And then the fight began

 

It’s always a happy sight – young energetic parents engaging their kids in exercise and games. It’s so important to get them out in the fresh air and away from those mobile phones and the television.

 So last Friday I was out on the balcony, having a cup of tea and looking down on the large parking lot below. There was a sprinkling of cars parked and hence plenty of open space to play. It was also early in the morning – around 7.00 am, hence no traffic and relatively safe.

A young couple – probably in their late thirties or early forties came down with their two kids to engage them in exercise. There was a boy and girl aged about fourteen and ten   respectively. They had with them a lovely new cycle – all red and shining, and a cricket set. There seemed to be an air of excitement as son and dad got down to setting up the wickets, discussing rules and marking out the pitch. Mum and daughter were in animated discussion while looking at the bike which was on its stand.

I couldn’t help but smile at the love radiating from the family and admire the fact that parents were actually making ‘family bonding time’. Wish more parents did this, but everyone is always so busy. The father was strong looking, vigorous and healthy while the mother was tall and a bit on the plump side.

Dad had probably played some level of cricket in his life, because I saw him going through the motions with the bat in hand. He demonstrated the forward defence, the cover drive, the pull and the classic straight drive. I got the impression that the son looked a trifle bored and was eager to get on with the game. Dad decided to give the boy a lesson in batting and hence decided to bat first. They were using a tennis ball so pads and gloves were not being used. I saw the dad loosening up ,bending and stretching   and it made me think of doing some exercise myself. I have been neglecting this aspect lately. But more on that some other time.

From the way the young lad tossed the ball up and caught it deftly, I felt he knew a little more about the game than his father surmised. He then came speeding in, the dad went forward in defence and the stumps went crashing behind him. It all happened in a blur and I couldn’t help but smile.  Believe it or not, this happened four times in quick succession during the over. On the other two occasions the ball hit the father on the chest and face, sending his spectacles flying. Dad didn’t seem too pleased with the proceedings, made some vague comments while pointing at the sun and decided to bowl. In his defence, the sun was shining on to his face.

The young gun then took a stand and tapped the bat on the ground in eager anticipation. Dad came in and bowled. The first two balls were rather nightmarishly wide and the wife and daughter who were the only two spectators obliged, by fielding and giving the ball back to the bowler. I saw the wife giggling but thankfully the husband did not. It would not have gone down well for sure.

 The son threw up his hands in exasperation and looked disgusted at not being able to even touch the ball with his outstretched bat. I could see him remonstrating vehemently. The third ball was far better & the boy offered a straight bat in defence. This chap was coming across as a little pro. The father seemed to have regained his composure & confidence and came charging in, in quite an athletic fashion. The young boy took two steps forward, danced out and smashed the ball on to the terrace of the building beside the parking lot. It was a magnificent piece of batting, but as all terraces are locked, the game, for all intents and purposes was over. It ended with dad and son arguing, the boy throwing the bat on the ground in a temper tantrum and walking away in apparent disgust.

It did not need expertise in  rocket science to deduct, that father and son would not be playing cricket together for a very long time.

Match over, dad sat down on the ground to lick his wounds while wiping the sweat off his brow while mum decided to teach her daughter how to ride a bicycle. At first, she tried the ‘you sit and I push’ method. It didn’t work as the girl seemed extremely nervous and instead of cycling and trying to balance, she was looking back at her mother and falling down each time. This approach had definitely failed and both of them knew it. It was time for a change in strategy.

  Mum then decided to take things into her own hands, literally. She got her daughter off the bike and got on herself. I wouldn’t have done that if I was her, as she was a trifle heavy and the cycle rather small, hence her legs were resting on the ground. However, she was determined to teach her daughter how to ride a cycle that day.  

Now I am not too sure when she had last cycled, whether she had ever cycled before or if she was just calamitously unlucky. I can also state with a great amount of confidence that her husband had never seen her cycling during their years of marriage as his eyes were transfixed on her. Then without so much as a by your leave, she pedaled off. I could be wrong, but I think she had a bit of an uncertain, wobbly start, but kept going.

A few things then happened in quick succession.

 She sped off, peddling at full pelt, took too sharp a turn, while simultaneously calling out to her daughter to observe and learn, the bike slipped and before you could say Jack, she was on the ground with half the bike over her.  The daughter screamed, the husband jumped up, and they both ran to her assistance. There may have been a few tears as they both stood looking at her while she extracted herself from the cycle. She seemed to have hurt her foot as she was limping. It did not seem too serious. However, her ego and confidence seemed to have taken a bit of a beating & the new cycle was badly damaged and immovable.

All three stared at it for a while and then the father picked it up over his shoulder and they proceeded home, a bit downcast but infinitely wiser for the experience. The morning which started with such promise had  ended as a lost cause.

It was probably then that the fight began.