Jirleen Nyel and her friends hollered encouragement from their chairs nestled in a stand of trees at the edge of the cricket field in Anchorage’s Dave Rose Park.
“We are loud when we cheer, so that's why we're out here,” she said.
She was worried about hurting elders’ ears with all their yelling. It was the first Saturday in July, and barely past 8 a.m., but Nyel planned to stay for another 15 hours, like she does every weekend, cheering on the many people she loves on the field.
“I have several cousins playing against my brother's team,” she said, laughing. “So, yeah, I'm rooting for both teams, you know?”
Nyel grew up going to cricket games on Manu’a tele in the Samoan Islands. Now, living in Anchorage, the sport remains a staple of her life. She said cricket helps strengthen connections with friends and family, despite living so far from the islands.
“It's a very important game for all of us,” she said. “That's why we're continuing up here.”
The funniest guy on the team
While Samoan cricket has its roots in the British sport, it’s diverged wildly since English missionaries brought it to the islands in the late 1800s. In kilikiti, as the Samoan version is called, players use a three-sided bat that evolved from the Samoan war club. They play without the usual shin guards. They’re often in sandals, or even barefoot.
In Anchorage, players wear the traditional Samaon sarong, the ei lavalava, with their team’s insignia. There’s also food — a lot of it. In the morning, the most popular fare from the food tent is a chocolate coconut rice pudding called cocoa rice with fried banana dumplings called panikeke. Later, teams share post-game meals, and spectators barbeque.
Another difference: The players dance when they’re in the field, led by “the funniest guy on the team.”
Farisa Fune is the funniest guy on his team.
Whistle in his mouth, he led his teammates onto the field on Saturday. He blew his whistle rhythmically, the team clapping along as batters took swings at the small rubber ball. When someone caught a fly ball, he sprung into action with a dance, which the whole team imitated. Sometimes it was a long, slow hip shake. One of his first dances of the day was a flop onto the grass, arms and legs waving in the air like a stranded beetle.
That one earned belly laughs from spectators as all 40-odd team members wriggled on their backs in unison.
Inspiration for the dances can come from anywhere, Fune said.
“I use the things that I see outside, like fishing,” he said. “Stuff like that, anything.”
The dances take the edge off any nerves the players might have from so many people watching them, he said.
“I just come here and make some jokes to make sure all my brothers are happy,” he said.
Fune said his dances also help players focus on the game, and take their minds off stress from sometimes complicated lives at home. He said he’s always looking around, noticing how his teammates are doing, asking himself, “What do they need? How can I take care of them?”
“It feels like wherever we go, this is who we are, and this is how we play, no matter if we lose or win,” he said. “The main thing is, love one another. That's how the game is, to come here, build relationships with other teams, with other brothers.”
‘To be all together’
As the sun rose higher in the sky, a generator that had been uncooperative all morning finally roared to life. Reggae flooded the park. Players clapped in time to the music. The dances became more rhythmic.
Kids toddled around in the grass. Bigger kids tossed a football. Many had lips stained red from ice cake — a frozen treat made with Kool-Aid.
Those kids are part of the reason the Polynesian Association of Alaska puts on so many games, according to Lucy Hansen, the organization’s executive director.
“We want to bring our family here,” she said. “We want to bring our kids here to be all together. We want to take the kids away from the street, from doing whatever they're doing on the street and get in trouble. We want them to be busy and to learn something.”
She said when kids grow up on the islands, they’re immersed in Samoan culture. They know what kind of behavior is expected of them, like the ability to be patient, or control big emotions. But in Anchorage, Hansen said, those cultural expectations need to be passed down a different way. That’s where cricket comes in.
“You need to calm down. You need to relax your mind and think about where you at,” she said. “You're not the only one here. You're not the only one in a team.”
And it’s not just watching the example in the field — bad behavior can mean a team gets points docked.
That first game in early July lasted about three hours.
But the day was just getting started.
Over in the food tent, women mixed up another batch of panikeke. There was also beef curry, lumpia and fried chicken. Coolers held stacks and stacks of ice cake. People were still arriving — setting up tents and camping chairs, rolling out mats. They would be there for nearly another 12 hours, watching game after game, eating, cracking jokes, connecting with each other and their culture.
