The first day of July was a breezy respite from some muggy late-June days. I took Sally Cooper, whose memoir of two years in Afghanistan will be published by Pan Macmillan Australia next year, to Prospect Park to take in a game of cricket. She was in NYC briefly en route to Kenya, where she lives these days, to finish her manuscript.
Every Sunday several West Indian families gather to watch their boyfriends and husbands play an adapted form of cricket on a dusty pitch. There is no running between wickets; batsmen are either caught or bowled. Bowlers take it in turn to bowl one ball each and work in pairs.
As Sally diligently scribbled my words of alleged editorial wisdom in her notebook (above right), I ran after a few big hits that flew in our direction. I’m happy to report I did not throw them back to the nearest fielder “like a girl”.