IT CANT BE JUST THE CRICKET......

Many moons have passed since my last insignificant contribution to these illustrious pages, and in a fit of benevolence and possibly (and more realistically), a lack of choice, the editors have chosen you Dear Reader, to be punished once more by the ramblings of a raving lunatic. It is of course no less an occasion than the 125th Battle of the Blues. The oldest unbroken cricket series in the history of the game. Not a by-the-way achievement that. Despite the fact that 22 blokes in flannels have played each other 125 times with varying results and many a hilarious locker room story, what else flows from the epic nature of this contest, and its celebrated history? For all we know there maybe two teams from the outbacks of Central Australia who have been playing each other every Sunday for the last 150 years and just don't get their copy of Wisden, or the Hobbits led by Bilbo Baggins may have played their rivals from the next shire for centuries until they were wiped out by the ghoulish hordes of Mordor. Somehow though, something sets this particular Royal Thomian series aside.

What I have racked my small brain to try and figure it out could that be? Latterly, it can't be the cricket. With much respect to the supremely talented figures that have trod the turf at the Oval and the SSC (and wherever else they played before then), it would be a narcissistic exercise to insist that the cricket itself could keep this event alive from a purist's point of view. For example this season alone, both Royal and S. Thomas' have suffered some not very flattering defeats against schools that do not boast similar cricketing traditions as they do. No longer are Sri Lankan sides packed with Royalists and Thomians, as they have now become the exception rather than the rule. Many old hands have also lamented that the Royal Thomian has become a stage for individual records and not an arena for a no-quarter-asked-or-given fight to the death. The surfeit of draws in the recent past (despite the addition of the third day) bears ample testimony to this school of thought. Much is at stake, and faintness of the heart cannot be blamed. Everyone likes to win, but nobody wants to lose. In this light I maybe forgiven for thinking that, of late, the action in the middle does not merit the peripheral tumultuousness.

The only conclusion to be drawn is that it can't be just the cricket.

The moons that have passed since my last communication have been significant ones. Previous musings have been from the points of view of an enthusiastic schoolboy, with, as most Thomians still believe it is, the world at his feet. Little did I know at the time, that on entry into the forbidding, unfamiliar terrain of the Real World, it would not be at my feet; but would much rather bring me to my knees. The Real World like Middle Earth before it can be a place of much uncertainty, surprise and danger. And this is where the rest of Life-After-S. Thomas' will be spent. In the midst of this apprehension, and subsequent events which have alerted me to the tribulations of the rat-race as we know it, I was happy to learn that S. Thomas', and also the 'Royal Thomian" as an institution; is not merely a weekend of revelry in the torturous travails of life; but that it is life itself. Am I letting myself fall headlong into the jaws of hyperbole? I hope not. These musings come with far less enthusiasm and disillusionment about the World, and with just a dash of acquired cynicism viz. its ways (The Ways of the World). It is in this light that this unique archive of humanity that is the Big Match, stands out like the proverbial guiding beacon.

University and trivial matters of academic necessities behind, it suddenly becomes necessary to find a method of eking out an existence. And in doing so you suddenly begin to realise that Hey! That bloke who pulled you by the tie when you were ap perfect and made you 'have a drink you bugger !', is the Managing  Director at such and such." Holy crap. Similarly, many of the scary old boys whom you shy away from while in uniform are, in actual fact, respected members of the community. The dodgy old man singing the wholly tasteless song in the Mustangs maybe the head of your Company, and many other Companies. The Royalist seniors you abused roundly from the safety of the Boys Tent turn out to be fine upstanding pillars of society. And they all spring' forth from the cauldron that is the Royal Thomian. 125 years of it.

Virgin visits to the realms of business, banking, law, medicine, communications, and indeed all the varying spheres of life that constitute Sri Lanka, have revealed to me that it is nigh upon impossible to find an institution of any consequence without a Royalist or Thomian at the helm, or at least somewhere on the bridge. There must be something, some invisible, intangible force that propels the products of these two schools along the paths of collective success. The path that has produced prime ministers, artistes, statesmen, dignitaries and academics must surely have a common paving stone lining it. That paving stone I verily believe is the Royal Thomian tradition. What else but continued excellence can keep bringing these two diverse, yet so similar breeding grounds together, so often, so regularly and still so productively? While this year celebrates the 125th anniversary of cricketing relations between the two schools, the buck as they say doesn't stop there.

