Death of cricket

The joke going around in newsrooms these days is: all crime reporters need to be transferred. To the sports desk, that is.

Funny, sure, but not very cool. And also scary. Don’t know about you, but I most deffy have lost interest in the game of cricket, and no, it has nothing to do with mid-life crisis. The World Cup is on right now, and I cannot believe I don’t want to be a part of it, the thought itself would have been unthinkable a few years ago, when I was madly crazy about the game… I used to report sick even when India played boring weaklings like Zimbabwe and Kenya. And again, the loss of interest has nothing to do with our humiliating exit from the World Cup. My loss of passion for the game has to do with just one thing: I no longer know what I see on the screen is reality, or, like a low brow reality TV show, a stage managed competition. I mean, if heavily paid stars like Hansie Cronje, Shane Warne, Azharuddin, Wasim Akram and Ajay Jadeja cannot be trusted, how can you ever tell what goes on on the field has anything to do with real sport at all? And if I want to see theatre, I will go and see real theatre, thank you very much.

And it’s the advent of the one-day format that’s taken the game to the dogs. Things weren’t so bad as long as the match was played over five days. Apart from odd incidents on the field (like Lillee and Miandad threatening to have a go at each other), the game was played with honesty and commitment. But ever since ‘chaddi’ cricket made its appearance, things have gone really ugly. Today, cricket is less about bat and ball colliding, and more about rabid sledging, racist slurs, billion-dollar bets, match fixing, doping and underworld connections. One bloke was even suspected of rape! And as if all this wasn’t bad enough, now we have an Agatha Christie inspired mysterious death during a World Cup; according to latest reports, Bob Woolmer was murdered in his hotel loo, either by pissed off bookies or angry fans or astoundingly enough, the Paki players themselves. I cringe to even imagine what lies ahead.

And sadly, all of this has taken the joy out of the game. How I wish I was around when the game was first invented, English burra sahibs in crisp whites enjoying a lazy noon outing with bat and ball, as wives and mistresses sipped high tea, graciously cheering from the lush green park. Ah, would kill to live those innocent days again.