The Legacy of Liklik Cricket

When I was in the early years of primary school, one of the things I loved most was village cricket. It wasn’t official, it wasn’t organised, and it certainly wasn’t quiet. We’d walk from clan to clan, calling out challenges like travelling salesmen of chaos. No schedules. No umpires. No uniforms. Just a handful of kids, each throwing in 20 toea, winner takes all. That was our version of a trophy, pocket change and bragging rights echoing through the village.

Junior cricket didn’t exist. To us, Under-19 was practically elite, a level we’d only hear about on the radio or in rumours from the “big boys.” So we made our own cricket world: wooden stumps hammered into the dirt, tennis balls softened from overuse, bats carved by whoever had a knife and a spare piece of wood.

And in the middle of the village stood Arua Rarua’s trade store. Most days, he sat out front, watching the dust rise and settle as kids darted after cricket balls. What many of us didn’t know then was that Arua wasn’t just selling diesel, sugar, and corned beef. He had once represented Lae and Morobe in cricket – a proper cricketer who had returned home to run a store but never lost his love for the game.

He was friends with my father, who later took over the United Cricket Club in the 1990s and turned it into a fierce competitor in Port Moresby’s city competition. Many of the boys who stood under Dad’s guidance came straight from those dusty village games, raw talent sharpened by instinct and repetition.

But Arua saw something else. He saw that talent could grow with the right push.

So he created Liklik Cricket.

Suddenly, every clan had a team. The village came alive with colour: white pants, bright T-shirts, little boys feeling like Test cricketers. Some fathers became coaches. Mothers became loud, biased cheer squads. The bat-makers went to work, carving their masterpieces. And emotions sometimes flared, parents on opposite sides shouting at each other like they were at the MCG instead of a grassy patch in the village.

Liklik Cricket grew beyond us. It caught the attention of the Port Moresby Cricket Association, then PNG Cricket, and eventually the ICC. The weekend papers began running match previews and results. In today’s terms, the competition went viral, long before anyone had WiFi.

When Arua died, a dedicated man named Seura Loa kept the flame alive. The games continued for a while, but slowly, the energy softened. Maybe it was funding. Maybe it was time. Or maybe it was because great things often depend on the vision of one passionate person.

Even though Liklik Cricket faded, its imprint didn’t. Many national players of the 2000s and beyond had their first real introduction to the sport through those village games. Liklik Cricket was where they learned how to bowl properly, judge a catch, celebrate a wicket, and feel the rush of competition.

For me, Liklik Cricket was more than childhood sport. It was the first time I saw what happens when a community gathers around its children, when someone takes their scribbled dreams and gives them a proper page to be written on. It showed me that raw talent needs guidance. That young people thrive when you simply pay attention.

I often wonder how many more “Liklik Crickets” exist today, small, unnoticed beginnings brimming with potential. All they need is someone like Arua, sitting outside a trade store, watching kids play and thinking, There’s something here.

Because in the dust and laughter of those village games, something bigger really was taking shape – a pathway, a dream, a future. And it all began with a handful of children, a tennis ball, and a man who believed they deserved more.