The wicket on the hearth

Whenever I go to the UK, there is always one story that I can follow in the news that helps to define the trip for me.

This year, it was The Ashes.

The story goes that the first time the Australian national team beat the English national team, the English were so despondent that they burnt up the dohickey that holds the wicket together to symbolize "the death of English cricket." Rumors of cricket's demise were premature and the matches continued every other year or so until the present day.


Before I arrived I was aware that the summer of 2005 had been an abnormally exciting one for cricket -- one discussion list I am on took particular offense to the proclamation that "cricket is the new rock and roll." I tend to be disappointed in whatever the new rock and roll du jour is, and I've had a taste of cricket before (and like 99.9% of all Americans found it surprisingly incomprehensible) so for a bit of local flavor, I found it initially lacking compared to the news-flotsam of previous visits (General Elections, murder trials, Tragic Mandy and her Heroic Octuplets), but there was excitement in the air as England had not won for twenty-odd years.