Should West Indies have been allowed a draw in Dominica? © Getty Images

In 1978, seven years after the Bangladesh War, India and Pakistan resumed cricketing ties in a three-Test series played in Pakistan. After playing out a draw in the first Test at Faisalabad, drearily in conformance with the cricketing history of the two sides, Pakistan beat India in the Lahore Test, thanks to Zaheer Abbas’ magnificent 235, and a very enterprising run-chase on the fifth day in which Pakistan scored their runs at 6.19 an over, and galloped home with 8.2 overs still left in the day. This was heartening enough for fans of Test cricket, but it was the third Test that really showcased positive Test cricket at its best.

Sitting on a 1-0 lead against their archrivals, in a series fraught with emotional and political significance, Pakistan chased down a victory target of 164 runs in a maximum of 100 minutes. At times, the asking-rate had mounted to seven an over. No matter; the Pakistan batsmen, especially Asif Iqbal and Javed Miandad scrambled singles like a pair of amphetamine-crazed ravers, drove the Indian fielders batty, and then finally, thanks to Imran Khan’s assault on Bishen Bedi’s bowling late in the game, Pakistan scampered home with an over to spare.

That was 33 years ago. Well before Twenty20 cricket had been conceptualised, and only three years after one-day cricket had staged its first World Cup. Just like India going into the Dominica Test that concluded on Sunday, Pakistan enjoyed a 1-0 lead in 1978. They could very well have shut up shop, strolled over to the victory dais, picked up their thousand-rupee cheque (I’m guessing that’s what the prize money must have been in those days), and posed for the post-series victory shots. Mushtaq Mohammad could have given us some pablum about not being disappointed, about how Sunil Gavaskar had held them up on the final day, how the Karachi pitch was a bit slow and not conducive to penetrative bowling and so on.

Instead, Pakistan chased down the runs. There was a match to be played, a contest to be engaged in. Pakistan were not the world’s No. 1 Test team; India was not one of the world’s weakest teams (they might have been one of the world’s worst fielding sides though). Rather, what made Pakistan go for victory, I suspect, was how that lot, Majid, Zaheer, Asif, Javed, Mushtaq, just played the game.

We should keep this in mind when we think about what transpired in Dominica on Sunday. The Test was called off by mutual agreement between both captains with India needing 86 runs from 15 overs after having been set a target of 180 in 47 overs. Abhinav Mukund’s first-ball duck might have put a damper on things, but M Vijay and Rahul Dravid had at least scored at three an over, and Suresh Raina had sensibly been sent up the order. But the Indian balloon deflated rapidly after his departure and, in one of the most-bizarre abandonments of a Test match I’ve ever seen in my life, India walked off with 90 deliveries still left.

There are some Indian fans out there, including me, who are still surprised that India agreed to call off the 1979 Oval Test with one ball left and nine required to win. They, and I, will certainly never understand the shutting up of shop against West Indies on Sunday.

To be a true champion it is not enough that one sit on top of a numerical ladder of rankings and points; it is necessary the putative champion show the desire and the ability to respond to challenges, to find a way to transcend limitations and rise to the top of the game. This Indian Test team is certainly one of the most consistent in Indian cricket history and MS Dhoni is certainly one of its shrewdest captains. But the Dominica result shows that there is a long way to go before it can attain the status of champions. For the spirit of Melbourne 1986 - when India scored at 2.36 runs an over while chasing 126 on the final day and had bad weather force a draw - still lives on apparently, and the desire and wherewithal to force a win when not everything is in ones’ favour still seems missing.

As for Test cricket, in such dire times, you need better guardians.

I am a net cricket fan; that is, almost all the cricket I consume and discuss is internet-centered. I watch cricket on the ‘net, I talk about it on the ‘net. Thus, most of my ‘talking’ about cricket is reading and writing about it (I am excluding the half-duplex communication with television commentators). This has also meant, willy-nilly, that I have developed a style of thinking about it that is peculiar and distinct, reliant upon only partly self-conscious attempts to persuade or be persuaded by the written word.

