Eyelash batting

So Viv is going to China.

*rolls eyes.*

Viv is going to China. Again.

*rolls eyes higher*

*eyes hurt*

The Singapore team is in Kuwait for the ACC (Asian Cricket Council, not the cement company) Twenty20, and Viv's office rejected his leave application to go and play for Singapore. Instead, they decided to send him to China on work. Bloody hell. I believe that the real reason why his office moved from Central Singapore to Expo in the east, also known as "right next to the airport" is not "bigger office space". It is because the back door of his office leads to the back door of a China-bound aeroplane.

So all the other guys in his team got the cool new cricket kit and the cool new cricket cap, and flew off to Kuwait, while Viv prepared himself for the extremely tough life of "a non-Chinese speaking vegetarian in China". I was very angry at his company. And not just because I'd planned to tag along. "If we were in India na... and you were in the team, your company would have been so proud of you! They would have handed you your leave on a plate, along with a fat bonus. And they'd have gone to the airport to welcome you back armed with garlands. Or erm... tomatoes, depending on how you performed." I said.

The one time I want to go support the guy and watch him play, this is what happens. The one time I'm willing to be a WAG, this is what I get. Erm, do you know WAG? I didn't know either, till Viv told me. Apparently it's a sports term. WAG - 'Wives and girlfriends' aka the women the cameraman zooms to every now and then when you're watching cricket matches on TV and nothing's happening on the field? The women who wear dark glasses which are so big that you can't see three-quarters of their faces so they end up looking hot anyway? And the cameraman just keeps focussing on them even though the next over has started and is three balls down and the two commentators are yelling at him to turn the camera back to the pitch? Yup, that's the kind I'm talking about - the wives and girlfriends of the players. In other words, "the WAGs".

Okay, confession time. Till a few weeks ago, I'd never gone to watch Viv play in any of his matches. Of course I'd watched him play in university tons of times, and had even played cricket with him and his study-buddies using a book as a bat in tutorial rooms at midnight just before the damn engineering exams. But that was gully cricket. I'd never gone to watch him play a proper match as 'his girl'. Many people had expressed surprise at this.

"You've never gone to see him play at the ground?"

"Nope. Never."

"Why not??"

"Because... I dunno... he's playing well, and I'm scared I'll jinx it... maybe he'll score a duck or something if I go watch him play."

This was only partly true. The other part was that I did not want to become a WAG. I had heard horror stories about the other WAGs on the ground - many of whom did not even understand cricket - forming 'groups' that had 'cool names'. I was afraid that some day if I did land up to watch him play, they'd hand me a set of pink pom-poms, a short frilly skirt and a teeny top and motion me towards the dressing room. Large-sized dark glasses covering three-quarters of my face I could take, but that I was not prepared for.

So I made up by hanging around with him and his cricket kit at other places. Other very unconventional places. Due to the odd timings and long duration of his cricket matches/training, if we had any plans on weekends or weekday nights, he'd turn up with his cricket kit. He wouldn't have time to go home and keep his kit, just enough time to shower at the shower rooms in the cricket ground and look civil.

I've been to parties with him and his cricket kit, I've seen movies with him and his cricket kit (remember I lifted his bat and yelled out 'Chak de!' in the movie theatre after watching Chak De? Erm, actually I'm surprised no one yelled back, "Wrong sport, you bimbo!"), I've even been to serious concerts with him and his cricket kit. Imagine a guy in formals, accompanying a girl who is all dressed up in fancy clothes and high heels, and then imagine them with this large cuboidal canvas bag that can fit a grown man, knocking against people in the bus, train, movie theatre, concert hall and what not. I, my friends, have lived through it all.

So a few weeks ago, I told myself, "What the heck, I've been seen all across the city with my 'bat & batsman' entourage. Maybe I'll just go watch him play." Maybe I couldn't 'bat' my eyelashes and say, "Go, get 'em, tiger!" but I could be there - just for the sake of being there. In any case, I told myself, if people have to score a duck, they will score a duck.

"Viv, if you score a duck, I'm not responsible, okay?" I warned him thirty-seven times. That was my 'batting order' for him - you don't have to score a century, just don't score a duck.

And I sat on this plastic white chair in the covered area of the cricket ground and waited for the guy before him in the line-up to get out so Viv could go and bat. He did, soon enough, and I watched our man walk up to the pitch, dressed in his whites and helmet and pads, holding his bat in one of his gloved hands.

His moves today would decide my presence (or the lack of it) at all his subsequent matches.

And I crossed my fingers and watched.

Disclaimer: This post does not have a sequel.