I lay flat on my back facing the hot sun of a Pakistani summer, surrounded by uncles and aunts and grandparents and cousins. My mother was a hundred miles to the south, my father was six hundred miles to the north, and my forehead was bleeding faster than we could clean it up. I cringed at the sight of my aunt's hand, which was completely red after only momentary contact with the wound and I wondered if my mom would be mad at me. My younger brother was probably only a year old at the time and she had enough to worry about with his antics before her mature 8-year old started fostering trips to the hospital.
I remember ending up in the bed; one of my uncles probably carried me, because I have no recollection of walking. Somebody cleaned up the blood; I assume that it was my grandmother. Then I was in the car and then I was in the hospital. The doctor administered two shots of what I now know as local anesthetic and his two stitches would eventually restore my forehead to its bygone glory. He tried to make conversation, but his demeaning mispronunciation of the word "cricket," the only English word in his sentence, expedited my loss of all respect that his medical degree had originally instilled.
"So you were playing cir-kit?"
"Yeah."
"How'd you manage to hurt your head?"
"I was diving to stop a ball and my head hit the stairs outside the main door."
"Did you stop the ball?"
Deep down I knew that I hadn't stopped the ball, but for some reason, I believed whichever relative it was who told me otherwise. "Yes," I asserted; despite all of my perfect report cards, despite all of the praise from all of my twenty-something younger cousins, and despite my de facto position as leader of the cousins, my heart had never been filled with so much pride in my accomplishment. I had sustained a real sports injury and I had sacrificed myself in a Jihad mission against the opposing team.
Any other means of sustaining an injury would be simply depressing; cricket, however, is the exception to every rule in Pakistan. A set of children my age was incapable of socializing without a friendly game of cricket and a set of adults could rarely complete a discussion without mentioning the current state of the Pakistani international team. The entire nation was shut down during the 1992 World Cup Final and a national holiday was declared after the good guys defeated the evil British. And my love for the game was unsurpassable; never in my life have I been as offended as I was when one of my cousins – a boy of my own flesh and blood – told me that his favorite sport was soccer and that cousin has, ever since, been "the rebel" in my eyes. For me, a day without an hour of cricket was as typical as a day without an hour of sleep; in a nation of cricket enthusiasts, I was a fanatic.
I hurled the ball towards the planned destination, but it was too high and too far to the right. Five minutes earlier, I was incapable of defining the term "free throw;" at this point, I was simply incapable of defeating a congregation of fellow 10-year olds at one of the basketball hoops in Unit IV Parking Lot of Indiana State University's Married Student Housing. I had only been in America for around a month or two and I was baffled by the fact that Chris could successfully guide the ball into the basket so gracefully. I knew that Chris could not throw an inswinging yorker – cricket's closest counterpart to an inside slider – in his wildest dreams; I knew that he would be lucky if he could last two minutes with a cricket bat against competitive fielding, but all I saw was that I, the master at defensive batting, the prodigy at off-spin bowling, was incapacitated by this massive ball. I was incapable of making friends without cricket and I was soon to find out, much to my chagrin, that basketball was far more than a sport in Terre Haute, Indiana; it was a religion. This simple game has been commonly dubbed "The Heart of Indiana." In this self-proclaimed "Crossroads of America," middle school basketball games were followed as seriously as the Super Bowl was. Despite the relative dearth of higher educational institutions in the state, multiple Indianan universities always found their way into the NCAA tournament; Indiana, Indiana State, Purdue, Butler, Notre Dame, and Evansville each have celebrated basketball traditions and each of these university is housed in a town with no shortage of streets and hotels named after the program's star players. Until I permanently left Terre Haute for St. Louis, I held the mistaken impression that basketball was to the United States as cricket was to Pakistan; I thought that in a nation of enthusiasts, I was an amateur.
During the next few months of recess, I would find solace ten feet from one of Crawford Elementary's six or eight outdoor basketball hoops. I developed a jumper, I became a die-hard Pacers fan, and soon I stopped trick-or-treating at the tender age of twelve because Halloween conflicted with opening night of the NBA. The autobiography of Imran Khan, the Pakistani cricket legend, was replaced by the autobiography of Reggie Miller, the Indiana Pacers' star shooting guard. I began to antagonize Michael Jordan's Chicago Bulls for their consistent prevalence over the Pacers rather than Mohammad Azharuddin's Indian cricket team for their long-standing rivalry with their Pakistani counterparts. My cricket bat became lost in a deep corner of a closet and my basketball, despite my inability to manipulate it like a trained Indianan, became my prized possession. I began to assimilate.
