claimed, somewhat unimaginatively, that it was the Great Sri Lankan Novel. Such highbrow feting is perhaps a trifle surprising to cricket fans, whose love for the game is usually looked down upon by literary sorts,

There is more cricket fiction than is probably thought to exist. Screeds of it, in fact, with a curious abundance of thrillers and murder mysteries stretching from Dorothy Sayers Oxford Blue amateur sleuth Lord Peter Wimsey to Ted Dexters Testkill.As is often the case with artistry, novelists tackle cricket in a manner one might not otherwise think up. How different would English summers be without slip fielders? Jennie Walkers 24 for 3 contemplates. Arthur Conan Doyles Spedegues Dropper has a schoolteacher bowling 50 feet upward for the ball to fall vertically onto the stumps. Anthologies of crickets gilded writings tend toward literary pedigree, such as All-Muggletons jolly trouncing of Dingley Dell in Charles Dickens Pickwick Papers. Evergreen in the game, too, is celebrating an England of green fields surely more emerald than ever was the case in life. Upstanding here is the nostalgic village-cricket schmaltz of Hugh de Selincourts The Cricket Match.Cricket fiction is not only the stuff of odd recesses and antique periods, though. There has been a recent spate of highly literate, fun, international and engaging novels concentrated upon the sport. A bright place to start when discussing cricket fiction is the most convivial of these, Shehan Karunatilakas Chinaman: The Legend of Pradeep Mathew.Chinaman is a novel of talent not realised. Its the story of potentially the greatest cricketer who ever lived proving not to be. Think to those cricketers you have known and willed on who never followed through at the elite level. From recent figures such as Rory Hamilton-Brown, and others doleful, like Richard Danny Germs Austin, to those of more parochial standing. Of the latter, Sridharan Jeganathan, Roshan Guneratne, and Anura Ranasinghe, fringe Sri Lankan spinners from the 1980s who all died young and forlorn, are likely unfamiliar. Chinaman amalgamates their obscure fates and a swathe of other half-true stories from Sri Lankan cricket into the story of a left-arm unorthodox and his resolute biographer. Tailing a course of murky sporting oblivion, it has explanations and diagrams of cricketing points (wicket, follow-on, Duckworth Lewis), some factual and some discursive. Its full of lists, discussions of statistics and style, and features endless references to Sri Lankas 1996 World Cup victory. And theres a little person in a bunker under a pitch who records the ambient audio of matches on reel-to-reel.Perhaps unexpectedly, this is all quite readable and, like Harry Potter, a page-turner. Indeed, following publication in 2010, Chinaman was a literary success with wide appeal. It won awards, avid fans, was raved about in prestigious publications, and released in the United States under a downplayed name. Many claimed, somewhat unimaginatively, that it was the Great Sri Lankan Novel. Such highbrow feting is perhaps a trifle surprising to cricket fans, whose love for the game is usually looked down upon by literary sorts, for the novel is ensconced in the sport and its lore in the same way meat is in a steak.Being a large book, its about much else besides. Its narrator - an alcoholic retired sportswriter consumed with his own failings and indulgences - leads the reader from middle-class suburban life in Mount Lavinia round about Colombo and eventually onto a backpacker bus through New Zealands North Island with a conceited musician. There is something of the cricket mystery genre as dubious titbits of information are trailed in bumbling detective fashion (although their theme is a forgotten cricket career rather than murder most foul). In a genial, rambling style, the eponymous chinamans more fantastic proportions - as an ambidextrous bowler capable of pace and spin and mimicry of others styles, with an arsenal of mystery spin balls that might bounce twice or fly 20 feet into the air (just like Spe