“Umpireeeeeeee!” That was the scream that echoed through the small village nestled between two lush green hills. Yeah man, it was the regular Sunday cricket match in full swing. Boys used to come from other villages just to play. i mean bragging rights was big round here. This was no official cricket match, noooo, nobody wore white spotless uniforms, I mean look at Dexter, his shorts was ripped and one hole was right where his bamsi was, he would not have to pull down his pants to do a number two. Most of us were bare footed, our toes caked with dry dirt. The wickets were pieces of galvanize with a stick behind them to prop them up. The cricket bats were homemade, some of the boys and them took great pride in who could make the best bat. The ball was a tennis ball, that damn ball would swing in heavy wind, bounce unpredictably off the pitch, and the pitch, let’s talk about the pitch. It was a path that led up to the houses, it was cracked and had what looked like small craters on it. It was on the part of the path that had a slight incline to it. The faster bowlers would always want to bowl from the top side. Oh how them boys and them used to love running up to the wicket and flinging that damn ball at the batsman. Many of us got plunked in the head, I know, i know, you saying, how can a tennis ball hurt, trust me, you get hit in the head with one of them and then come tell me it does not hurt.
This Sunday was no exception. A group of like twenty boys were gathered playing. Thar was when the happy, peaceful Sunday afternoon was interrupted with the shout,
“Umpireeeeeeeeeee! The bowler, Ricky, was insistent that the ball hit the wicket, the batsman, Randy protested,
Nah mon, no way that ball din hit de wicket atall atall!”
“Boi, you is tiefing, dat ball hit the damn wicket.” Ricky shouted back, tell him Tall boi,”
“Ok ok,” Randy said. ” If de ball hit de wicket, how come we doh hear no sound?”
Ricky stood speechless, I mean Randy had a point.
“It don matter, yuh out man, give Tall Boi de bat.”
“Bomboclat, I eh giving him notton, I tell yuh I doh out atall!”
Ricky walked up to Randy. I never knew what anybody let that boy play with them. He always cheating and starting fights.
“Give him de bat or I go tek it from you.” He said reaching out and grabbing the bat. Randy refused to let go. They started pulling the bat. All the boys and them started making a circle around them. Soon they were on the ground rolling around, dirt was flying everywhere, curse words pepped the air. Out of the crown comes Batto, the village drunk. He tried to break up the fight but only managed to end up rolling around on the ground with the two boys. Ricky let out a loud grunt then jumped up, the bat held over his head as he screamed in triumph,
“I have it, i have it!” That is when it happen, in his moment of victory, his worrier like scream echoing through the valley. His pants dropped to his ankle. At first it did not seem to bother him because he was wearing under pants. But that underpants was old so the elastic in the waist lose and slowly it also dropped to his ankles. There he stood, his scream trailing off and was now replaced by a roar of laughter. He looked around, as if trying to see if anyone noticed. He looked down at his exposed penis and did the strangest thing. Instead of dropping the bat and pulling up his pants, he started to run. He tripped on his fallen garments, bamsi high in the sky, and dropped face first on his face. The bat flew into the air landing at Randy’s feet. He picked it up and stood over Ricky.
“Boi, you bamsi stink for so, you wash up.” That Sunday the laughter echoed through the valley, to other villages causing dogs to howl, chickens to cluck and pigs to squeal.