IT CAN'T BE JUST THE CRICKET
Many moons have passed since my last
insignificant contribution to these illustrious pages, and in a
fit of benevolence and possibly (and more realistically), a lack
or choice, the editors have chosen you Dear Reader, to be
punished once more by the ramblings of a raving lunatic. It is
of course no less an occasion than the 125th Battle of the
Blues. The oldest unbroken cricket series in the history of the
game. Not a by-the-way achievement that. Despite the fact that
22 blokes in flannels have played each other 125 times with
varying results and many a hilarious locker room story, what
else flows from the epic nature of this contest, and its
celebrated history? For all we know there maybe two teams from
the outbacks of Central Australia who have been playing each
other every Sunday for the last 150 years and just don't get
their copy of Wisden, or the Hobbits led by Bilbo Baggins may
have played their rivals from the next shire for centuries until
they were wiped out by the ghoulish hordes of Mordor. Somehow
though, something sets this particular Royal Thomian series
aside.
What I have racked my small brain to try and
figure it out could that be? Latterly, it can't be the cricket. With
much respect to the supremely talented figures that have trod the
turf at the Oval and the SSC (and wherever else they played before
then), it would be a narcissistic exercise to insist that the
cricket itself could keep this event alive from a purist's point of
view. For example this season alone, both Royal and S. Thomas' have
suffered some not very flattering defeats against schools that do
not boast similar cricketing traditions as they do. No longer are
Sri Lankan sides packed with Royalists and Thomians, as they have
now become the exception rather than the rule. Many old hands have
also lamented that the Royal Thomian has become a stage for
individual records and not an arena for a no-quarter-asked-or-given
fight to the death. The surfeit of draws in the recent past (despite
the addition of the third day) bears ample testimony to this school
of thought. Much is at stake, and faintness of the heart cannot be
blamed. Everyone likes to win, but nobody wants to lose. In this
light I maybe forgiven for thinking that, of late, the action in the
middle does not merit the peripheral tumultuousness.
The only conclusion to be drawn is that it
can't be just the cricket.
The moons that have passed since my last
communication have been significant ones. Previous musings have been
from the points of view of an enthusiastic schoolboy, with, as most
Thomians still believe it is, the world at his feet. Little did I
know at the time, that on entry into the forbidding, unfamiliar
terrain of the Real World, it would not be at my feet; but would
much rather bring me to my knees. The Real World like Middle Earth
before it can be a place of much uncertainty, surprise and danger.
And this is where the rest of Life-After-S. Thomas' will be spent.
In the midst of this apprehension, and subsequent events which have
alerted me to the tribulations of the rat-race as we know it, I was
happy to learn that S. Thomas', and also the 'Royal Thomian' as an
institution; is not merely a weekend of revelry in the torturous
travails of life; but that it is life itself. Am I letting myself
fall headlong into the jaws of hyperbole? I hope not. These musings
come with far less enthusiasm and disillusionment about the World,
and with just a dash of acquired cynicism viz. its ways (The Ways of
the World). It is in this light that this unique archive of humanity
that is the Big Match, stands out like the proverbial guiding
beacon.
University and trivial matters of academic
necessities behind, it suddenly becomes necessary to find a method
of eking out an existence. And in doing so you suddenly begin to
realise that "Hey! That bloke who pulled you by the tie when you
were a Prefect and made you 'have a drink you bugger!', is the
Managing Director at such and such." Holy crap. Similarly, many of
the scary old boys whom you shy away from while in uniform are, in
actual fact, respected members of the community. The dodgy old man
singing the wholly tasteless song in the Mustangs maybe the head of
your Company, and many other Companies. The Royalist seniors you
abused roundly from the safety of the Boys Tent turn out to be fine
upstanding pillars of society. And they all spring' forth from the
cauldron that is the Royal Thomian. 125 years of it.
Virgin visits to the realms of business,
banking, law, medicine, communications, and indeed all the varying
spheres of life that constitute Sri Lanka, have revealed to me that
it is nigh upon impossible to find an institution of any consequence
without a Royalist or Thomian at the helm, or at least somewhere on
the bridge. There must be something, some invisible, intangible
force that propels the products of these two schools along the paths
of collective success. The path that has produced prime ministers,
artistes, statesmen, dignitaries and academics must surely have a
common paving stone lining it. That paving stone I verily believe is
the Royal Thomian tradition. What else but continued excellence can
keep bringing these two diverse, yet so similar breeding grounds
together, so often, so regularly and still so productively? While
this year celebrates the 125th anniversary of cricketing relations
between the two schools, the buck as they say doesn't stop there.