This mode of thinking about cricket is so much a part of my makeup as a fan that I do not pay explicit attention to it. But I am reminded of its existence and its disjuncture from other ways of relating to cricket whenever I am forced to talk about cricket: when I, that is, meet another fan in the flesh and cricket, magically, enters the conversation. Perhaps I travel (earlier this month, I spent three weeks in India); perhaps other fans come traveling (this week, a good Australian friend is in town for a conference); however it works out, fans meet, pleasantries are exchanged and talk turns to the game.

At that point, I notice that my very own cricketing opinions sound strange to me; their aural form is not what I’m used to; I’m used to writing down thoughts about cricket, organising them a little, perhaps, hopefully, making them more coherent. But in their spoken form, they acquire a texture, perhaps a depth or superficiality that I might not have known they possessed. And sometimes it forces me to revise them, quickly, sometimes right there and then, and sometimes in the future, when, you guessed it, I get back to discussing cricket by writing about it.

But it is not just I that sound different; other fans sound different too. The rhetorical force of the spoken word sometimes surprises me: by far the most effective polemic I have heard made against the DRS came from my brother, who during a conversation over drinks during my trip to India, expressed himself pungently, sharply and succinctly with the spoken word and added a marvelously evocative, contemptuous, and dismissive shake of the head. I felt myself persuaded; I felt compelled to adopt a point of view I had only dimly perceived as worthy of my support.

Talking about cricket makes me eloquent too. On the same trip to India, I noticed my conversations about the game moving quickly between registers of response, sometimes between languages as I switched from English to Hindi and back, sometimes between levity and seriousness. This bilingual relationship to cricket is only possible in conversation and by being exposed and made explicit it changes my understanding of the game and its claims on me.

My status as cricketing exile means that reading and writing about cricket will continue to be my predominant mode of interaction with the game; other fans will infuriate and edify me by ‘talking’ to me via text. But, hopefully, travel and conversation will continue to inform me of another world where this game, which takes up so much of my time and attention, acquires shapes and contours distinct from those I am accustomed to.

'Sadly, this is how I stumbled upon the disastrous riot at Calcutta in the semi-finals' © Getty Images

This year, thanks to the vagaries of television rights allocations, US residents, if inclined to follow the IPL, and to retain some suspense for themselves, are back to the good old days of the tape-delayed broadcast. It might be 2011, but it feels delightfully old-fashioned. The challenges of not being exposed to the scores are harder but a fan can always find his way around them.

Dealing with tape-delay broadcasts is not just a matter of television of course. Indians old enough to have followed radio broadcasts of Test cricket from the West Indies will remember that the post-tea session, which would have been broadcast from (I think) 2-4 AM, was instead taped and then played back from 5-7 AM. I would, after listening to the pre-tea sessions, sleep with a transistor next to my pillow, and on waking up, tune in again.

The illusion was perfect; how could it not be? There was no way to find out the scores and the only intervening experience had been that of sleep. It was thus that I heard the commentary for what I still consider one of the most exciting Test finishes of all (albeit at India's expense): West Indies' chase of 172 runs in 25 overs in the 1983 Kingston Test. I awoke on the chilly morning of 28th February 1983, just in time to catch Roberts’ demolition of the Indian tail, as India subsided from 168 for 6 to 174 out. Suddenly, West Indies were in with a chance, even though they'd have to score at close to seven runs an over. But then Viv Richards played, what was by his own judgment, his best innings ever, to score 61 off 36 deliveries; Gus Logie hit a six off the first ball he faced in the second innings; Mohinder Amarnath lost the plot. When the match ended, I hooped and hollered; it was a great finish; I wanted a result; it didn't matter that India had lost to the mighty West Indies. Losing to West Indies, wasn't such a disgrace, really.

When the 1996 World Cup rolled around, I was living with my girlfriend in Manhattan, and working in the Bronx. The day-night games began early in the morning and ended in the afternoon. I would only be able to watch an over or two live before I had to leave for work to begin the long subway ride on the D train, uptown to the Bronx. The extended-play mode of the videocassette, and an extremely patient girlfriend came to the rescue. I would leave after having set up the VCR with a tape in EP mode; my girlfriend, who worked at Rockefeller Center, would walk back at lunchtime to our apartment, change the tape, and then return to work; the two tapes added up to more than eight hours, more than enough for a one-day international. Fortunately, my workplace's technology infrastructure was primitive enough to not have an internet connection, and I discouraged phone calls from friends calling in with tales of grief or joy in response to cricket happenings during the day.

