June 7, the calendar said. Wicket Croquet Day.
And I, your humble reader of footnotes and fine print, Kamandaki (the Vidhushaki with a passion for peculiar pastimes), found myself yet again in the company of flamingos, hedgehogs, and ill-tempered monarchs. Yes, dear rasikas, I was re-reading Alice in Wonderland. For the nth time. Nth as in that mystical number where logic gives up and imagination takes over.
As I turned the page to the Queen of Hearts’ infamous croquet match, where flamingos become mallets and hedgehogs pretend to be obedient balls, it struck me: wasn’t this the truest form of sport? One where rules are ornamental and outrage is half the fun? Why do we take competition so seriously when the absurdity is so much more delicious?
Let’s be honest—croquet, to most of us, conjures up images of lords in linen and ladies in lace, sipping tea while calculating ball angles with Victorian precision. But scratch beneath the manicured turf and you’ll find a much more tangled root system.
Some say the game goes back to ancient Egypt, where folks whacked balls through hoops with sticks[1]. Others point to “paille-maille,” a 17th-century French game involving iron hoops and suspiciously competitive courtiers[2]. The British, naturally, claimed it as their own and gave it the spit-polish of aristocracy. By the 1800s, croquet had become an emblem of the genteel class—the only blood sport where everyone still wore gloves.
But don’t be fooled. In 1900, croquet was an Olympic sport, and guess what? Only France competed. That’s right. One country. No opponents. Guaranteed medals. If that isn’t the pinnacle of strategic laziness, I don’t know what is[3].
And then there was America. Ah, land of opportunity—and banned croquet lawns. The game was too closely linked to gambling and drinking for puritanical comfort[4]. Can you imagine? “Sorry, no wickets on the Sabbath, we’re still recovering from the horseshoes scandal.”
Wicket Croquet Day isn’t just a themed event. It is a rebellion in bloomers, a shout against the tyranny of rules. On this day, croquet players worldwide (mostly in the quirkier corners of the world, it must be said) don extravagant costumes, bend or discard rules, and transform the game into pure theatre.
But Wicket Croquet Day is not just about costumes and chaos; it’s about mind games. It invites players to engage in playful trickery, psychological strategy, and theatrical misdirection. The game becomes less about who hits the ball best and more about who can best confuse, amuse, and outwit their opponents—all with a wink and a nod.
It is, dare I say, Alice’s match brought to life—where the Queen of Hearts might indeed shout “Off with her head!” and someone in a flamingo onesie obliges with a dramatic curtsy.
It is where the croquet mallet could just as easily be a cricket bat, a candy cane, or a foam sword. The point, you see, is not to win—but to wonder. To step out of predictable gameplay and step into a performance. A sport that understands that the field is also a stage.
The Queen of Hearts was not wrong in spirit—only in tone. Her croquet match is not about winning. It is about power masquerading as sport. It shows how quickly fun can become farce, how the desire to dominate can corrupt the joy of play. Sound familiar? We’ve all seen family board games turn into cold wars.
Even literature, from the Mahabharata’s game of dice to modern sports thrillers, knows this: competition is both a crucible and a curse. It reveals character and also cracks it. Sometimes, the one who bends the flamingo best isn’t the most strategic—but the most willing to be silly.
So this Wicket Croquet Day, I raise my metaphorical mallet to the absurd, the creative, and the rule-breakers. Let croquet remain that deliciously contradictory game—part strategy, part spectacle, part sheer nonsense.
And if you catch me in my garden with a stick and a cucumber (hedgehogs are in short supply), know that I am not mad. Just participating in the oldest kind of play—the one where imagination scores highest.
As Alice said: “If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense.”
And I, Kamandaki, am merely trying to make that world bloom—one wicket at a time.
If you find yourself intrigued by the whimsy of croquet or inspired to rethink competition and creativity, why not try your hand at Wicked Croquet Day this year? Gather some friends, pick your mallets (flamingo-shaped or otherwise), bend the rules, and celebrate the joy of playful rebellion. Share your stories, costumes, and strategies—let’s keep the spirit of wonder and wickedness alive on the lawns near you!
🏑 Footnotes (because even chaos needs citations):
[1] “The Croquet Story,” Oxford Croquet, https://www.oxfordcroquet.com/history/early/
[2] “Paille-Maille and the Origins of Croquet,” World Croquet Federation, https://worldcroquet.org/history/paille-maille/
[3] “Croquet at the 1900 Summer Olympics,” Olympedia, https://www.olympedia.org/results/40530
[4] “Croquet Banned in Some US States?” – Smithsonian Magazine, https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/curious-case-of-croquet-and-prohibition-180975643/
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