understand the logic of his situation.
The three of us stood there for what seemed a long time. A container ship silently went through the back gardens of the houses on Delafield Place.
Chuck took a step forward. ‘Leave the field of play, sir,’ he said firmly. He extended his palm towards the clubhouse, an usher’s gesture. ‘Leave immediately please. You are interfering with play. Captain,’ Chuck said loudly, turning to the Kittitian captain, who was a little distance away, ‘please escort this gentleman from the field.’
The captain tentatively came forward. ‘I coming now, Tino,’ he called out. ‘Right behind you. No foolishness, now.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Tino muttered. He looked overcome by exhaustion. He dropped the gun and left the field slowly, shaking his head. After a short break, play resumed. Nobody saw any reason to call the cops.
When the match ended, both teams came together by the old clubhouse and shared Coors Lights and whisky Cokes and Chinese takeout and talked gravely about what had taken place. Somebody called for quiet, and Chuck Ramkissoon stepped forward into the centre of the gathering.
‘We have an expression in the English language,’ he said, as silence began to establish itself amongst the players. ‘The expression is “not cricket”. When we disapprove of something, we say “it’s not cricket.” We do not say “it’s not baseball.” Or “it’s not football.” We say “it’s not cricket.” This is a tribute to the game we play, and it’s a tribute to us.’ By now, all chatter had ceased. We stood round the speaker, solemnly staring at our feet. ‘But with this tribute comes a responsibility. Look here,’ Chuck said, pointing at the club crest on a Staten Island player’s shirt. ‘“Lude Ludum Insignia Secundaria,” it says here. Now I do not know Latin, but I’m told it means, and I’m sure you’ll correct me, Mr President, if I’m wrong’ – Chuck nodded at our club president – ‘it means, “Winning isn’t everything. It’s only a game.” Now, games are important. They test us. They teach us comradeship. They’re fun. But cricket, more than any other sport, is, I want to say’ – Chuck paused for effect – ‘a lesson in civility. We all know this; I do not need to say more about it.’ A few heads were nodding. ‘Something else. We are playing this game in the United States. This is a difficult environment for us. We play where we can, wherever they let us. Here at Walker Park, we’re lucky; we have locker-room facilities, which we share with strangers and passers-by. Most other places we must find a tree or bush.’ One or two listeners exchanged looks. ‘Just today,’ Chuck continued, ‘we started late because the baseball players have first right to play on this field. And now, when we have finished the game, we must take our drinks in brown paper bags. It doesn’t matter that we have played here, at Walker Park, every year for over a hundred years. It doesn’t matter that this ground was built as a cricket ground. Is there one good cricket facility in this city? No. Not one. It doesn’t matter that we have more than one hundred and fifty clubs playing in the New York area. It doesn’t matter that cricket is the biggest, fastest-growing bat-and-ball game in the world. None of it matters. In this country, we’re nowhere. We’re a joke. Cricket? How funny. So we play as a matter of indulgence. And if we step out of line, believe me, this indulgence disappears. What this means,’ Chuck said, raising his voice as murmurs and cracks and chuckles began to run through his audience, ‘what this means is, we have an extra responsibility to play the game right. We have to prove ourselves. We have to let our hosts see that these strange-looking guys are up to something worthwhile. I say “see”. I don’t know why I use that word. Every summer the parks of this city are taken over by hundreds of cricketers but somehow nobody notices. It’s like we’re invisible. Now that’s nothing new, for those of us who are black or brown. As for those who are not’ – Chuck acknowledged my presence with a smile – ‘you’ll forgive me, I hope, if I say that I sometimes tell people, You want a taste of how it feels to be a black man in this country? Put on the white clothes of the cricketer. Put on white to feel black.’ People laughed, mostly out of embarrassment. One of my teammates extended his fist to me, and I gave it a soft punch. ‘But we don’t mind, right, just so long as we can play? Just leave us alone, and we’ll make do. Right? But I say we must take a more positive attitude. I say we must claim our rightful place in this wonderful country. Cricket has a long history in the United States, actually. Benjamin Franklin himself was a cricket man. I won’t go into that now,’ Chuck said quickly, because a frankly competing hubbub had broken out amongst the players. ‘Let us just be thankful that it all ended well, and that cricket was the winner today.’
There the umpire stopped, to faltering applause; and soon after, everybody headed home – to Hoboken and Passaic and Queens and Brooklyn and, in my case, to Manhattan. I took the Staten Island Ferry, which on that occasion was the John F. Kennedy; and it was on board that enormous orange tub that I ran once again into Chuck Ramkissoon. I spotted him on the foredeck, amongst the tourists and romantics absorbed by the famous sights of New York Bay.
I bought a beer and sat down in the saloon, where a pair of pigeons roosted on a ledge. After some intolerable minutes in the company of my thoughts, I picked up my bag and went forward to join Chuck.
I couldn’t see him. I was about to turn back when I realised he was right in front of me and had been hidden by the woman he was kissing. Mortified, I tried to retreat without attracting his attention; but when you’re six feet five, certain manoeuvres are not easily accomplished.
‘Well, hello,’ Chuck said. ‘Good to see you. My dear, this is –’
‘Hans,’ I said. ‘Hans van den Broek.’
‘Hi,’ the woman said, retreating into Chuck’s arms. She was in her early forties with blond curls and a plump chin. She wiggled a set of fingers at me.
‘Let me introduce myself properly,’ Chuck said. ‘Chuck Ramkissoon.’ We shook hands. ‘Van den Broek,’ he said, trying out the name. ‘South African?’
‘I’m from Holland,’ I said, apologising.
‘Holland? Sure, why not.’ He was disappointed, naturally. He would have preferred that I’d come from the land of Barry Richards and Allan Donald and Graeme Pollock.
I said, ‘And you are from …?’
‘Here,’ Chuck affirmed. ‘The United States.’
His girlfriend elbowed him.
‘What do you want me to say?’ Chuck said.
‘Trinidad,’ the woman said, looking proudly at Chuck. ‘He’s from Trinidad.’
I awkwardly motioned with my can of beer. ‘Listen, I’ll leave you guys to it. I was just coming out for some fresh air.’
Chuck said, ‘No, no, no. You stay right here.’
His companion said to me, ‘Were you at the game today? He told me about what happened. Wild.’
I said, ‘The way he handled it was quite something. And that was some speech you gave.’
‘Well, I’ve had practice,’ Chuck said, smiling at his friend.
Pushing at his chest, the woman said, ‘Practice making speeches or practice with life-and-death situations?’
‘Both,’ Chuck said. They laughed together, and of course it struck me that they made an unusual couple: she, American and white and petite and fair-haired; he, a portly immigrant a decade older and very dark – like Coca-Cola, he would say. His colouring came from his mother’s family, which originated in the south of India somewhere – Madras, was Chuck’s suspicion. He was a descendant of indentured labourers and had little firm information about such things.
An event for antique sailing ships was taking place in the bay. Schooners, their canvas hardly distended in the still air, clustered around and beyond Ellis Island. ‘Don’t you just love this ferry ride?’ Chuck’s girlfriend said. We slipped past one of the ships, a clutter of masts and ropes and sails, and she and Chuck joined other passengers in exchanging waves with its crew. Chuck said, ‘See that sail there? That