When I returned home in the evenings from work, I was in a state of blissful ignorance. The tape of the match was waiting, full of pleasures yet to be discovered. I would then watch the tapes till 2AM, resisting the urge, not a particularly strong one, mind you, to fast forward. Sadly, this is how I stumbled upon the disastrous riot at Calcutta in the semi-finals.

Tape-delay will possibly never go away, so long as we want to maintain the pleasures of suspense in sports. And its even easier now, thanks to broadband video subscriptions with their stored highlights and replays. Sure, you've got to keep your eyes off that live scorecard while the game is on, but that’s a small price to pay. Still, I'd rather the tape-delay imposition be a voluntary one, not the kind forced on me.

If you leave too early, you risk missing out on watching your team make a thrilling comeback © Getty Images

On March 11, 2011, during the World Cup qualifying round, as Bangladesh stumbled to 169-8 chasing England's 227, several spectators at the Zahur Ahmed Chowdhury Stadium in Chittagong started heading for the exits. I was watching the game on my desktop machine in my living room; I was accompanied by an American colleague and friend that had stopped by, on my invite, to try and catch a bit of World Cup excitement. He seemed perplexed by their exit, and honestly, so was I. Bangladesh needed 58 runs to win in a little over 10 overs with two wickets in hand. It was unlikely, sure, but it was a World Cup game, only 10 overs were left. Sure, your team had come an absolute cropper in the last game, but surely, it was worth it to hang around and see if they could pull it off, given that they were this close?

Right. Well, we know how that turned out. And those folks in Chittagong that did leave must have wanted, if only they had the ability of professional contortionists, to be able to deliver a swift, painful kick on their own backsides. For nothing is quite as painful as deserting a game, whose eventual resolution is one you craved. You desert a dream in the process. (On these very pages, I have written about my painful decision to abandon India's run chase against Australia at Mohali last year).

The Bangladeshi rush for the exits reminded me of an abandonment with a twist. During the
epic Kirti Azad game at Delhi's Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium in September 1983, I sat in the stands, shell shocked and dismayed at India's collapse to 101-8, chasing 197. Victory seemed unlikely, and to make things worse, it would happen at home against Pakistan. Sitting next to me were a young man and his father. Soon after the eighth wicket fell, the father began pestering his son. It was time to go; the traffic would be bad later; these losers deserved no more of their time. The young man stoutly resisted for a while. But, eventually, an over or so later, he agreed to leave. Father and son departed.

Later, that night, after Kirti Azad and Madan Lal's pyrotechnics had won the game for India, as I rode home in a sweaty, smoky bus, I was haunted by the memory of that young man trying to get his father to stay.

Would he ever forgive the old man? Would this episode occur again in familial conflict? "The last time I listened to you, you made me miss the Kirti Azad match!" I haven't forgotten about it. I'm sure that lad didn't. I just hope it didn't turn him into an embittered rebel.

But the credit for the most catastrophically wrong abandonment must go to Alan McGilvray, the erstwhile doyen of Australian radio commentators. On 14th December 1960, as Australia chased 233 to win against the West Indies at Brisbane, McGilvray decided at lunch the game was heading for a tame draw, and took a flight back to Sydney with Keith Miller, leaving the business of commentary to other ABC commentators. McGilvray later described his decision to leave the Tied Test as the "biggest error of judgment in my life" and never abandoned a match again. (Thanks to Gideon Haigh for this story).

Commitment gets us the good stuff in life; a lesson that sports fans sometimes have to learn the hard way.

There is much focus on the intimidatory aspect of West Indies' pace attack © Getty Images

It's not everyday a grown man can say, “Today, I'm going to cry”. And yet, that prediction was one I could make with some confidence on Tuesday, April 26, as I headed into Manhattan to catch the North American premiere (at the Tribeca Film Festival) of Fire in Babylon, Stevan Riley's documentary tribute to the champion West Indies teams of the 1970s and 1980s. I wasn't wrong: I blinked, I swallowed hard; I felt a lump in my throat, and for many, many moments, was transported again to a time when the lithe body language of the West Indian cricketer was the final signature flourish on a display of cricketing skill unlikely to ever be seen again.

