Did You Play Gully Cricket? A Nostalgic Story of Our Childhood Games

Did You Ever Play Gully Cricket on the Road?” — A Nostalgic Ride Back to Our Wild, Wonderful Childhood

"If you've never faced a tennis ball with a broken bat on a narrow lane while a scooter zooms past you mid-delivery... did you even grow up in India?"

 

The Golden Era of Roadside Cricket

Long before T20 leagues, floodlights, and third umpires, we had our own Wankhede — the dusty street in front of our house. No sponsors, no audience — just a bunch of chappal-wearing legends with more heart than technique. It was the rawest, most beautiful form of cricket.

The sound of a rubber ball bouncing off a tin gate was louder than a six at Eden Gardens. We didn’t have white uniforms, but we had rules — oh boy, crazy, unwritten rules.

The "Official Rules" of Gully Cricket That Made Zero Sense — Yet Meant Everything

1. One Tip One Hand = OUT
   Didn’t matter if you just hit a cover drive worthy of Kohli — if someone caught it with one hand after a bounce, you were gone. Especially annoying when the fielder was a 5-year-old cousin who just happened to be standing at the right spot.

2. "Hit That Uncle’s House = OUT" Rule
   There was always one angry uncle whose windows were off-limits. Hit the ball there, and:

   • You were out.

   • You had to go get the ball.

   • You had to apologize.

   • You were banned from batting for a week (unofficially).

3. Last Batsman Plays Alone
   The solo hero — no non-striker. Just one legend taking on an army of bowlers and defenders with dreams of 5 more runs.

4. The Scooter Is Not Out
   If your shot hits a passing scooter or cycles through a vegetable vendor’s cart, and you still run? Not out. But if the ball gets stuck in a car's tire groove? That’s a dead ball. Retry.

5. Break the Flowerpot = Match Over
   Self-explanatory. One broken pot and the tournament would end with everyone's mom collectively showing up with slippers.

My Story: "The Day I Hit It Too Far"

I was about 12. The summer sun was melting the tar on the road, and our little cricket team was deep into our 7th over of the day.

We were playing “Winner stays on” — the team batting had already won two matches, and I was pumped to prove something.

Then came the ball — short-pitched, outside off. I swung hard. Too hard.

SIX!!!
But not just any six.

Straight into Mr. Bhatia’s balcony. The one we feared. The one with the green parrot and a habit of yelling at kids for breathing too loud.

We all froze.

Then came the words that haunted every kid in gully cricket:

• “Tu maara hai, tu jaa ke leke aa ball!” (You hit it, you go get it.)

And like a soldier on a doomed mission, I walked the 11 steps to Bhatia Uncle’s door. Rang the bell. Twice. He opened the door with that classic annoyed face — no shirt, a towel around his waist.

“Ball toh chhodo, pichhli baar ka glass kaun dega?” (Forget the ball, who’s paying for the glass last time?)

I mumbled an apology. Luckily, aunty was in a good mood and handed me the ball. But I wasn’t allowed to bat for the rest of the day.

When Friendships Were Measured in Overs

• Someone always fought over run counts.

• Someone cried because they weren’t sent to bat.

• Someone stormed off after a dubious LBW call (given by the bowler himself).

• But by evening, we were all back — sweaty, dusty, smiling. Ready for one more game before the lights went out.

When “Stumps” Were Brick Pieces and “Umpire” Was the Loudest Kid

We didn’t have gear, but we had:

• Bricks as stumps

• A broken bat wrapped in red tape

• A soft rubber ball with its skin peeling off

• Umpires who were also fielders, sometimes bowlers, always biased

Today’s Kids May Never Know

No mobile phones, no live streaming, no Insta stories. Just real friendships, real sweat, and real joy. If you were out, you cheered for your friend. If you lost, you asked for one more match. And if your team won? You felt like champions.

The Final Goodbye: Gully Cricket Fades, But Never Dies

Today, that street is silent. There are cars parked where we used to dive for catches. That angry uncle? Probably a mellow grandpa now. That bat? Long gone.

But every time I walk past that lane, I can still hear:

“Ek over aur yaar! Light nahi gayi abhi!”

And sometimes, late at night, I wish for just one more match — same rules, same friends, same childhood.

Conclusion: We Were All Virat in That Lane Once

We didn’t have coaches, but we had each other. We didn’t have stadiums, but we had our hearts. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Because every international cricketer was once a gully cricket kid — breaking windows, dodging uncles, and dreaming big.