In the name of cricket, we market grief, violence and greed

Kevin Pietersen and Sachin Tendulkar, two of the finest attacking batsmen of this generation, one of all time, both get out prodding forward feebly to spin – in Test matches, where defense and attack should always be in perfect balance. IPL arrogantly staggers on, drunk on its own false power. Yuvraj faces tragedy, and confusion surrounds the pain. A Test series is linked with a violent and vicious film, and nobody cares. Modi and the BCCI play with cricket as if it is their own private share market. Mediocre players will make more in six weeks of mockery of the game then legends made in lifetimes. And there is not a single face on the billboards of Indian cricket, with the possible exception of Virat Kohli, who has already become so smug in his ads – on or off the pitch, which inspires… [caption id=“attachment_209231” align=“alignleft” width=“380” caption=“What’s all the noise about? Reuters”]  [/caption] Where have we ended up? Are we reduced to comparing screen violence with the true threat and thrust of cricket? The fake with the fine… Yuvraj and his agents turn his very human tragedy into an ad film for life insurance? Where have we led ourselves to? Does no one realize anymore the beauty of bat on ball, the simple and so, so difficult art of spin and speed? – We have marketing everything – everything—now we market grief, and violence, and greed. Modi chirps on cyberspace like a parrot of himself. The BCCI bigwigs, fat and furrowed, reply in kind. Money has spun its vicious web, and all of us, so intent in praying to it, have forgotten that it has to come from somewhere – some scheme, some scam. It no longer comes from ticket sales – nothing as simple and human as that – it comes from air-conditioned rooms filled with sweet suits and plump faces and vampire thoughts. Cell phones spout forth numbers and figures – statistics not of bat and ball, but of balance and bank. Plots are hatched – not how to dismiss a batsman, but to capture viewers and create markets where they do not exist. Words are bantered about like wides and no-balls, and the extras far outscore the difficult boundaries of wisdom and experience and passion and commitment and concern and love. Love for the game and for life and an attempt to let effort be rewarded in justifiable terms, for victory to be praised with reverence, and not just honeyed money. We beat Sri Lanka, and it is just another blip on the glittering screen of international cricket. Round and round we roam and roar and beat drums and shout slogans and dance in the aisles of life, while on the field, where the only true game should be being played, our players shuffle and prod and go through the motions of playing the most beautiful game in the world. Domestic cricket is a farce before empty stands – fitted in now before the IPL arrives with band and baaja. Not a farce for the players, who still give their sweat and blood, but a farce for the moneybags who are now abandoning the game to concentrate on playing their own games elsewhere. Would it not be wonderful to see our players representing the country with only India written on their shirts; on their hearts? To have a sponsor who had no wish to have his name even bigger than India’s on the beloved jersey? To have a player say that he will play for India for free, and wear a jersey, of his own choice, with only India written on it, in royal blue? Would it not be wonderful to see, once again, Sachin come out of his crease to a spinner and send the spinning ball soaring over long-on?