I glanced across the board and looked into the eyes of my adversary. The level of stress apparent on his face was exceeded only by the level of concentration that he was clearly exhibiting. The position was deadlocked and no apparent end was in sight, but we both wanted that trophy. We were both overconfident in our capabilities, but overconfidence is the key to a successful chess career. We both believed that we were overdue for this victory; I had never completed an undefeated tournament and I doubt that he had either. We both vaguely knew each other from other tournaments; I knew that his name was Matt, I knew that he once played against one of my friends, and I knew that his overconfidence was notorious for evolving into arrogance. Arrogance has always bothered me and I had improved little more during the summer before my junior year than my jump shot, my reverse layups, and my overall chess game; I was ready to see my atonement. I made a move that was insignificant enough to be forgotten somewhere in the depths of my long-term memory and I stood up to take a walk around the tournament room, also known as the cafeteria of Highland High School in Highland, Illinois. I advanced a quick glimpse at a few games that involved other members of my team; they seemed to be doing just well enough so that I would have to win my game if my team were to win this tournament. I walked back to the board where my opponent was still in heavy contemplation and looked again at the expressions on his acne-ridden face; he was clearly stressed at his inability to break through my defenses. I reclaimed my seat and looked at him impatiently in an attempt to pressurize him into making a premature move; a minute or so later, he relocated his Bishop, tapped his side of the chess clock to signify the end of his move, and awaited my response.
I looked up in disbelief. I again glimpsed at his face and he I saw enough determination to justify the belief that he thought his move was solid, but I did not see enough pride to convince me that he was attempting something tricky. I looked at the board again and I took the pawn and he took the pawn and I pushed the pawn and his Bishop was trapped. It had been a straightforward game until this point, but his doom was now impending and he decided that it was worthless to continue. He tipped over his King, signifying his resignation, and I had not felt such a rush of pride since my first sports injury.
After the thousands of chess games that I have probably played in my life, every Bishop move still, for a strange reason unbeknownst to me, reminds me of the games that I played with my grandmother sometime around 1988, well before I crossed the ocean permanently. Each of my victories over her was more glorious than the previous until the day that I realized that she was letting me win. I came to America with the self-proclaimed title of "Undefeated Chess Master" and I was delighted to find that this game, unlike cricket, saw no cultural bounds.
"Shan, stop flying!" somebody exclaimed. Somebody else then decided to dub me "Air Paki!"
And I got cocky, "Fasten your seat belts for flight number 20 of Pakistan International Airlines, taking off from Columbia, Missouri at the University of Missouri Recreational Facility… destination, two points!"
I love playing basketball with Indians; the overall skill spectrum shifts overwhelmingly from that of the Indianans. In Indiana, or even on some courts in St. Louis, which became my home at the age of thirteen, Pakistan International Airlines Flight number 20 would come crashing down soon after takeoff when my signature crossover is smothered in the face of a quick defensive switch, after which I must resort to a quick fadeaway, which is only a 50 or 60% shot and a waste of a good crossover. I can use the same crossover four times with the Indians and each time, they'll say "crazy moves like that are the reason why you get backaches."
Playing basketball with Indians, however, never helped me assimilate in the American community any more than playing cricket with Indians did. Although I maintained my prowess in the field of off-spin, I was still picked last in most American sports. I may have had an adequate jump shot and a few good crossovers, but that didn't help me catch a football or shoot a slapshot. Basketball moves will never free me from a good cornerback and a cricket swing will never hit a home run. I simply made myself look more miserable with my awkwardness in every sport except for basketball, where I was still far from achieving the capabilities that I had achieved in cricket. I was making my best attempts to assimilate in this and every other means, but I failed here just as so many other young immigrants did.
Many others were worse-off than I was; they had thick accents, they had no idea of American music, and they were powerless to explain the difference between 1 st & 10 and a seventh inning stretch. They were very capable in the fields of mathematics, chemistry, and cricket, but they could only make friends with one another and with the slightly "Americanized" immigrants such as myself. Some were in the bliss state that is associated with ignorance of the benefits of true friendly interactions, but most struggled to be accepted in a society where their favorite pastime was unknown. Their story is a well-known piece of information that is a ; I, however, was lost in the abyss that lies between American-ness and Pakistani-ness that would forever keep me from being an accepted member of either culture.
Mother nature would have to try a lot harder to keep me away from what I believe to be the world's greatest pastime. The temperature was far lower and the days were far shorter than anything I would ever encounter in Pakistan, but we expatriates could not be expelled from the lighted parking lots of South County Mall. I was the youngest person there; the general population of that parking lot consisted of twenty-seven year olds who had recently emigrated from Pakistan and I was the only person who had come nine years earlier with my parents. It had been nine years since I had played such an elaborate game of cricket and since I was the American kid, my teammates decided that I should bat first so that I can quickly get out and everybody else can get started. I defended the first couple of balls before I unleashed the batsman who had been alive only in my memories for so long. I had forgotten how much I loved cricket and on this cold night, I single-handedly scored three-quarters of what my team needed to win before I even took off my jacket. I have no idea how I even considered replacing cricket with basketball or even with chess, but unfortunately, my profile as an athlete would extend nowhere beyond the realm of cricket players. Despite any great days I may have in the cricket world, I would again be the chess geek the next day when I was around Americans.
