Sep

Ice Cricket...in Estonia by Tim Brooks

It was late February. Outside, frost-dappled trees swayed in the light breeze of a suburban winter evening as a lorry scattered salt onto the tarmac blocking an impatient procession of irascible SUV’s wending their way home. Inside I relaxed in the warm comfort of half-remembered anecdotes and birthday well-wishing of kith and kin. After a cursory glance at the menu, my father asked what I was doing over the next few weeks. ‘I’m off to Estonia’, I replied nonchalantly. ‘Whatever for?’ came the slightly bemused reply. ‘To play cricket on ice’ I said while vying for a waiter’s attention. On hearing this he leant forward, stroked his chin with the tips of his fingers and declared ‘Take care won’t you, it used to be Soviet.’

Real Ice Cricket was the brainchild of Jason Barry, as devoted a cricketing enthusiast as you could ever hope to meet. He is a cricketing missionary, who spread the gospel to far flung corners of the earth on a pan-continental expedition where he played cricket in over a hundred different countries. He boasts a cricketing CV very few could aspire to including international player, coach, pioneer, administrator, chairman and entrepreneur. Of all the countries he visited he chose to settle in Estonia, in the maelstrom of medieval and modern that is Tallinn. He founded the Estonian Cricket Association and began a recruitment drive for both ex-pat and local talent. With the lease of a pitch in a horse racing stadium, training facilities, ICC recognition, sponsorship, grant funding and fixtures with touring teams, a cricketing nation was born.

Travel Log – Thursday

I awoke, bleary-eyed from an hours sleep with a maddening need for caffeine and a plane to catch. Feeling proud that I had safely negotiated an early morning city rush-hour and the vagaries of public transport timetabling I strode confidently into the Stansted Departures lounge. Easyjet have devised an ingeniously simple strategy. Their flights leave airports before any lark has risen from runways miles from any mapped metropolis and yet all passengers are on the plane and in the air within a mere blink of an eye. Their trick is to daub everything in head-ache inducing neon orange that has a similar effect to drinking a can of Red Bull. Dilated retinas focus on departure boards and passengers are so organised they check their own passports. It runs with military precision. Now I understand the power of branding. As we came in to land we were informed by the captain that Tallinn was unseasonably hot but as I traded pleasantries with the hostess and climbed down the stairs a Baltic wind cut through my loosely woven temperate jumper. It was freezing and I was here to play the ‘summer sport.’ Tallinn’s old town is like a fairy tale turreted city in a Disney film. I walk down narrow streets past charming, old world architecture and looming spires that pierce the clouds. As I browse in craft stalls for authentic souvenirs it begins to snow. I am a contented tourist. An amble several hundred yards down the hill, under the turreted town wall and I emerge into modern Estonia. The contrast between old and new is striking. Released from the thrall of Soviet suppression Tallinn has embraced capital and commercialism and aligned itself with its Scandinavian neighbours, shunned its former Russian allegiance. Everywhere there are symbols of newfound wealth and confidence, sky-high office blocks, suave hotels, international brands, Bond Street boutiques and bustling coffee houses. But the development and investment are patchy and in between are plots of barren land, old dilapidated buildings and austere tenement blocks. It is an intoxicating, if at times slightly disorientating, mix.

