Cricket.  As a farm boy on the Northern Prairies of Northwestern Minnesota, crickets were those things that sang our lullaby at night, with their mighty chorus hovering over the swamps and thickets.For those people throughout the British Empire, or former members of the British Empire, they too were sung to sleep with the sound of cricket in their ears, this was not the six legged kind, this was the kind that was played on an oval with a bat and a ball.

The one billion plus cricket fans around the world are now rolling their eyes at me - it is unofficially an oval, officially it is the pitch.

Though there is no pitcher - the person throwing the ball is bowler, who is trying to knock off the little wooden, things - wickets I guess - from behind the guy holding the bat…ok he is called the batter. (ok, in fairness, wickets consist of the vertical stumps and the horizontal bails that rest on them…hard to believe I remembered this after the beverages…).

The bowler throws the ball towards the batsman who tries to hit it to defend the wickets.  If he gets a hit, he runs to the other end of the pitch were another batsman is waiting - the more times they can exchange sides, the more runs they get.  There are also some other reasons that a team might get runs - if the bowler doesn’t bowl properly (doesn’t use the “proper” arm motion), if it is wide of the batter (aka a wide run), if it gets by the wicket keeper (aka a bye), or if it hits the batsman on his body (aka a leg bye).

However, if the batter intentionally gets hit with the ball, he is summarily executed as an enemy of the people (North Korean and Iranian Government league only, leagues motto’s respectively “Cricket: More Than Your Primary Source of Protein” and “We ‘heart’ Cricket - Western Infidel Pigs”), all other geographies consider hitting purposely hitting the ball with your body an out.

Speaking of outs, a batsman can get out in a variety of ways - by not properly defending the wicket (the ball hits the wickets), by having the ball caught if it is hit before hitting the ground, by getting hit with the ball “guarding the wicket” (see intentionally paragraph above), and about seven other ways (dating your sister is not one of them for those of you in Kentucky).

Perhaps what is most amazing about the cricket match is that for the traditional test matches, they are long - I mean like five days, scheduled lunch and tea break long.

In short, the game is completely confusing - about eight people tried to explain it with me, including one explanation in a bar in Canada over one too many beers by an Australian who was using sugar packets, silver ware, and dinner plates.  Entertaining - yes.  Helpful - no.

Then two friends (aka ‘mates’ in Australian cricket parlance) took me to the Boxing Day Test match - Australia versus Pakistan.  Watching the match for fifteen minutes and two beers, it made absolutely perfect sense.  How could I have not gotten this before?

As the days play wound to a close, one of the gentlemen we were with looked at me and said, ”As an American, can you please explain your game of baseball to me, I’ve had about eight people try to explain it with the help of various dinnerware and the game just doesn’t seem to make any sense….”

Those that know me well know that there is a bit of a populist rabble rouser in me, a bit of a flare for the dramatic, a bit of a firebrand, a bit of an idealist, and a bit of a stubborn minded farm boy.Perhaps that is why I was constantly at odds with our high school principle.

To my credit most of my teachers liked me.  I was a good student, polite, studied hard, and more or less kept my nose clean.  In all of my high school career, there were really only two fights, both of which were discovered and quietly passed by teachers (I was winning and teaching some lessons).

Our principle and I respected each other, but we usually found ourselves at odds.

Perhaps it goes back to the school board meeting where I quoted Woodrow Wilson and left him in stunned silence about school bullying (that is another story).  Perhaps it was that he was a new aged educator, all about new math, liberal education, putting all students on an equal footing, and if that meant favoritism towards some, so be it.

I was raised by old school parents that believed that you worked hard, you kept your nose clean, you did the best you could and the rewards would come.

In short, we were sure to lock horns.  The problem was, he was the authority, I was the unlikely rebel.

My senior year, I had a first and second hour study hall, and both teachers that supervised those classes, Mr. Erickson my ag teacher, and Mr. Black my math teacher, knew that I was home doing chores and knew two things, first I would be there for my first true class of the day when it started third period.  Second, my homework would be done.  They counted me present.

Our principle had some different ideas.

The first time he caught me in the hallway walking to class midway through second period, he got a big, “Aha, I Got You Grin!” across his face.  Strutting up to me, he asked, “Well, Mark!  Where do you think you are going the middle of second hour?”

“To study hall.” I replied.

“Are you just coming to school?  The middle of second hour?” He asked with mock incredulousness in his voice.

“I am, I have first and second hour study hall.” I replied.

“Where is your note?”  He replied.

“I don’t have a note.”  I replied.

“Ahhh yes!” He said triumphantly. “No note! Not a surprise.  Lets go to the office!”

He marched me to the office despite my pleas.  Dropping me off at the secretaries desk, he pointed at me and said, “Mark is not to get into class today without a note.” And with a stiff turn, walked into his office and triumphantly closed the door.

My folks were in Fargo.  Mom was in the hospital.  The teachers, the staff, the students knew the story.  I didn’t know what to do, especially since I didn’t know if Dad was coming home today, tomorrow, or the next day.  I must have had a panicked look on my face.

