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by Geoff Wijesinghe

Big matches, the ones between big schools, are big fun. The biggest and the most entertaining of them all, of course, is still the Royal-Thomian, where around 20,000 men, women and schoolboys make merry.

Out there in the middle, the two teams battle it out. In years gone by, all the 22 players and the reserves were required to wear cream flannels and cream shirts, with shining white boots. The Thomian cap, with blue and black stripes, is most attractive before tea, and the Royal cap of blue and gold stripes is equally popular after the little break for refreshments.

An attractive or match-saving innings in a Royal-Thomian is oft more memorable than first class centuries. Whether this is through tradition or the Sri Lankan school psyche or some other reason, I really do not know. Anyway, it is a fact. My first memory of a Royal-Thomian is to have seen Royal College captain V.R. Perera being carried on the shoulders of some of his mates back to the pavilion after receiving a hefty blow on a more sensitive part of his body, like an old soldier being taken to his rest.

Unlike in the past, there are tents and tents, too numerous to mention - Royal Colts, Thomian Colts - the perennial Mustang tent, which is the cynosure of all eyes and open only to members, the large majority of whom are important politicians including ministers, businessmen and of course, the wealthy blabber-mouths, who take delight in casting pithy yet harmless remarks at all and sundry. There is even rap music and to one such as I, who though, never prude, was shocked by the raw filth which was spewed out by a long-haired rap musician in Sinhala.

An annual visitor and a senior member of the Mustangs is Prime Minister Ranil Wickremesinghe, who is always in fine humour and takes many a jibe with that well-known, common, innocent smile, knowing full well that it is all part of the fun. It is not a case of who won or lost the game, but the spirit in which it was played - a spirit of camaraderie and sportsmanship.

I watched the game from near the sightscreen sipping a glass of beer and quietly left the ground, as I could not stand the rap anymore.

Last weekend, the 124th Battle of the Blues had some fine cricket and equally fine entertainment. A particular favourite of mine are the "Papara" bands, which I think, are hired from Hulftsdorp, with trumpets in full blast, with the dancers swinging and hopping to the toe-tapping music.

When a dance is too boozed up or tired, he comes and lays himself down to rest, only to resume an hour or so later. Last Saturday, a former burly rugger forward who loves life and all the joys that bring with it, went to the Big Match with his usual batch of friends, all young executives, who are as anxious to meet their old classmates and other cronies, talked of the old times and the mischievous pranks they played in school, and also participated at intervals, in "Papara'" session, over stimulating beverages.

Our friend, a very emotional type, was totally carried away by the exhilarating atmosphere and after some time, he found that he was with a new batch of friends, many of whom he had met for the first time. At the end of the day, his friends gathered and found that none, but one sheep was lost.

This sheep happened to be the former dynamic rugger forward, who had last been seen bleating around the tents as would the cloned "Dolly'. His newfound pals moved to the center of the ground after the day's play was over and engaged in a raucous baila session.

The ruggerite threw caution to the winds in the darkness of the night. He removed and threw his shirt in one direction, his denim trousers slid along the turf, his shoes and socks to goodness knows where, and to add to everything, his underpants were flung right up in to the air and sailed skywards in the westerly wind, as they were as light as a kite.

Around midnight, a security guard in one of the tents spied a small moving object and touching it he found it was a toe, which began wiggling vigorously. Getting the shock of his life, the security chap's first thought was that it was a ghost. He flashed his torch and found that it was a naked human being which he thought was dead to the world lying on the floor of the tent.

The drunken sleeper was woken from his stupor and the kind security officer who was of an elderly sort, managed to get a three-wheeler taxi, into which he bundled the human apparition, who, in his confused state, managed to stutter out as to where he stayed.

Early, the next morning, our "hero", leaning in the rear of the three-wheeler, as would Adam when he first met Eve, arrived at his home, with his family waiting anxiously for him in the grey hours of the dawn.

He slept like a babe throughout the whole of the next day, his sarong askew and the fan helping blow away the heat from his body. A long bath that night under a sharp shower, followed by a light, but nutritious dinner, gave him the buoyancy and the strength to ride his steed to office on Monday.

That Monday afternoon, he was paying a social visit in the company of his wife in a three-wheeler when the driver looked behind and suddenly stared hard at his male passenger. "Your face is very familiar. Wasn't it you I dropped home in the early hours of the morning?"

Of course, this could not be denied, except that the miscreant turned to his wife and looked at her sheepishly and apologetically.

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