Incidental to the cricket match are the other events of Royal Thomian week, and Royal Thomian culture. The cycle parade no doubts receives the most enthusiastic welcome from the younger boys, with this being their first taste of active participation in a Royal Thomian event. Watching the aspiring cyclists from the hack of a truck, or more often than not picking them out of the train, or running alongside them for the length of the parade haranguing them on road rules, the joy and sense of pride written m their unsuspecting faces, is a sight to behold. Although at the time, the dehydration and fatigue of the moment was paramount, looking back on the experience, it really is an indispensable part of the Big Match. 95% of those little blokes will never play for the First XI, and their contribution to the event will be hardly more than a face in the crowd at the Boy's Tent. But this was never, and never will be a deterrent. It is the initiation to the Roy Tho culture.

The traditional Royal Thomian debate is also a much looked forward to affair. The articulate (and sometimes not so articulate) name calling, insult trading and below the belt punch exchanging, has left many a mirth filled moment in the hearts of the participants and observers. Prefects' rugby and cricket matches are held mid week, and despite the fact that we Thomians are vastly outnumbered by the Mongol Hordes, we hold our own. Friendships are forged, and adversaries that may have sat on your head in a ruck, are now your good mates, and managing your frugal bank account. Such is the spirit of the Royal Thomian.

For both Tent Committees it is the best of times, and it is the worst of times. The harassment is unparalleled, the cock ups are innumerable and assistance is minimal. It is a time of great learning, and everyone is richer for the experience. The absolute necessity for co-operation between the Committees of both schools, further strengthens the bond between the fraternities. A bond that, happily, continues well after the portals of Mt. Lavinia and Reid Avenue have been left behind (geographically at least as no one ever really leaves them behind).

For the boys who are yet to be initiated to the rank of men it is a time of flag flying, camaraderie, hot dogs and pocket money. The evils of the Ordinary Levels and the Advanced Levels are temporarily shelved, and pure unadulterated hedonism invades the mind and body. For many - and this is a truism for the last hundred years at least - the Big Match is the place where their first drink is procured, their first cigarette tried and the words to their first dirty song learned. Three days of unsupervised loitering, in the guise of watching a cricket match. Also, it is often the initial hunting ground, as flag bearing adolescents ogle the nice looking girls (God bless them), with absolutely no attempt at subtlety. Some of these initial appraisals I am told have gone on to mature into lasting bonds and amidst the cacophony of Bachchus, there is also the sweet music of Eros' harp. All hail the match.

It is a lifetime collapsed into three days.

The rest is inexplicable. The Royal Thomian joint walk held not' to long ago, resembled the exodus of the Israelites from Palestine, such were the numbers. It was widely suggested, given the peace that prevailed, as well as the unity and efficiency shown by the walkers, that the Organising Committee take over the country in these precarious times, and run it as successfully as the walk. It may have been a comment in passing, but the truth of that statement is not too far off the mark. In a climate of uncertainty, pettiness and personal gain, the example of these two institutions could, and should, be a national example.

125 years cannot be built on anything less. While it has been said that change is the only constant, the only constant within our changing lives has been the Royal - Thomian. It has seen us grow from unpromising young spin bowlers to gifted batsmen. From under 13 reserve to First XV captain. From prolific scribbler to Editor of the Magazine. From annoying soprano to leader of the choir. And from boys to men.

Wherever we go, whichever part of the world, the second week of March will always beckon, as it has countless numbers of our comrades this year. Don't tell me they're here for the cricket. The Royal Thomian. That great melting pot of life. The tradition, the memories, the friends will live with your forever. For as we all know when we go out into the world, in our workplaces and in our higher education institutions, if we can't find a Thomian, there'll always be a Royalist to help us out. Why? Because we share the common bond that is this event. It is the reason that my father's batchmates don't even ask my name on introduction all they care about is "did the bugger also go to College machan?" It is the reason that my boss, despite all his many accolades, reserves a special place on his wall for the black and white photograph of himself and his partner walking out to open the batting for STC at the Oval over 40 years ago. Looking at the College Prefects' photograph next to it (while shirking work of course), I see men I admire and respect. Men who were once boys just like we were. Men whose shoes we must someday fill.

For three days in March the plebeians and patricians become one. Boundaries are broken, social niceties dispensed with and conservatism thrown out the window. On the Monday, with the voices slowly returning to normal, and the hangovers even more slowly subsiding, it's back to the rat race. The small consolation is that we know that we can always count on those Blue Black and Gold rats in the same race, for we all come from that one place. The Royal Thomian. For one and a quarter centuries it hasn't been a cricket match. It has been a way of life.

Be thou forever!

Shanaka Amarasinge

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