What Cricket Taught Me about My Dad
Over shared games, cricket opened writer Pooja Shah's eyes to her father's passions, his joys, and his fears (at least of losing)
Writer Pooja Shah (right) with her father.
Courtesy of Pooja Shah
Words by Pooja Shah
On a lazy Saturday afternoon, I sat cross-legged on the living room floor, my eyes fixed on the television screen. The cameras zoomed into the faces of the spectators and their palpable apprehension as India took the field to face their formidable rivals, Australia. “Down to the last over!” screamed the news commentator as the bowler thundered towards the wicket.
This was a highlight from a cricket match, one of many that my dad and I have watched together.
Growing up in a South Asian household, my relationship with my dad was one fueled by my respect and admiration for all the sacrifices he forged in a new land for me and my brother. There was also just a sprinkle of fear—as a young child, if I threw a tantrum over some innocuous thing or refused to go to school, my mom would always retort, “I’m calling dad” or “Dad will get mad if you don’t behave.”
Writer Pooja Shah (left) and her father walk down the aisle at her wedding.
Courtesy of Pooja Shah
It would baffle me whenever I saw “American” dads like Phil Dunphy depicted on shows like Modern Family. While Phil’s goofy antics and dad jokes were his method to connect with his children and engage with their interests, my dad’s parenting style was more authoritative and rooted in South Asian notions of a hierarchical family structure. As a result, our conversations only ever scratched the surface: the school assignments I was working on, what groceries I should grab from the supermarket, whether I needed any money for the endless extracurriculars I signed up for in high school. My dad always supported me from afar, but he also loved me from an emotional distance, making it difficult for me to know his ambitions, his fears, or his pain, because he was so busy protecting mine.
I recognized, and even respected, my father as the man who kept the household running, but I failed to see who he was beyond that.
Our dynamic was reminiscent of many father-daughter relationships portrayed in mainstream Bollywood movies. As the oldest daughter in an immigrant family, I was inadvertently given the mantle of responsibility to accompany him to doctors’ appointments, interpret the intricacies of paperwork, and link the linguistic and cultural gaps that he was confronted with in the United States. There was no acknowledgement when I became interested in boys and limited bonding about how we were each actually feeling. I recognized, and even respected, my father as the man who kept the household running, but I failed to see who he was beyond that.
And then there was cricket.
Whether it’s the Gujarat Titans, hailing from the region in India that he grew up in, playing in Indian Premier League or another cricket game that he’s watching the highlights for, something magical happened: I saw that my dad actually had passions, interests, fears (at least of losing). The first time I witnessed this revelation was accidental. I was on my way to brunch celebrating a friend’s engagement a few years ago, when I saw him perched on the sole recliner seat in our living room, his face full of fear. His deafening silence finally shattered as the player’s bat connected with the ball, producing a resounding crack as the ball sailed into the sky. “Go on, Kohli!” he shouted. He turned to me and said, “I should start playing cricket again.”
I appreciated our deepening relationship as he started telling me facts about the players’ backgrounds, debating the strategies of the captains, dissecting every shot and catch and most importantly, injecting stories about his life I never knew before.
I never knew he played before. In fact, there was so much about my father I didn’t know, though serendipitously this felt like an opportunity to dig beneath the surface of our stoic dynamic. I started sitting next to him while he watched, studying the way his face would light up when his favorite team (India, of course) won or mourning their loss in a highly anticipated game. I didn’t necessarily care for the sport or really understand the mechanics of the game, but I appreciated our deepening relationship as he started telling me facts about the players’ backgrounds, debating the strategies of the captains, dissecting every shot and catch and most importantly, injecting stories about his life I never knew before. I could almost imagine him as a young boy, playing cricket with his friends on dusty fields, their laughter carried by the wind. He shared with me how his own father bought him a monogrammed cricket bat as a birthday gift that he kept for years, before having it stolen by a neighbor’s kid. He told me about the time his mom humiliated him in front of his friends when she learned that he lied about studying for final exams but instead had snuck to the grounds to hang out with his friends.
It was in those moments that I realized cricket was more than just a game for him—it was a connection to his past and the memories of his own upbringing in India that he found a way to share with me.
When my husband and I decided to move to London from New York, fighting back tears, my dad asked me who would watch cricket matches with him now.
My relationship with my father began to be more personal and I came to develop a newfound appreciation of his journey and his support; sure, it was different from other fatherly representations I observed in American culture, but it was special in its own accord. When my husband and I decided to move to London from New York, fighting back tears, my dad asked me who would watch cricket matches with him now.
In the past few months since moving, I have made an effort to memorize the week’s schedule of cricket matches. Despite the time difference, I will FaceTime even if just for a few minutes, because in those moments I can picture him seated on his favorite chair, nursing a lukewarm Budweiser, and shouting at the players on the screen to do better. I feel his presence beside me, knowing that cricket had become a bridge, connecting us in a way that words alone couldn't.
Writer Pooja Shah (right) with her father (left) and husband on her wedding day.
Courtesy of Pooja Shah
Published on June 18, 2023