they are here, like they can’t believe it is here. There is lightheartedness, possibly because the outcome is obvious (DraftKings lists India as a -1800 favorite).
Pop-up stands sell merchandise. None mention New York. Shirts are sold for several teams. Ireland isn’t included. I considered buying souvenirs for my children. Hats are $45. Shirts are $50. It’s the thought that counts.
The concessions feature tikka masala, halal chicken, vegetarian samosas and fish and chips. Pretzels are $12. A hot dog is $9. The comforts of home. A couple from Texas buys one water ($6.50). Aren’t there games near Dallas?
“Not with India,” the man replies, walking away as sitar music blasts from the speakers.
On Monday, an announced crowd of 12,562 watched the first Long Island match, between South Africa and Sri Lanka. On Wednesday, an expected sellout falls short by 10,000 or so.
Most locals are unaware this is even happening. Even if they were, an event shoehorned into a country with no knowledge of the sport has not been catered to casual fans. Ticket prices range from hundreds of dollars to thousands. This game begins at 10:30 a.m., when parents are working and children are learning and it is primetime in Mumbai. In the U.S., the games are exclusively broadcast on Willow TV, a network that makes TruTV look like ESPN.
Walking up the metallic stairs and through the tunnel, the field is striking, a massive oval on which the possibilities feel infinite. The grass is green. The sky is blue. We could be anywhere.
The in-stadium host is from overseas, selling a product that’s already been purchased:
“This is going to be fun. This is going to be out of this world. Virat Kohli is here. Superstars don’t get bigger than this. This is surreal.”
I’ll take his word for it. I am a penguin in Arizona.
It is the strangest feeling I’ve ever experienced at a sporting event. It is not bad, just unusual, a feeling of not belonging.
I briefly studied up on the sport, but there is so much more to learn. A new question pops up every few minutes. The family besides me speaks in a foreign tongue. My phone battery is red. I’m on my own.
Two batters come up at a time, clad like umpires prepared to haze freshmen. The fielders are scattered. There is a stadium-wide countdown to the start of the match, like it’s New York’s Eve in Times Square. The umpires wear pink. It’s the only thing you’ll notice of them. It’s wonderful.
The first batter hits it softly on the ground. Music immediately blasts through the stadium until the next ball is thrown. This happens after every pitch. Imagine a TV show. Now imagine a commercial between every line of dialogue.
An Irish player appears to swing and miss and is credited with four runs. I must’ve missed something.
There isn’t much to miss, though. So many throws from the bowler (pitcher) don’t produce a swing. There are no balls or strikes. Even upon contact, the batter is not required to run. Few swings are for the fences. They largely resemble check swings, foul tips, chips out of the sand and hockey redirections, pushing the ball to any part of the field that is unoccupied. It’s often unclear whether a batter even intended to hit the ball backward or elsewhere, but bloop singles fill up box scores, too.
Much of the batter’s responsibility is to protect the wickets (three small wood stumps), which if hit, constitutes an out. A batter only gets one out the entire game. One team has all its at-bats (that’s probably an incorrect usage), then the other.
It takes time to take the wickets seriously, but there is something satisfying about seeing them struck, and it prompts the crowd’s biggest pop when the fluorescent red lights flare. AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” follows. Cultures unite.
Ireland has 36 runs and four outs. They’re in trouble. Or an upset is in the works. I have no idea.
Nearly 50 minutes have passed, and I have seen one play where someone besides the bowler (who runs before every pitch) exerted himself. The batters almost never run unless it is obvious they can get to the other wickets in time (just go with me). It is clear how many runs will be scored once contact is made.
It’s one point for each time you switch sides with the other batter. Four for hitting past the outer boundary (sort of like a ground-rule double) and six for what you’d consider a home run. The ball is harder and heavier than a baseball. The players have no gloves, but the first half of the game ends with one fielder attempting a catch that wasn’t a soft pop-up.