Incidental to the cricket match are the other
events of Royal Thomian week, and Royal Thomian culture. The cycle
parade no doubts receives the most enthusiastic welcome from the
younger boys, with this being their first taste of active
participation in a Royal Thomian event. Watching the aspiring
cyclists from the back of a truck, or more often than not picking
them out of the drain, or running alongside them for the length of
the parade haranguing them on road rules, the joy and sense of pride
written on their unsuspecting faces, is a sight to behold. Although
at the time, the dehydration and fatigue of the moment was
paramount, looking back on the experience, it really is an
indispensable part of the Big Match. 95% of those little blokes will
never play for the First XI, and their contribution to the event
will be hardly more than a face in the crowd at the Boy's Tent. But
this was never, and never will be a deterrent. It is the initiation
to the Roy Tho culture.
The traditional Royal Thomian debate is also a
much looked forward to affair. The articulate (and sometimes not so
articulate) name calling, insult trading and below the belt punch
exchanging, has left many a mirth filled moment in the hearts of the
participants and observers. Prefects' rugby and cricket matches are
held mid week, and despite the fact that we Thomians are vastly
outnumbered by the Mongol Hordes, we hold our own. Friendships are
forged, and adversaries that may have sat on your head in a ruck,
are now your good mates, and managing your frugal bank account. Such
is the spirit of the Royal Thomian.
For both Tent Committees it is the best of
times, and it is the worst of times. The harassment is unparalleled,
the cock ups are innumerable and assistance is minimal. It is a time
of great learning, and everyone is richer for the experience. The
absolute necessity for co-operation between the Committees of both
schools, further strengthens the bond between the fraternities. A
bond that, happily, continues well after the portals of Mt.Lavinia
and Reid Avenue have been left behind (geographically at least as no
one ever really leaves them behind).
For the boys who are yet to be initiated to the
rank of men it is a time of flag flying, camaraderie, hot dogs and
pocket money. The evils of the Ordinary Levels and the Advanced
Levels are temporarily shelved, and pure unadulterated hedonism
invades the mind and body. For many - and this is a truism for the
last hundred years at least - the Big Match is the place where their
first drink is procured, their first cigarette tried and the words
to their first dirty song learned. Three days of unsupervised
loitering, in the guise of watching a cricket match. Also, it is
often the initial hunting ground, as flag bearing adolescents ogle
the nice looking girls (God bless them), with absolutely no attempt
at subtlety. Some of these initial appraisals I am told have gone on
to mature into lasting bonds and amidst the cacophony of Bachchus,
there is also the sweet music of Eros' harp. All hail the match.
It is a lifetime collapsed into three days.
The rest is inexplicable. The Royal Thomian
joint walk held not to long ago, resembled the exodus of the
Israelites from Palestine, such were the numbers. It was widely
suggested, given the peace that prevailed, as well as the unity and
efficiency shown by the walkers, that the Organising Committee take
over the country in these precarious times, and run it as
successfully as the walk. It may have been a comment in passing, but
the truth of that statement is not too far off the mark. In a
climate of uncertainty, pettiness and personal gain, the example of
these two institutions could, and should, be a national example.
125 years cannot be built on anything less.
While it has been said that change is the only constant, the only
constant within our changing lives has been the Royal - Thomian. It
has seen us grow from unpromising young spin bowlers to gifted
batsmen. From under 13 reserve to First XV captain. From prolific
scribbler to Editor of the Magazine. From annoying soprano to leader
of the choir. And from boys to men.
Wherever we go, whichever part of the world,
the second week of March will always beckon, as it has countless
numbers of our comrades this year. Don't tell me they're here for
the cricket. The ;
Royal Thomian. That great melting pot of life.
The tradition, the memories, the friends will live with your
forever. For as we all know when we go out into the world, in our
workplaces and in our higher education institutions, if we can't
find a Thomian, there'll always be a Royalist to help us out. Why?
Because we share the common bond that is this event. It is the
reason that my father's batchmates don't even ask my name on
introduction all they care about is "did the bugger also go to
College machan?" It is the reason that my boss, despite all his many
accolades, reserves a special place on his wall for the black and
white photograph of himself and his partner walking out to open the
batting for STC at the Oval over 40 years ago. Looking at the
College Prefects' photograph next to it (while shirking work of
course), I see men I admire and respect. Men who were once boys just
like we were. Men whose shoes we must someday fill.
For three days in March the plebeians and
patricians become one.< Boundaries are broken, social niceties
dispensed with and conservatism thrown out the window. On the
Monday, with the voices slowly returning to normal, and the
hangovers even more slowly subsiding, it's back to the rat race. The
small consolation is that we know that we can always count on those
Blue Black and Gold rats in the same race, for we all come from that
one place. The Royal Thomian. For one and a quarter centuries it
hasn't been a cricket match. It has been a way of life.
Be thou forever!
Shanaka Amarasinge
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