One turn away from the tourist streets and I find myself down by the old docks. It is a district forgotten by time. There has been little investment here. Commuters return from labour to old, crumbling blocks of flats, their faces etched with the toil and thrift of a hard Baltic winter. Municipal trams weave across bare patches of ground, left awaiting their chance to be part of the new Estonia. The water-front itself is deserted save for a few fishermen sat on a cracked concrete jetty. There is nothing for the tourist here. It is, perhaps, a glimpse of the hardship of the past. Dominating the old docks is a colossal, imposing building spreading for perhaps half a mile from the waters edge to the arterial highway that by-passes the old town. A vast concrete megalith built in the style of a Mesopotamian Ziggurat. There are no doors, signposts, information boards, entrances. It is deserted. I walk up the huge flights of steps, and walk on its roof. There is nothing here except the unhindered growth of weeds and scrawls of graffiti. It is in its way as breathtaking as the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral and Toompea Castle, but unlike them it isn’t featured in the travel guides. Tallinn is not a western European capital but therein lies much of its allure. It is evening and most of the players are heading into the old town for hedonism, Baltic style, in the company of their ever affable tour guides. I meanwhile am off to training with the Estonian national team. I don’t quite no what to expect. I haven’t bought my kit but I consider allowing myself to face a few deliveries to test my calibre as much as that of my international counterparts. I was told we were going to a sports hall but in truth it is more of a velodrome. As we walk in determined joggers with furrowed brows run past on another lap. I suddenly feel myself alarmed at the prospect of being impaled by a javelin. The moment passes as I spy the largest holdall of cricket gear I have ever seen. There are two ‘nets’ although in the absence of netting perhaps ‘lanes’ would be a more apt description. The nearest to me appears quite competitive. The ball is licked down at a fair pace and a chorus of antipodean voices screech out appeals and protestations. On first appearances these look like decent club cricketers. The other net I am soon told is ‘developmental’. Sure enough a ‘senior’ Englishman is attempting to explain the phenomenon of away swing to a young, eager, and most critically, local recruit. Shamelessly I pick up a windball and slide a few in to the teenage right-hander. He steps across to leg too much, his bottom hand dominates but hey he’s there to enjoy himself right not be versed in the sporting equivalent of Latin grammar. The first team consists of a core of seven or eight ex-pats hailing from India, Australia, England, South Africa and beyond. They are complemented by a handful of locals. What is most heartening is the attention, praise and guidance the locals get from the rest. As one ex-pat remarked to me ‘they are the future for Estonian cricket.’ This is not an old boy’s clique indulging in weekend slog-athons. These are enthusiasts committed to developing cricket in Estonia from the grass roots, or should that be ‘ice’, up. I offer a few coaching tips myself to the four of five Estonian teenagers there. I am asked to don the pads and I face some probing, swinging deliveries from one young man. I find myself bellowing ‘well bowled sir,’ as if I was W G Grace and he was the younger son of a Duke. At the end of the session they all gather for slip catching practise. Looking on I admire the unity among the group and muse over the galvanising effect of cricket on a community. But this pretentious schmuck was swiftly ended with an invitation to retire to the Nimeta bar, a sponsor of the national team, for a debrief. Not for the first time in the trip I found myself in a rather surreal situation. This time I was asking questions about ICC membership criteria through the din of stag party drinking games while sipping a Stein of lager. Nevertheless answers were forthcoming and surprisingly detailed. The previous summer they had been visited by Richard Holdsworth, the head of the European Cricket Commission, who was overseeing their membership application. If as expected they do gain membership they will become the 102^nd member of the ICC. They will be able to enter international competitions and be eligible for financial support. I could sense that this was merely the beginning of a voyage of discovery for these players. I spoke in glowing terms of the young bowler who had tested me in the nets. ‘He’ll be the Estonian captain in 10 years,’ was the reply. These guys want to leave a legacy to Estonian cricket.

Ice Cricket is both a fun and quirky addition to the cricketing calendar and an ingenious business opportunity. It has carved its own niche within the increasingly popular adventure travel sector. Tallinn is an ideal location as it combines a cultural medieval city with a vibrant nightlife. Ice Cricketers can enjoy a city break, a range of activities, nightlife and games against an international team in a unique and amusingly daft, cricketing format. An experience of a lifetime at an affordable price is a rare opportunity, and Ice Cricket provides this. The best thing about the Ice cricket concept is that it forms an integral part of the developmental strategy for Estonian cricket. Many of the ice cricket teams return in the summer, providing competition and experience for the Estonian players and revenue from match fees that can be invested in equipment, infrastructure and tours. Estonian teams recently participated in the Helsinki sixes tournament and are due in Wales to play in an Eastern Europe tournament in the summer.