For cricket fans who came of age in the 1970s, those two words, “West Indies”, still convey something of the aura of that most incredible of cricketing outfits, whose combination of power, panache and physicality ensures they will remain the benchmark setters for a long time yet. The rampant Australians of the late 1990s and early 2000s set new statistical benchmarks and enthralled us with their skills as well. But, they didn't have the on-field charisma of West Indies.

Can any modern cricket image match that of the West Indian slip cordon settling down, their hands plucking at their trousers to raise them ever so slightly as the quick sprinted in? Can any modern team match the the swagger, the bravado, of Lloyd's crew? The baggygreen wearing Aussies come the closest, and yet, they will themselves acknowledge, they had some way to go.

West Indies' steady downward decline since 1995 is one of cricket's saddest stories; while West Indian cricket has seen cycles in the past, it is not clear when it will emerge crest-bound from the current trough. For those whose exposure to West Indian cricket is limited to the post-1995 era, this film is essential viewing in understanding just what the cricketing world has lost, how it is immeasurably poorer for the passing of that era.

For anyone new (or old ) to the game, this documentary will help explain why cricket is simply not a game, why, to see it as “just a business” or “just entertainment” is to do severe violence to fans' and players' relationship to it. And it should help us see why formats of the game that defang the bowler by taking away a bowler's full armoury, make the game a less searching examination of a batsman's skills, and ultimately, provide a poorer spectacle. You'll understand, why, to use Mukul Kesavan's line, “spit-drying fear” can be good for the game.

The film is everything its trailer promises it is: a focus on Clive Lloyd's champion West Indies, taking as its starting point, its resurgence following its 5-1 shellacking by Greg Chappell's Australians in 1975-76, and moving on to the 1976 tour of England, the 1979-80 tour of Australia, and the 1984 blackwash series. The movie has an especially strong focus on the intimidatory aspect of the team's fast bowling resources, here understood as an expression of resurgent black power, resisting colonial and white subjugation, whether political, linguistic, or sporting.

There is plenty of dramatic cricket footage, especially of batsmen getting a severe working over. Indeed, if there is a weak point in the movie, it is that it seems to focus a little too much on the intimidation and not enough on all the other cricketing skills the West Indians possessed. There are other complaints. The footage sometimes does not match the narration; Gavaskar's walk-off in Melbourne 1981 is shown as backdrop for India's complaints about the 1976 Kingston Test; Lloyd is shown holding the World Cup as West Indies' win in Australia in 1979-80 is featured; still photographs show Michael Holding, Wayne Daniel and Andy Roberts left-handed; there are no interviews with opposing batsmen; there is little mention of the role of Frank Worrell. And so on. Purely as a documentary, the movie often suffers.

But one should be grateful someone has bothered to make a documentary about the mighty West Indies, and if, given the inevitable limitations of time and money, the filmmakers wanted to convey cricketing skill has a political context, then they have managed to do so. The essential reading for West Indian cricket still remains CLR James' Beyond a Boundary, but this documentary will get you started.

And don't let anyone, ever, ever, tell you cricket is just a game, just bat on ball.

India could have deprived Steve Waugh of such a farewell © Getty Images

The first two misses in this series of great misses - India’s failure to pull off a run-chase at the Oval in 1979, and to bowl out the Aussie tail and then mount a small fourth-innings chase at the MCG in 1985 - were falls at the last hurdle. But for the third entry in this series, there is no one such moment of failure (as there wasn’t in the recently concluded India-South Africa third Test). Instead, a series of small fatal errors added up, ultimately corroding India’s push for a win, which would have ranked, in terms of historical significance, right up there with India’s 1979 Oval Test. I feel the failure in this Test all the more keenly because along with the Bridgetown Test of 1997, it is the Test that I witnessed the greatest proportion of in the flesh: I spent four out of its five days at the SCG.

Welcome then to the SCG in January 2004. India had already pulled off a great miss in the MCG Test, where they had subsided from 278 for 1 to 366 all out, and the later, in the second innings, when, chasing a lead of 192, they had moved 61 runs ahead, with six wickets in hand, on their way to setting Australia either an awkward target or saving the game, they suddenly subsided to 286 all out.

