Growing up in Australia in the 1990's, summer was cricket.
It was the dulcet tones of late great cricket commentator Richard Benaud on Channel Nine narrating the movements of men in white, as men in the lounge room watched on, mingling with the sound of whirring fans and the smell of ripe mangoes in the sticky heat.
I remember being forced to endure backyard cricket, in front of a dented garage as my older brother hurtled fast balls at me like missiles.
He was the only boy in the family and used me as a human crash dummy.
I would stand awkwardly with an unwieldy bat, ducking and weaving to avoid the tennis balls, taped with plastic to mimic the expensive, heavy, threaded authentic cricket balls and letting them zoom past me and smash into the garage.
Occasionally I'd hit a tepid four into the gutter or next door until our allocation was exhausted.
I'd then be sharply summoned to retrieve the tennis ball collection from suburban crevices, braving splintery fences, gutters and scary dogs.
In the 1990's, the lazy summer school holidays coincided with Ramadan.
We knew the Pakistani cricket team, like the country was a chaotic, brilliant mess. A loved but exasperating relative you felt exhausted barracking for, but who could surprise you with brief flashes of brilliance amid intrigue and scandal.
Sometimes we'd lay in front of an open fridge to cool down and assuage the gnawing hunger in our bellies with the promise of evening Iftar deliverance of samosas, pakoras, dahi bade and chole, sprinkled with fried paaper.
Cricket was so much part of the Australian culture, but we had our own parallel desi version of it.
Instead of beers, the men watched the cricket with mango shake and chai as they continued to monopolise the one television in the house into the night, as the smell of garden jasmin wafted in through open windows and mingled with the last vestiges of biryani.
The awkward tangle of the desi player's names in the mouths of the white commentators was my initiation into learning to filter your own reality through the eyes of the dominant culture.
We knew the Pakistani cricket team, like the country was a chaotic, brilliant mess. A loved but exasperating relative you felt exhausted barracking for, but who could surprise you with brief flashes of brilliance amid intrigue and scandal.
We were proud of the way the underdog team won against the odds and their historic 1992 win against England (blessed by the divine intervention of Ramadan). We loved the South Asian players of the diaspora who rose in the ranks of western teams - England’s former captain Nasser Hussain and Hashim Amla of South Africa.
The lack of South Asian talent in the Australian teams was a sour point, followed as closely as the selection dramas of rugby league great Hazem El Masri
Usman Khawaja. Source: AAP
Then there was Warney who took the flak for the team's need to eat baked beans in India because they couldn't stand the curry, and that seemed like a fitting metaphor for the whole team and the country.
News of Australian cricket captain Steve Smith and David Warner's ball tampering shenanigans has hit Australians hard, with even the Prime Minister chiming in to chastise the team.
Like the election of bombastic billionaire businessman/reality TV star Donald Trump bursting the bubble of American exceptionalism, the cheating revelations seems to have deflated Australian fans but comes as no surprise to me.
Australian cricket is still surprisingly deified in the local culture, with the rusted-on fans blind to Australia's ugly reputation of being the hard sledging, bogan bully boy on the international scene.
I've had friends snidely remark about 'match fixing' when I express admiration for the Pakistani cricket team, as if Australia were a saintly team beyond the dirtiness that has marred the 'Gentlemen's game'.
I've had friends snidely remark about 'match fixing' when I express admiration for the Pakistani cricket team, as if Australia were a saintly team beyond the dirtiness that has marred the 'Gentlemen's game'.
The Australian cricket captain rivals the role of the Prime Minister in importance, a kind of prophetic mantle - the baggy green crown deriving its spiritual power direct from Bradman himself.
He is our heroic, strong, genial, clear-eyed leader - a beacon of middle Australia and masculine virtues.
Desi fans - we accept the flaws of our national teams in the same way depressed third world countries resign themselves to their low-status on the world totem pole; and corruption as part of the disappointing reality of life in a third world country.
We darkly mutter and complain about the easy catches dropped and strong players felled. We cheer on in every game but also dissect cynically, how much is real and how much tainted by bookies?
But Australia? No, they were above it all.
It's time Australia faced up to the facts. Underneath the myths, our heroes are men with feet of clay.
