First published in 2016

It was only in 1996 that I realised you could boast about being Sri Lankan. Growing up in west London, as a bloody civil war rumbled on in Sri Lanka, my parents had kept the idea of nationality close to their chests. We were Tamil, I knew that much. But Sri Lankan? My parents were not totally keen to commit to that.

My father’s family were caught in the crossfire, with various businesses ransacked or burned to the ground. On the eve of my first birthday, my mother lost a sister and brother in mortar attacks. Another brother went missing, only to emerge on our doorstep when I was two or three. My earliest memories are of him cooking, and changing me. Only later in life did I put the pieces together and figure out why he had spent so much time indoors with me.

With little Sri Lankan influence at home, other than the food we ate and the verbal reprimands I received, I was unequivocally English. In life and sport – England. Until one afternoon in 1996 when sat in front of a radio to listen to Sri Lanka’s World Cup final victory over Australia. My dad gave a wry smile as he rose out of his armchair and, for the first time in my life, he let the veil slip: “I can’t believe it – they’ve won the World Cup!”

Being the only Sri Lankan at school, I received congratulations from other cricket lovers who assumed my house was awash with the yellow, green, orange and maroon. I didn’t tell them otherwise. For the first time, there was genuine interest in my background. Interest beyond Mr Brown remarking that I was lucky I’d never have to waste too much money on sun cream. And he was an arsehole.

“Do you think he should have got one? I do. Hick got one. Ramprakash should have.” Uncle Raj looked at me, I could see the wheels turning. He coached Bessborough in the Middlesex leagues and knew his stuff. I could tell he wanted to break something to me, but seeing I was head over heels he didn’t want to tell me that, for his money, after 28 matches and just one century, Ramprakash wasn’t cut out for Test cricket, and that he was lucky to keep his place after 249 runs in nine innings against South Africa that summer. That, perhaps, mentally, the highest form of the game asked too much of him.

Instead, he settled for the following: “Batting is too easy for Ramprakash. When you teach someone to bat, you teach them to bat like Ramprakash. Sometimes it doesn’t work. Sometimes, you can do everything right but, whether it is God or something else, it does not work out as you want it to. That doesn’t mean you stop. Ramprakash will probably score more hundreds for England. But, today, he did everything right and didn’t score a hundred. That is cricket.”