Cricket season

It's that time of year again: the telly shows nothing but cricket.

I don't know how but after nearly 30 years, I still simply cannot ever come close to liking this national sport of ours. It's crazy. A bunch of people wearing white clothing, throwing and hitting a tiny red ball, and every now and then going into some kind of rapture, jumping up and down in jubilation. And whenever this occurs, some guy, also in white outfit, walks a lonely walk into the crowd. You have no idea who he is. No numbers or names on the back of his jersey. What is worse is that he is always replaced by another guy, wearing exactly same white outfits, with no ID on the Napisan cardigan.

And a game or "test" can last for days.

And the heroes are all overweight blokes, all do adverts for hairloss clinics when they cannot stretch the white garment any further.

Trust me, I did try to like it. But I guess you must be born into a cricket fanatic family to develop the passion. I came to Australia as a refugee in my early teens, and then was fostered into a lovely family of ... Irish background. Luckily, they weren't passionate about hurling.

I have managed to enjoy Vegemite, tolerate the flies, hate the Poms, prefer VB to Bollinger. But this sport, named after a small but annoyingly noisy insect, may take a bit longer for me to watch it in full.