By Kio Amachree
There were no fistfights at Eton.
I played mind games.
Cricket was my battlefield. I was the opening bowler. Fast. Hostile. Intimidating. I made the First XI, a sacred institution. History, tradition, status. To wear that cap mattered.
When Eton toured, I opened the bowling. Word spread quickly.
The big Nigerian. Fast. Dangerous. Pain followed the delivery.
Cricket ran in my blood. My father captained cricket at the London School of Economics and later at Cambridge University when he was a student. He taught me how to bowl as a child in New York. Rhythm, run-up, control, menace. I never missed a match at prep school. I never missed one at Eton.
If I had a problem with someone, I solved it with pace.
A bouncer to the head. A few balls into the ribs. Then the rest of the body. Always just inside what could pass as acceptable.
When the First XI played the Masters, there was a man called Paddy Crocker. Former military. Tough. Sharp. A teacher who enjoyed giving me a hard time. So I went to work on him. Not the stumps. The body. Ball after ball. The umpire warned me for dangerous play. I smiled and kept going.
I remember everything.
I was often the only Black player in school teams. Racism was not subtle. It was open, casual, confident. So I answered in the only arena that mattered. Against schools that made racist remarks, I bowled harder. I bowled angrier. That was my way of extracting respect. Crude, perhaps. Effective, without question.
The reputation followed me.
Don’t mess with Kio. He’s dangerous with a cricket ball.
Then came Harrow at Lord’s.
The center of world cricket. The ultimate stage.
Everything fell apart.
The abuse from the stands was relentless. Drunk voices. Slurs. Noise that invaded the mind and refused to leave. I couldn’t concentrate. My family watched from the pavilion. Former teachers. My father’s friends. Polite applause. Food and drink flowing.
Harrow destroyed my bowling.
Ball after ball vanished. Out of the ground. Into the streets of London. My intimidation meant nothing that day.
After the match, the BBC invited me for an interview. World Service. Millions listening. I lied. I said there was no racism. I was not going to accuse anyone on that platform. Not then. Too many listeners. Too dangerous.
After that match, I never played cricket again.
Cricket gave me power.
It also showed me its limits.
Sometimes the game tells you exactly when it is time to walk away.
#KioAmachree #NewYorkTimesStyle #Eton #Cricket #RacismInSport #Memory #Identity #BritishEstablishment #LordsCricketGround
