It's 10:40 p.m. here in Dhaka, and all hell has broken loose. I wanted to participate in that precise moment, feel the elation wash over me too, but I could not, for the life of me, find an online stream of Bangladesh's cricket match against Sri Lanka. So I resorted to ESPN's play-by-play box score and before the narrative of the final points trickled past the cyber traffic, anticipation had exploded from the lungs of Bangladeshis in glorious fruition. I took off my headphones and opened the door to the balcony. The breeze had stopped for the hoots and horns and yells. Flashes of light from firecrackers lit the narrow side streets and revealed jubilant faces, growing in number by the second. It's still awfully dark in the capital that so many people call home, but the activity of bright colors from celebrating women's shalwar kameez has chased away the heaviest corners of the night.
My heart is swelling with pride as it rarely does. This is the stuff that hits me when the Lakers got Pau Gasol for Kwame Brown, when Brady completed the throw to Moss in the 4th quarter of Super Bowl XLII. For a cricket match to have the same effect on me, I know there is life other than sports at play here. But for these Bangladeshis? It's all wickets and bearded bowlers, man. For a night, an entire nation is going to bed thinking life might be worth it.
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