To say I watched my first IPL game of the season would be overstating the facts. I happened to catch the 2nd half of a lukewarm Mumbai Indians vs Gujarat Titans affair marred by unseasonal rains (much needed relief in Mumbai!) till it became exciting in the last few overs. I hadn’t tuned in to watch the game. You see, my significant other had one of her biggest marketing campaigns coming out, and I was just eager to play the dutiful partner.
Cue, an ad talking about how the race to the play-offs is heating up. I look away at my phone for a second and look up to see Rohit Sharma sitting on the sidelines, despondent.
Buttler had just tonked Trent Boult over fine leg for a huge 6, and Gujarat had just about started to get going after a sluggish start. The rest of the over finishes without any incident. Mumbai opts for its strategic timeout.
Aah, unrestricted 2 mins 30 seconds of advertisements – now is the chance to make the missus happy.
The first ad is about the race of the play-offs, with key players from each team posing like warriors gnashing their teeth heroically before entering a gladiator’s arena. Alright, alright, I say to myself, maybe next one. I patiently wait for another 30 seconds before I get served another IPL spot, about Kolkata Knight Riders facing Chennai Super Kings at the Eden Gardens, erstwhile Mecca of Indian cricket. Being a Calcutta boy, Eden sure holds a lot of fond memories, among some gut-wrenching ones.
Laxman & Dravid’s knock and Bhajji’s hattrick in that pivotal Test Cricket which somehow started the Men in Blues’ journey as serious contenders, and subsequently champions.
Rohit Sharma’s iconic 264, the stand-off between the Eden crowd and Greg Chappell after he dropped Dada…Kambli’s tears (and mine) at our capitulation in the 1996 World Cup…
The break was over. The emcee counts down the seconds of the Ceat Tyre Strategic timeout, unsuccessfully trying to get a listless crowd going. Deepak Chahar bowling to an in-form Shubhman Gill, who jabs it for a single.
I tune out, the blues and oranges of Buttler now morph into Mahendra Singh Dhoni’s in my mind, as he hits out a Nuwan Kulasekra delivery out of the park, and all of India, including me, lift up their arms and point to the heavens in jubilation.
I snap out of my reverie and look at my screen again. The over has ended, the ad that I want to see is nowhere to be seen. A dreary, dull realisation settles like an anchor in my stomach – Why can’t I enjoy cricket like I used to anymore?
I remember growing up loving the game, being half decent at it. Good enough to bowl at nets for my school team, not good enough to break into it. Good enough to play a handy knock to snatch a tie from the jaws of defeat for my class, not good enough to break into the lowest divisions of club cricket. But ask any statistic, any question about the game, and my reply would be immediate – highest ODI run getter? Desmond Haynes of course. Highest batting average in ODIs? Pfft that easy, Michael Bevan. First bowler to take 10 wickets in an innings? Jim Laker of course, and don’t forget Anil Kumble who was (and remains) the 2nd bowler to do so. I might have put down my obsession with cricket to a nerdy childhood, but it continued well into my mid-20s. Celebrated the 2011 win like a maniac too, driving around Calcutta, honking away to glory with 50,000 mad cricket fans. Why don’t I feel the same anymore?
I look back to the screen, I see Gill get down on one of his knees and smacks the ball in the middle, which sails across the long-off boundary. That should have hit like a Keats’ sonnet, absolute poetry in motion, but somehow it felt like a middling pop song lyric.
“IPL worth $12 billion!”, screamed a headline in my mind, making excuses that cricket was not a worthy sport anymore, that it was an avenue of capitalists looking for huge valuations and ego massaging trips, of BCCI bullying its way into tournaments, of the rising jingoistic nature of supporters. I dismiss the thought. EPL, NBA, Formula 1 – all these sports make a lot of more money.
EPL and NBA are owned by oligarchs, controlled by rich and powerful boards, and have extremely tribal fanbases. And yet, I watch some of them without any disdain for the owners. Or the sport. No, it can’t be the money. After all, one of my oldest memories is a cricketing one – 4-year-old Nishant holding his dad’s little finger as they walked up in time to watch India defeat mighty Windies in the Hero Cup final at Eden in 1993.
I look at the screen again. Rain has stopped play again. Gujarat Titans are ahead on DLS Par Score. Buttler and Gill are making their way back. Bumrah chats with Rohit. The commentators lay out myriad calculations of how many overs can be bowled if the match does not resume by a stipulated time. The camera moves, showing despondent faces, what stands out in the corner is (what I presumed) a dad cheering up his young son, pointing at the camera.
When the 10-year-old me first held a Kashmir willow in his uncertain right-handed grip, my father, a left-handed spinner, threw a skidding googly which knocked by bails off in one go. I remember protesting about the delivery being too difficult. He just laughed and asked me to play with a straight bat and not take my eyes off the ball. I took my stance again, albeit with mutinous mutterings, and to my delight, was able to defend his next ball. His eyes shone with pride that day. Sundays was the day where he would take me out for catching practice, and bowl his famous skidding googly to me. A 2nd division player, he was perhaps good enough to play Ranji, a regular refrain at any dinner outing with his friends. He quit cricket, became a successful Chartered Accountant, and worked hard to give us what we deserved. Sundays, however, were for cricket with Nishant. He made sure I got the best kits, enrolled me to a local cricket club, even came to a match or two if time permitted. We would watch the game together, dissect every performance, argue over decisions, and even coach Team India from the wrong side of the screen!
And that 2011 win? He took me out to celebrate, delirious with joy, as he would be, when he would bowl that perfect delivery or hit that perfect cover drive on those Sundays.
I look at the screen. It’s stuck on that race to play-offs ad. I shut it, and called up my connection to the gentleman’s sport.
“Hey dad! Are you watching the game? Oh, you think Mumbai wins today! But Gujarat is ahead, no?!” We chat like old times, discussing the game, like we always did before I left home 10 years ago.
The missus’ ad can wait for the next IPL match.
A myraid of emotions in this one. Well done mate.