He had under two minutes left for all of his moves and I had around five. After an intense back-and-forth game, I was technically ahead; however, he could have forced a draw with perfect play. My team had not been faring extremely well in this match, and I had no choice but to win this game. The rest of the games in the match were already over and were I to lose or draw, we would lose our status as defending league champions, the best team on both the Missouri and the Illinois sides of the St. Louis area. A victory would yield a triumphant end to a season that included the Missouri State Championship. But he could have forced a draw and sent the Gateway Chess League Championship to Illinois. I was lucky; he missed the good move. He was running low on time and he completely overlooked it. I made the right move, he resigned, I stood up, and Jared came out of nowhere to embrace me in celebration. I took a look around the room and I saw friends. I saw white friends, I saw black friends, I saw 40-year old friends, I saw 16-year old friends. I still refuse to take credit for that victory because I only won because of my opponent's blatant mistakes; however, at this point, near the culmination of my high school career, I saw friends.
I left the room that we were in, which was located somewhere in the library of Belleville West High School in Belleville, Illinois, with one of my friends; we planned to play a game that was far more exciting. He showcased his repertoire right at the beginning, but I knew exactly how to contain any trick he may attempt.
"You're trying that again?"
"That's right, bitch!"
"Oh you didn't just say that… you can't handle this."
"Who says?"
"How many times have you tried this?"
"And how many times has it worked?"
"Hey… that was a long time ago…"
"And today… you can't handle this…"
"Well, take this…"
It sounded as if I had smothered another failed crossover, but this was far from a crossover. This was the Sicilian Defense and I was playing my own fabricated opening, which I have dubbed the "Pakistani Attack," against it in another of the thousands of two-minute games that I have played with Dan; this time, however, we had to pause the clock when Mark walked by. He was gracious and sportsmanlike for somebody who had just lost the championship game, and I said a final goodbye to him. We had been friendly at each of the twenty or thirty tournaments over the course of the last few years, but this would be the last time that I would ever see him. I shook his hand as he walked out and I was sad to have lost a friend, but I looked around and I saw many more that I would stay friends with for years. I looked around and I saw friends.
It took years after my trek across the ocean before I became capable of calling people "friends," and the most profound and longest-lasting of these friendships commenced with a congregation around a basketball hoop or a chess set. I remained the bane of my group of athletic friends whenever we played football or hockey or baseball, but I prided myself for my competence in basketball and my dexterity in cricket and chess. I remained the bane, but I was the bane in a group of friends. My dexterity was established among another group of friends. It had taken years, but I had learned the concepts behind friendship. I had learned how to resolve the plight of the expatriated sports fan and although I will remain a cricket enthusiast until the day I die, I had learned how to assimilate.
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Shan-ul-Hai, the chief author of Globally Rational, is a self-described cosmopolitan scientist. His articles typically involve the application of evidence-based logic to some of the world's most interesting and thought-provoking affairs. His background as a Pakistani-American supplements his training as a scientist and his skill as a writer, leading to a myriad of of unique perspectives.
» left by Robert Melaccio, Sr.(4,435) Robert Melaccio, Sr. (133 days 12 hours ago.)
Rather lengthy but a very good article. Assimilate in America. wellow e are a diverse nation with many cutures, eligions, ethic backgrounds, food, etc, etc, etc. Dowe evr assimilate, well I suspect not we tolerate, that is most of the time. Racism is not just an American issue but I would be remiss if I didn't say it exists. Yet if you do, act, dress, eat differently you will just find it hard to be accepted. However, once you open up to being an American rather then a Pakistani, Italian, Greek Afro American, Chinese in my opinion you will find greater acceptance. You will after all become you and that is the essence of America. It allows you to be you, no matter what that may be. Best wishes Respond to this comment
» left by Susan Thom(8,150) Susan Thom (133 days 8 hours ago.)
hi Shan-ul-Hai,
this was a well written, interesting piece that was different and kept my interest. it was more as if i was reading a very good book, which i suggest you think about. your talent is wonderful.
thanks for sharing,
best regards,
sue thom Respond to this comment
» left by Tim Hicks(268) (133 days 7 hours ago.)
A great article. Very descriptive. I had no idea that Cricket was popular outside of England. A rather long article; it could have been seperated into 2 or 3 parts. Thank you for taking me along for the ride! Respond to this comment
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