Travel Log – Friday

Friday is activity day and the teams have all been escorted to various corners of the city to shoot, curl, climb or abseil depending on their mood or inclination. I meanwhile am being escorted by Maret, one of the tour reps and avid cricket fan, who on the journey shares with me her vision for an Estonian women’s team. I tell her that they could probably beat Bermuda, whose women only made 11 in a recent innings. Our first port of call is the ‘Hippodrome’. It begins to snow heavily as we walk into the stadium. It is reminiscent of a lower-league football stadium, one stand being covered with the capacity for around a thousand spectators. As we walk we are overtaken by a horse-drawn chariot, a popular sport in these parts, speeding up along the straight.

The cricket pitch is an artificial strip on one half of the grass in the middle of the gravel track. I walk over to take a close look. Frozen clumps of aerated soil give it the appearance of a volcano crater rather than a lush outfield but I try and use my imagination. I try and picture a game of cricket taking place amidst the melee of a horse race with jockeys ducking cricket balls. Estonia have won 11 out of 14 games here in 2008.

The next stop is a sailing club in one of the outlying districts of the city that lies on the edge of Lake Tarku. This is the normal venue for ice cricket. Generally in winter the temperature dips to minus seven and the lake is frozen solid. Today it is a positively tropical minus one and there is no ice to be seen. The clubhouse is a charming wooden building of traditional Scandinavian design and there is a BBQ area shaded by trees by the waters edge. It is picturesque setting. The rules for ice cricket are not necessarily endorsed by the MCC. There are no boundaries as such and if the ball strikes a mammal, whether it be moose or bear, additional runs are added. I find myself lying prone on frost-bitten pine planks to take some ‘inspired’ photography for this article. Maret looks on bemused. She harbours suspicions I may be eccentric.