“You heard him, no note, no class.” The secretary said as she handed me a pad of paper and a pen.  “You better write yourself one.”

 I will admit, I didn’t understand the game.  People had tried over and over to explain it, and yet, I failed to grasp the concept, the idea, the very lure of the game.

“Come on mate; let’s go to the Boxing Day test.” One of my co-workers beckoned.

Ducking out of work, we hoped a cab down St. Kilda road, and off we went to the Melbourne Cricket Grounds, aka, the “G.”

In my preparations for my move to Melbourne, I had heard about the Melbourne Cricket Grounds.  It is big.  It is the third largest stadium in the world, and would be the largest if not for today’s safety standards.  The only two bigger stadiums in the world are two football stadiums in the United States.

Some of those football stadium (gridiron fields for those of you reading this in Australia) are old, dating back to the early 1900’s.  I’ve been in some of those stadiums, they are majestic old buildings…and most of them, well, show their age…

The Melbourne Cricket Ground (also known as the MCG) out dates them all…the first ground, the first grassy oval, was built back in the 1850’s on the edge of the city of Melbourne.  It was the home of both the cricket club, as well as the main venue in the city for speeches, concerts, and other athletic events.  It has hosted the Olympics (1956), the largest gathering in a stadium (Billy Graham in the 1950’s), some of the most exciting games of cricket in history, and more recently, some of the best of the Australian Football League (aka “footy”).

In short, the MCG is a living legend of sorts of the sporting world - perhaps the Roman Coliseum has more history and more bloodshed (those that have seen footage of footy may understand that comment), but it hasn’t been used in two thousand years.

Part of me was expecting the old girl to be showing her age.

Walking up to the MCG, with the bronzed statues of the Australian sports legends, it was a bit inspiring and a bit intimidating.  This was the home of Australian sports.  The grounds, the grass specifically, was a little rough, with some bare batches.  A sign of neglect or a sign of the crowds?

“I’m a member,” my friend commented.

“Really, how much does it cost to become a member?” I inquired.

“About $500 a year.” He replied.

“How many games can you go to? I asked.

“As many that you want too.  They even have their own club for members, and special seating.” He replied.

“Gee, I should become a member!” I said.

“Aw mate,” he chuckled, “There is about 93,000 people on the waiting list, the ones that they are letting in now signed up back in the 90’s.”

Walking through the doors of the grand dame of the sporting world, the $500 (Aussie dollars no less!) seemed like a bargain even if it meant a twenty year waiting list.  I’ve been in some of the best venue’s in America - Excel Energy Center in St. Paul (home of my Minnesota Wild), the new, one billion dollar Yankee Stadium - and while they are impressive, the MCG is darn close.

My guest pass got me into most of the member only sections.  Nice bars, nice seating, great views, and some nice looking, young (legal) female fans….

Membership does have its privileges.

 Cars were in the ditch.  The snow fell steadily, sometimes mixed with rain and sleet.  The wind was picking up.  By Minnesota standards, last weekend’s weather wasn’t all that bad, but the squall was the worst winter storm so far this season in Minneapolis.

Inside the warm and spacious confines of the world’s biggest shopping mall, you’d have never known there was a snowstorm going on except for the conspicuous absence of people.

I must admit, the mall was impressive.  It’s difficult to imagine al of that retail space under one roof.  There are places to shop, places to eat, places to see a movie, places to have a drink, places to see a live show.  The variety is amazing and the quality’s not bad.

All of that is great, but it’s not what will draw people to the Mall of America.

The mall’s climate control appears to be flawless.  You can experience the joy of a perfect Minnesota summer day 365 days a year.  There’s no need to wear a coat or carry an umbrella.  You’ll never need mittens or sunscreen.  When the wind is howling and the temperature can’t struggle above zero, who wouldn’t be tempted to spend a few hours at the Mall of America.

Still, perfect weather’s not the Mall’s biggest attraction.

Camp Snoopy, the mall’s amusement park centerpiece, builds on Minnesota summertime theme.  The buildings and paths resemble those you’d find in Minnesota’s extensive state park system.  There are rocky cliffs and grassy meadow.  Trees dot the park and water is everywhere.  You can drive remote-control boats, cross a gentle stream or ride a log down a rushing river.

It’s awfully nice, but why would anyone come to a giant building in Minnesota for something they can find outside anywhere in the state.  No, there must be a better reason.

Things are more perfect than you’d find elsewhere in Minnesota.  The frontier buildings in Camp Snoopy are weathered just perfectly.  The streams are crystal clear.  Charlie Brown’s kite-eating tree never wilts under the hot August sun and Snoopy is never grounded by a Minnesota thunderstorm in his quest for the Red Baron.  The place is picture perfect.

If it’s not the shopping, the entertainment, the perfect temperature, or the picturesque beauty, then what is it that will make the Mall of America Minnesota’s biggest attractions?

What is it that will make the world’s biggest mall of commercial success?

No mosquitoes.