It’s a very rare thing to be granted a glimpse of great art in its first stages. A month ago, I had the good luck to overhear an exchange that offered such a glimpse. A few writers for the Zamboni were brainstorming new articles, when one of them said:

“Hey guys, how about this: ‘If the age of the universe was the length of a test cricket match, humans would have only evolved two innings ago.’”

Hearing that, I immediately grabbed pencil and paper, desperate to record what I was sure was a legend being born. I present to you now an account of the major events in this article’s development for the last 30 days.

Day 1:
After hearing the idea, the writers immediately agree that this is the one – the article that they are willing to put their singular effort into creating for this issue, no matter what. As the night’s production meeting ends, they agree to independently research the sport of cricket and figure out how to structure the article.

Day 3:
The writers meet together outside the Commons. They share a long silence. Finally, one of them speaks up. Actually, not *speaks* – more of a croak followed by a soft wail of despair. The others begin to talk, reassuring themselves that yes, in fact, cricket is a nearly incomprehensible sport, and that they may have bitten off more than they could chew. However, they hold fast and reaffirm their
commitment to the article, pledging to watch at least 2 hours of T20 before they meet again.

Day 7:
The final writer has finished his allotted 2 hours of watching time, and the group meets again to discuss the article. Now that they’ve started to understand the game, the tricky part will be finding some way to relate it to the universe. It was emphasized that the circumstantially dependent length of a test match could skew their timescale. (Note: for readers without a background in the test format, see B. W. L. Whickett-Batten’s Innings for the Outsider: A Short Summary of
Test Cricket for Americans and other Barbarians.).

Day 13:
The writing collective is fraying at the seams. One member seems to have become totally obsessed with this year’s Indian Premier League T20 tournament – according to floormates, he is heard repeatedly shouting “HOWWZAAAAAAT!!” at totally random hours and has decked his room out with Royal Challengers gear. Another writer has been seen skulking around campus at late hours
muttering about “Laplace’s Demon” and “the bent elbow of God himself ” and “humanity? The over ends on a hit wicket.” Progress has ground to a halt, but the remaining two writers persevere.

Day 19:
After not being seen by professors or friends for almost a week, campus officials conduct a welfare check on one of the writers. He is found in his dorm, writing a 30-pages-and-growing treatise on why the West Indies are the next burgeoning world cricket power.
He is badly malnourished, but when he arrives at the hospital the only name he will give the nurses is “Sachin Tendulkar.” The writers are now effectively down to one.

Day 21:
The final writer was just about to give up when he got a text from the “late walker.” When they met up at the Rez, he seemed remarkably lucid. They had a very normal conversation – until they got to the article, at which point the “walker” took a deep breath and told him to just drop it. She’d already taken care of it, so just leave it alone and get back to normal life. A single tear rolled down the
“walker’s” face as she stalked away into the night.

Day 23:
The final writer keeps going anyway. He manages to produce a decent, somewhat funny article with a tasteful but not ridiculous number of cosmology jokes. He got it workshopped and submitted it a full week in advance. And this is where he leaves our story – without passion, there can be no greatness.

Day 25:
The other three members of the original group are summoned by the late walker’s call for “one last meeting to discuss the ‘matter at hand.’” They meet up in the walker’s room the walls of which – as revealed by a quick glance through the closing door – are covered in strange calculations etched into the paint.

Day 26:
The meeting lasts all night. Several times the former writers burst into violent, bitter tears
and even more violent debate. At exactly 3:00 A.M. all three become silent, and walk out of the
room.

They are all wearing crisp, white uniforms. One carries a bat, the other a ball, the
other a set of wickets. They walk outside and play a game of 3-person cricket in silence, in pitch
darkness, in the middle of the residential quad.

Every movement is flawless – the bowler’s throws are fast and sharp, the batsman’s hits are daring and energetic, and the fielder never loses sight of the ball. They play this way until morning, then through the afternoon. At 5:00 the next evening, they leave without a word and walk home.

Day 30:
It’s submission day. Out of nowhere, the players walk in wearing their pristine uniforms. They drop off three massive piles of papers, and lay a single sheet face-down on top.

The three piles were titled “An Analysis of the Behaviors of Free Agencies, or Fielders, Moving in Hypermaterial Wave Space,” “Boolean N-State Computations Through Relative Ball Trajectory”, and “Cricket and You: Bowling Yourself Over for a Better Tomorrow.” When the paper on top was flipped over, all that could be seen was a single large, intrusive, and somehow extremely nasal
word: HOWZAAAT!