No ice to be seen at the lake

Travel Log - Saturday

It is Saturday morning. I am relatively fresh and have slept well. Some of the players in other teams have only just arrived at the hotel and are busy regaling high tales from the night just gone. The coach picks us up and there is a palpable buzz of expectancy. Many questions are asked ‘Is it best to wear spikes or not?’, ‘How many runs for a wide?’ ‘Did you see that blonde in the club last night?’ As I have said the lake wasn’t frozen so we resort to plan B, an ice rink in a former soviet missile factory. We drive out through a maze of low cost, low-rise hypermarkets until we park up alongside an enormous concrete factory about a mile long. This is where Batman would have been filmed if Gotham City was Soviet. I stand back jaw agape, trying to take it in. The lads from Hornsea, East Yorkshire, just stroll in as if it were your average provincial shopping mall. Once inside I am immediately struck by the bleak vastness of our sporting arena. The ceiling is miles up, not even Freddie Flintoff could get that much elevation. The vast hall consists of two large ice-rinks and a curling court, if that is the right term. We all gather round to be reminded of the rules. There are two pools of 4 teams, one pool per rink, and then a series of semi-finals and play offs. I am drafted in to play for a team of gradates from Aberwysth University. As it dawns on me that I will be playing rather than merely spectating a million questions spring to mind. How will I grip? Do they know I am utterly hapless with bat and ball? Is it best to slide for catches or try and run? Our first game starts. I am fielding at long-off. I stop a few deliveries with some ill-advised dives. I am sodden and cold but my team mates clearly admire the effort and clap earnestly. I can’t run, that has soon become apparent, how on earth will I bowl then? The captain gives me the ball. It is now or never. I can’t plant my front foot so I’ll have to adopt the style of New Zealand stalwart Chris Zinzan Harris and just loop the ball up. I get them straight somehow and the batsmen can only nudge away. One over for two runs. I am quietly self satisfied. OK, now time to bat. How will this work? First ball and I set off down the track for an almighty swish; after all you can’t die wondering so they say. Everyone is crying with laughter, I am on my back in a crumpled heap. I missed the ball but thankfully wasn’t stumped. Next delivery I am more circumspect and dab through extra cover. That is worth one run for hitting the fence, well more of a partition, of the rink and two for each run. I get a few runs and am then run-out in what amounts to something last seen in Norman Wisdom farce, but we are playing on ice so you have to make some allowances. My team somehow finish the job and we are winners. In-between games I wander around and take in the surroundings. Miles up the roof is a tangled mess of iron girders, probably once supporting machinery for the soviet cold war menace. Cold war historian called the cold war M.A.D (Mutually Assured Destruction), that pretty much describes ice cricket too. Only a glint of natural light comes through a line of cracked windows that abut the roof. The walls are daubed with graffiti. Apparently they are adverts paid for by various companies but to my untrained eye they look like the work of an anarchic cult. They add to the surreal, almost eerie surroundings. Meanwhile hard core nineties euro-trance blares out over the speakers. Is this a strange dream? No, I’ve pinched myself and no blood shows. I really am this cold. I shiver and shuffle my way down to the far end of the hall where an international curling match is taking place with Estonia hosting Norway. A tall Arian bellows at some boys brushing the ice for him. Curling remains a mystery. Glowering down on the curlers is a graffiti Silverback Gorilla. After a while you just accept that it will be a day like no other. On the first rink the Estonian team have been hit by a few last minute cancellations, due apparently to the nocturnal delights of on-line gambling. As a result Estonia are bottom of their group behind the lads from Hornsea and a party from Cornwall, the captain of whom is wearing a dress and Wellington boots. I don’t ask. Back on rink two we prepare for our second game. We bat first this time and our pinch hitter plants his foot, he must have spikes I think, and skews a lofted drive out of the rink. That is automatically out in ice cricket. We groan in unison. I am next man in and I deploy the only shot I can play without falling arse-over-elbow, the extra cover dab. We are ticking along quite nicely, aided by a few wides and some in-attentive wicket-keeping. Then it happens. I bend my knees and go for a cute late cut. My knee buckles and I am writhing on the floor in pain. My cartilage is up to its old tricks it would seem. I suffer the ignominy of being carried from the pitch, retired hurt for 22 runs. Everyone kindly offers their condolences, a little disappointed they won’t have the opportunity to tuck into my dolly-drops. My injury proves a bad omen and we suffer a wretched defeat. In the next game I am replaced by Regina, one of the tour reps. For several overs she tries in vein to smash her own stumps down but the boys from Hornsea, some of which have had Yorkshire trials, can’t seem to get her out. As they struggle with their egos Regina struggles with the basic premise of standing on the popping crease rather than the base of off stump. We lose, badly, but Regina is an instant star. In the final the boys from Cornwall go six-crazy leaving Hornsea as losing finalists. Tournament over and hot dogs, sandwiches, hot beverages all gleefully scoffed we head back on the coach. It is Saturday evening and we rendezvous in a restaurant in a crypt underneath the town square for the awards dinner. We are serenaded by a keyboardist who is the spitting image of a young John Cleese with a sidekick oddly reminiscent of Oddjob. We all sit on long oaken benches and are served huge vats of seasoned pork, sauerkraut and seared chicken. The atmosphere is jovial, bordering on excitable, especially when the waitresses appear in their serving wench costumes. Mid-way through desert and the ceremony begins. Each captain elects a player of the day and a dork of the day for their teams. Everyone joins in, reflecting on the carnage on ice a few hours before. We all get a certificate too showing that we played ice-cricket and survived, in my case at least not unscathed. The festivities continue into the small hours on our last night in Tallinn. It’s been fun. For Estonia’s sake I hope they take up the invitation to tour again in the summer.