By Christopher Martin-Jenkins
Christopher Martin-Jenkins, or CMJ to his many enthusiasts in addition to listeners of attempt fit particular, could be the voice of cricket; an remarkable authority whose perception and keenness for cricket in addition to his type of observation have captured what it really is that makes the game so designated. In his decades as a commentator and journalist - reporting for the BBC, the days and the Cricketer between others - CMJ has coated a number of the greatest moments within the sport's heritage. And during this memoir CMJ appears again on an entire life spent in provider to this such a lot weird and wonderful and beguiling of activities and tells the tales of the gamers, coaches and fanatics he met alongside the way in which. mentioned with all of the heat and power that has endeared CMJ to generations of cricket lovers, this memoir relives the moments that outlined smooth cricket and which formed his existence in flip. it's a must-have ebook for all devotees of the sport.
Christopher Martin-Jenkins was once the manager Cricket Correspondent of the days. he's the writer of a number of past books together with AUSTRALIAN summer season (Faber & Faber, 1999).
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Extra resources for CMJ: A Cricketing Life
Mongolia,” I said. ” Even as I said it out loud, I could hardly believe it myself. Mongolia? “Here,” he said, offering me a piece of paper with a name and e-mail address written on it. “An American college friend of mine is working there right now. ” Dumbfounded because things like this just don’t happen, and especially not in the anonymity of airports, I thanked him. What else could I do? Before I had a chance to come up with a reasonable response, like asking the man why he’d sought me out, he dashed off to catch his next flight.
I tried to prepare for all of this. In a single backpack, sturdy hiking boots joined a single pair of high heels, mascara and eye shadow were lumped together with heavy-duty sunscreen, and a sealed Ziploc bag contained both diarrhea medication and a bottle of perfume. For my internship at the TV station, I packed one notebook and one pen. Finally and for good measure, I tucked Cat—my worn-out and shabby thirty-year-old stuffed animal—into the mix. I was about to fling myself thousands of miles from the nearest designer juice bar or Starbucks, a time zone or so way away from a reliable salad.
After all, he’d spent at least double the time trying to locate my destination. In fact, he’d probably spent three times as long as he should have spent to help me find my apartment. But at this point, he’d grabbed my arm and begun to twist. As a woman, I happen to have a stubborn policy of refusing to negotiate with men who use their physical strength to negotiate with me. ” he repeated, twisting ever harder. Suddenly, I realized what he was demanding. During my long delay when flying into Ulaanbaatar, I’d made use of my time learning the basics of the Mongolian language.