The soft, rhythmic thud of leather on willow from the television was the first clue. In a sunlit room in Norway, my brother was dozing, but the soundtrack of a cricket match was unmistakable. It had been well over a decade since I’d paid any attention to the sport. The sound instantly bridged the years, pulling me back to a different lounge room, where my father would be watching, and I was still young enough to be there with him.
It has been nearly nine years since we lost him. Time has softened the sharpest edges of grief and reshaped our family. The finer details of his presence—the tone of his voice on the phone, his particular walk—have begun to soften in memory. Yet, here in Scandinavia, the sound of a cricket broadcast brought it all rushing back with startling clarity: late nights watching historic wins, the intricate house rules of our backyard games, his patient lessons on a bowler’s run-up or the perfect defensive stance.
In my youth, sport was a constant. He was a fixture on the sidelines, his booming voice of encouragement—or caution—echoing across netball courts and pools. But as adulthood took hold, with its studies, travels, and new priorities, that part of my life receded. His passing coincided with a move across the world, a fracturing of our shared daily life. Our grief, as it turned out, was a solitary journey.
What I didn’t anticipate was that a game would become a map back to him. A decade on, cricket re-emerged not just as a pastime, but as a conduit. It carried the echoes of values he imparted: a competitive spirit, respect for disciplined effort, and the grace found in pressure. It started with text messages during a heated Ashes series, shared jokes about on-field drama, and a renewed dialogue that spanned continents.
Last summer, watching a match together in his living room, his newborn daughter in our arms, the connection felt complete. The familiar tension of a close game, the shared analysis over coffee, the quoting of the same podcasts—it was all there. It was a new chapter of an old story.
We often spend our early adulthood putting distance between ourselves and our origins, only to spend later years seeking a path back. I never expected that path would be marked by a 22-yard pitch. In the rhythm of a Test match, the strategy of a session, and the shared hope for a home-team victory, my father’s presence remains tangible. It’s a space where his guidance endures and his love is reaffirmed. With every new series, this inherited world expands, layering fresh memories and inside jokes upon the old foundation. It is a living, evolving reminder of how he taught us to be, and a testament to the simple, enduring joy of a shared passion.