Scary stories from a lovely place
Yesterday Ireland beat England in the World Cup cricket. I would be impressed if Australia had beaten the mother country, but little old Ireland? I know they aren’t hopeless at cricket, but this truly is a feat. England batted first and managed a good score, with two of their players nearly making centuries. But then Ireland stepped up to the plate (that’s a baseball analogy). One of the batsmen, Kevin O’brien, a quintessential Irish name, scored the fastest century in World Cup history to seal the victory.
This has been great cause of joy and celebration for my Irish husband. Last night Stephen received an sms from a friend telling him that Ireland had defeated England. We weren’t sure of the sport, but figured it had to be cricket or rugby. In the middle of his get-Silas-asleep routine Stephen disappeared out the back to watch the news on Trevor’s computer. I took over getting the boy to sleep. This was a big moment, after all.
It’s no secret that Stephen really, really dislikes the English. And he’s got good reason. He’s Irish, and he knows all about the history of oppression and conflict between his nation and the one across the sea. The fact that I am of half English descent and from Australia, which is still formally under the British crown, has led to some tense discussions. I hope the other half of my blood, which is Irish, will stave off the Gaelic Reid wrath. I’m also more than happy to bash England and their history, even though I must admit I do have a soft spot for the Queen.
So, good work O’Brien and the rest of the Irish cricket team for sticking it up your former masters.