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I couldn't have been more than eight, that tender age when boys discover sport, when I first saw it -or recall seeing it - played.
It was in a large open field in the West End of Montréal. My family had taken the train down from Sorel, as we did every spring, to buy tools, seeds, cloth and other things that adults needed besides, to prepare for the upcoming planting season.
The sun was high, the weather was fine, and there - 22 of them, dressed in white, tossing and hitting and diving majestically and with such vigour; I didn't say anything at the time, but I was captivated - until the gentle tug of my mother's hand led me back to the train - and to home.
The train trip was one of my favourite childhood delights- as the train chugged along the Saint Laurent and I peered out at the long, strip-farm Seigneuries that filled the countryside. Eventually, my mind drifted from cricket.

One night, late that fall, my father burst through the door excitedly. Given the time of year, and the particular way that he grinned at my brothers and sisters and I, it could only mean one thing - the Eaton's Catalogue. It was time to choose our Christmas Present.
"Joseph!" My father cried to me. "You are now old enough. This year, you'll get real hockey equipment!"
I didnt think, I just blurted it out-
"I want a cricket bat!"
My father was dumbfounded. The Eaton Catalogue that he had been holding out dropped to his side with his arms.
"A cricket bat?" He thought for a second.
"This isnt Ontario. No one plays cricket here."
"They do in Montréal!" I couldnt stood myself.
He growled. "No French play cricket."
"Why not?"
He turned and called to my mother. She entered the room. He spoke quickly and quietly too her. She frowned, and glanced sideways at me. She nodded to my father.
"I'll call Father Papineau."
She didnt say anything to me, but after she grabbed the phone, she looked back to my father and agreed,
"French people dont play cricket."
Before I knew it, the Priest was at the dinner table, my mother hurriedly fixing him a bowl of choudière and a cup of tea.
He agreed with the others.
"Joseph-", he began and stopped. "French people don't play cricket."
"Why?" My parents were aghast.
Father Papineau looked back at them, and shrugged.

In the coming weeks, I made sure never to bring it up again. I knew it would only cause trouble. I would play hockey, like a Frenchmen is supposed to.
My parents said nothing as well, for a few weeks. Then my father began cracking jokes about it, things like "You could be the greatest cricketer in La Francophonie!". He thought this was hilarious.
I said nothing.
I suspected nothing when he bought a plank of willow from the hardware store; nor when he worked long hours at his lathe.
I suspected nothing, until Christmas morning. Under the tree, wrapped, in exactly the shape - of a cricket bat, with my name on it?!
I rushed down and ripped off the wrapping, incredulously. There it was, perfectly smooth, lovingly crafted.
"Thank you, papa!" I nearly cried as I jumped up to hug him.
He laughed. "You're welcome, Jos. It was cheaper to make than to buy hockey equipment, anyway!"

The next spring, we took the train again to Montréal. My father agreed to take me to watch a match. On this trip, I couldnt focus on the Seigneuries, for I could only think of the oval.
"Papa." I asked,
"Why isnt there an oval in Sorel?"
He shrugged.
"Because French people dont play cricket!"

Joseph-Napoléon Arsénault, "The Cricket Bat and other Stories", (1970)