Editorial
The very
fact that you're reading this right now, is a good sign. It's proof that the
Editors have managed to brave the rush hour crowds and get to the printers
before closing time. It's proof that a human being can survive on less than two
hours of sleep a night for more than a week. It's proof that the Tent Committee
is (at least partially) still intact. It's also proof that you're actually
sitting here, at the SSC, and possibly glancing up once in a while to see that
there are 13 blokes out there in the middle, two of them with stout sticks. Let
not the drunkard to the left of you bother you in the least. All he cares about
at the moment is that his team stays on top. The fact that he can barely see the
middle is irrelevant. If he spills his lager on you, feel free to clout him with
this book (another significant advantage of the sturdy Thomian souvenir). Don't
mind the papare either. They're just warming up. Yes, they will play louder than
that. Much, much louder. And yes, we know the hordes of men on either side of
you are spewing forth the vilest slang known to mankind. We know that you would
perhaps prefer not to know of Aaron Ayya's antics at the bottom of the garden.
The exploits of the chronic tea shop owner, or the Burgher man from next door
may not interest you in the least - but hey, it's not like you have a choice.
Their words too will get louder (and perhaps viler) as the day drags on. And so,
we welcome you to the Royal Thomian,
It's
probably difficult for you, me spectator, to comprehend what the teams have gone
through for months on end. They have been up at dawn, to sweat and ton
throughout the day. They've had months of fitness, bowling and batting practice,
talks on strategy, nutrition and technique. And yet, as they walk out on to that
field, they are the most nervous lot at the SSC today. The pressure at the Royal
Thomian is unimaginable. Standing around the ground on match day, one can almost
feel the aura of tension. The expectation is so thick, you could cover the field
with it, if it so did happen to rain. Thus, it is perhaps unfair to name the
Royal Thomian as merely a battle between the bat and the ball. By all means, it
remains a battle of the wits. The ultimate winners are those who conquer
themselves first. So, even as Kaushi and men his cross the Rubicon, we'd like to
give them a hearty "Go Thora" and an "All the Best" from the
Tent Committee (or, as I said earlier, what's left of it). The die is cast,
let's see the deed done.
When
looking at what we've gone through it is easy to see that the most constant
cause of irritation were the Tent Secretaries. The very fact that the both of
them go virtually undetectable by night proved to be rather dangerous, and it
was not uncommon to see a harried editor running down College Avenue at night,
flashlight in harid. Both have been rather unsuccessful in their leisure time
pursuits and we feel that it is this frustration that is directed towards the
more socially successful Editorial board. Although we will not divulge the
details herein, the Editors wish to impress upon the cricketer that after three
no balls, it's usually time to change your line and length. This however may be
easier said than done, and we can't help but sympathize with him on his many
shortcomings. The mariner on the other hand, spends the majority of his time
waist high in water, and despite his valiant efforts has yet to cultivate the
aura of importance he craves. We wish to inform him that Neptune's post is non
transferable, and thus urge him to seek employment elsewhere - perhaps in the
garment sector.
And so,
back to the proceedings. We assume, that by now, the drunkard on your left has
reached a state of dementia in which, the match itself no longer matters to him.
The rhythmic beat of the papare, combined with the chorus from hell has lulled
him into a deep sense of nostalgia. He remembers feeling like this last March,
the March before that, and (if he's over forty), the many, many Marches before
that as well. The members of the hell-choir itself look bruised and haggard.
These bruises are invariably the result of their forays in to the pastures of
Flower Road and Boyd Place during the last few days. The fact that many of them
have seen the inside of every police remand cell in town is immaterial. Perhaps
next year they will plan it out better, and not attempt to break through a
dragnet of fifty military police with batons and size eleven army boots. The
very that fact boys still attempt such expeditions is a source of great
excitement to the fairer sex, and perhaps their presence at the match is a
return of this favor. As the days progress, the game progressively draws more
female attention, and by Saturday the stands are full of the fairer sex. The
apparent cloth shortage that goes hand in hand with the match has been discussed
at length before, and thus the Editors will not dwell on it any further. Let's
just say that on Saturday, people have a lot more on their minds than the blokes
in the middle. In conclusion we'd like wish our compatriots in the opposite camp
(or tent, as it would be), all the best for a very fulfilling Royal Thomian. We
encourage them to embrace the inevitable, and brace themselves for another
Thomian victory. This is not to say they shouldn't enjoy themselves though - the
Royal Thomian wouldn't be much of a match without them. Good luck Royal, you're
going to need every bit of it!
If
someone were to ask us, why we do it - why we sacrifice three months of our
personal lives just to see 13 people bake in the hot sun for three days, I guess
we would only give them one answer. For three humid days in March every year,
the Sinhalese Sports Club is the centre of the universe. Being anywhere else
would be just plain unthinkable. And thus, the Tent Committee will spend the
next three days cheering their team, dodging broken bottles, ignoring hideous
threats of torture and herding hordes of drunken people in and out of the
ground. All of us will be changed people, and perhaps some of us will be scarred
for life. But, we've waited months for this, and you'd better believe we're
going to have the time of our lives. We hope you do too!
Esto Perpetua
The Editors