It is hot and humid and it is too early for the aromas of tikka to continue wafting in my direction. I eye the empty seats across the field. I let the patriarch of the family beside me, which had been speaking in another language, know of my intention to exit.
“Of course,” he says. “No problem.”
I find a seat near the dozens of Irish fans. The loudest one sports a Pakistan jersey and flag, imploring more of the underdog. He engages in good-natured ribbing with fans from India. There’s hope for Democrats and Republicans.
I forget to fill my water bottle (it’s free!). I have no idea if a break is coming soon. I do know that the T20 version of cricket being played lasts roughly three hours. Other versions can last up to five days, featuring breaks for lunch and tea.
The P.A. announcer utters countless phrases I don’t know (e.g. hat trick ball, wicket maiden), but it’s not imperative to understand. You get the gist of the game fairly quickly.
I do my best not to be the Ugly American, cursing the metric system and alternate methods of spelling “color,” even if cricket comes off as the game baseball improved upon — the sports are similar, but it’s almost like saying pizza and cake are, too, because they are cooked in an oven and sliced into pieces — or something my kids invented in the backyard.
Sports rules weren’t brought down from Mount Sinai. So many of them are absurd — a passed ball on a third strike, a touchback on a ball fumbled through the end zone, tennis’ scoring system, to name a few.
The greatest criticism is reserved for the atmosphere. As someone who has been to virtually every type of championship in the States, this match has no buzz. It doesn’t have the feel of a big event. It shares the DNA of a PGA practice round, where people are happy to be outside, to not be at work, to daydrink, to experience what they usually don’t. There is nothing wrong with that. But there is also nothing about it that makes you feel like you’ve been missing something.
It could be because this contest was a mismatch, the equivalent of the U.S. playing Angola in basketball. I am sure it will feel different on Sunday, when India faces Pakistan.
But it also feels like a byproduct of the action, or rather inaction, resulting in spasms of celebration between long stretches of silence. There are a few stretches when momentum builds, when you can see the potential of the sport, but the second of eight matches on Long Island is as interesting as a Yankees 9-1 romp over the White Sox.
Ireland finishes with 97 runs. A 20-minute break follows. I spend most of it on lines for the outdoor urinal trough and the iced coffee truck, returning to learn India scored 22 runs through two overs (innings, essentially). They have 76 runs halfway through their turn. The match is over. They play out the string. Ireland asks for a review. Of course, that part wouldn’t be different.
The fans cheer when India completes the victory that was obvious even to the most ignorant of us hours earlier. The celebration ends seconds later and everyone quietly files out of the stadium.
Event organizers have likened this trip to the States to the 1994 soccer World Cup, glossing over the fact that soccer already had major local infrastructure in place, that millions of children played soccer, that major TV networks broadcast those games.
Learning the basics of cricket is simple. Making the effort — when not on assignment — is far more difficult, despite any domestic boost to come from Thursday’s monumental U.S. upset of Pakistan in Texas. MLB is having a hard enough time attracting the youngest generations to the national pastime. This doesn’t feel like the start of something in the U.S. It’s a chapter in someone else’s story.
Not everything can translate. NFL Europe was shuttered in 2007.
The crowd is in no rush to leave the grounds, still hours until rush hour begins. I leave the park, crossing Merrick Avenue to reach Charles Lindbergh Boulevard.
After a few minutes, I spot Nassau Coliseum.
I am home.
Today’s back page
Juan Soto scare
The Yankees’ charmed season has reached a potential stumbling block.
Juan Soto, the team’s superstar right fielder, is headed for medical scans Friday on his sore left forearm.
Soto exited Thursday night’s game following a fifth-inning rain delay after having the forearm examined by team doctor Christopher Ahmad.
“It’s been like a week-and-a-half or two. I’ve just been grinding through it,” Soto said. “It’s kind of funny that it doesn’t hurt me whenever I throw or hit. It’s more like soreness that I feel with any kind of move that I make with my arm.”
