Once when I was little, my dad took me to a picnic for the Trinidad & Tobago club in our town. Soca tapes played on a ghetto blaster set on some bleachers. Everyone drank and ate, and visited in old talk. A group of men played a game of cricket on the soccer field in front of us.

The game was interesting, even if I didn't understand what was happening. The equipment felt familiar, but unreal: the bats too thick and wide for baseball; the wicket keeper's gloves like a boxer's; the batsman's pads like things made for hockey.

I was stumped.

At the end of the game I got behind the wickets for a better look. A man passed me some gloves. Another man bowled for me to catch, but I was still so young- I wasn't ready for the bounce. The stiff rock of a ball kicked up off the grass and into my mouth. My lip was split and the blood came out and then so did the tears and then that was that.

My dad hugged me and laughed. "You got one, son." he exclaimed. "Time to go home, now."