The Yankees went on to beat the Twins (duh), 8-5, for their eighth straight win, pushing their record to an MLB-best 45-19.
Soto, in his first (and possibly last) season with the Yankees before free agency, leads the American League with a .318 batting average and .424 on-base percentage, and he has 17 home runs and 53 RBIs while having played in all 64 games.
His prognosis and availability for the marquee weekend series against the visiting Dodgers is unclear.
— Jonathan Lehman
Showtime for Hurley?
What will Dan Hurley do?
Hurley, who just led UConn to the first back-to-back national championships in men’s college basketball in 17 years, is reportedly being targeted by the Lakers, who wish to make the Jersey City product the head coach of the NBA’s most glamourous franchise. The two sides were scheduled to meet Friday to discuss the job.
Hurley, 51, reportedly could be offered as much as $15 million per season — he currently makes just over $5 million per season — and get the opportunity to coach one of the greatest players in NBA history (LeBron James), but it was 20 years ago that Mike Krzyzewski turned down a Godfather offer to join the Lakers and Kobe Bryant, opting to enhance his legend at Duke.
Hurley has voiced a desire to coach in the NBA, but his emotional and aggressive style could prove a poor fit with pros — especially James — unaccustomed to being dressed down by their coaches.
The Lakers may be an especially poor fit, given James’ age (39), Anthony Davis’ injury history, the inflexibility of the roster and the location. Hurley has spent his entire life in the Northeast, including his playing days at Seton Hall and a coaching career that started in 1996.
If he returns to UConn, Hurley could become the first coach to lead a men’s team to a three-peat since John Wooden. He likely also would return with a raise — earned by leverage from negotiations with the Lakers — and the type of job security few NBA coaches ever enjoy.
It’s good to be the king (of college basketball).
The Mets visit the royals
Cricket originated in England. More than four centuries later, baseball is catching on, too.
The Mets and Phillies will take part in the two-game MLB London Series this weekend, looking to build off the momentum of last year’s battle between the Cubs and Cardinals, which drew a combined attendance of 110,000 for two games.
According to the Associated Press, last year’s series generated an estimated $67 million for the local economy with 71 percent of tickets bought by natives of the United Kingdom. In addition to MLB merchandise sales rising by 43 percent in Great Britain in the past year, the BBC is in the second season of a five-year deal that granted the network the rights to broadcast MLB games, including the World Series and this weekend’s games.
The Yankees and Red Sox played the inaugural series in 2019. The next London Series is scheduled for 2026.
Prospect of the day
Roderick Arias did it on both sides of the ball on Thursday.
The Yankees infield prospect ripped a 101-mph double, drove in a run and scored once as part of a two-hit day for Single-A Tampa.
But his highlight of the game was a tumbling, over-the-shoulder snag he made while running from shortstop into short center.
The 19-year-old Dominican has taken his lumps during his first full season in the minors (.210 .316 .330), but his bat has perked up of late.
— Andrew Battifarano
What we’re reading 👀
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🏇 Check out all of our coverage from Saratoga ahead of Saturday’s 156th running of the Belmont Stakes.
🤷♂️ In a headline out of some kind of 2006 fever dream, Mike Bloomberg is going into business with A-Rod to buy the Minnesota Timberwolves.
🏀 Don’t look now — actually, scratch that, look — but the Liberty are cruising at 9-2 going into Saturday’s clash with the undefeated Connecticut Sun.
🥎 Oklahoma softball and its legendary senior class put the finishing touches on a historic four-peat.
🏀 The Post’s Phil Mushnick takes on the commentary surrounding Caitlin Clark’s rough WNBA introduction.
🎾 Jannik Sinner and Carlos Alcaraz battle for the mantle of men’s tennis’ next alpha in the French Open semifinals. Alexander Zverev, playing in the other semi, settled the assault case against him in Berlin court.