Thus India had failed to protect their 1-0 lead by the time they got to Sydney. When they left Sydney, they had failed to pull off an epic win, one which would have done for Sachin Tendulkar what the Oval Test could have done for Sunil Gavaskar. They failed to dramatically end the Waugh era with a dethroning that would have ensured a dramatic crowning for the Indians. They had failed to pull off a series win against an Australian team reckoned the greatest in the modern era. (Yes, McGrath and Warne weren’t playing; the perfect time to pull off an ambush was at hand!)

The first note of worry came, ironically, after India had piled up a gigantic first-innings score. Did India delay their declaration? When India failed to bowl out Australia on the final day, that became the refrain amongst the cognoscenti. But I didn’t think so then. As I walked home that day from the SCG, worrying about the declaration, I consoled myself with the thought that pressing on for 700 could perhaps help the Indians attack more, set more aggressive fields.

Later, with hindsight, as I saw Hayden and Langer open, I realised that the Aussies, who were not about to be cowed down by that score, would have had a harder time opening late on the 2nd day.

That Hayden-Langer opening stand (which made mincemeat of Agarkar’s bowling figures) was the beginning of the end. As the pair attacked, I sensed some panic on the field. India looked bedraggled all of a sudden; was this really a team defending 700? I suspect the memory of that assault struck fear into Ganguly’s heart.

Still, by the end of the third day, India had taken some vital steps towards a win. They had prised out six vital wickets; Australia were still 164 runs away from saving the follow-in; two days were left; India could push aggressively in a variety of ways on the last two days to win this game.

Things went wrong soon after Lee fell early on the fourth day, for Katich and Gillespie frustrated the Indian advance. When Australia were finally bowled out, though they had not saved the follow-on, they had removed it a possibility. Ganguly was not going to subject his bowlers (and fielders) to another stint on a flattish wicket after they had bowled 117 overs.

To their credit, India batted positively in the second innings, rattling up 211 at almost five an over. Again, the timing of their declaration might have been disputed: why didn’t Ganguly declare half an hour earlier, giving the openers an awkward moment or two, while remaining confident about his ability to prevent Australia from scoring 400 or so? Here, the memory of the Hayden-Langer stand played a vital part in dampening any such adventurousness.

On the last day, Ganguly appeared bereft of ideas other than getting Kumble to bowl from one end, as he sent down 42 out of the 94 overs eventually bowled (Pathan only bowled eight overs in the second innings). Ganguly’s’ fields were excessively diffident; at any given moment, the fear that Australia might suddenly launch an attack and pull off the unlikeliest of wins appeared to be uppermost in the Indian captain’s mind. At one point in that dismal, overcast afternoon at an SCG that was, surprisingly, not packed to capacity, I realised that India would be very, very happy with a 1-1 drawn series.

And so it came to pass, that a glorious opportunity to ensure all sorts of cricketing immortality was missed. Tendulkar’s twofer of 241 and 60 (both not out) would have passed into cricketing lore as the greatest of all batting achievements by an Indian. Would anyone have doubted his ability as a matchwinner? (What would we think of Laxman’s 96 in the Durban Test if the Indian bowlers hadn’t bowled out the hosts?) More importantly, a series win over Waugh’s Aussies in Australia, in Waugh’s final test? Be still, my beating heart.

As the Test wound down, the Indians appeared caught up in the Farewell to Waugh[tm], all too happy to be sharing in the glory of his final test, seemingly unaware they had missed out on a chance of glory for themselves. It was Waugh’s last act of mental disintegration.

Allan Border fought superbly but India could have still won it © Getty Images

India have never beaten Australia in Australia. They’ve won Tests but have never managed to win a series. This history is made possible by two spectacular instances of snatching draws from the jaws of victory. Nothing showcases this better than the Boxing Day Test of the 1985-86 series, the fifth day of which shall forever live in infamy. The post-traumatic stress induced by this Test match still gives me the midnight chills.

A brief introduction to Exhibit Numero Dos in my rogues gallery of Great Indian Misses. It was the second Test of the three-Test series, to be followed by the endlessly prolonged shenanigans of the triangular world cricket series (featuring New Zealand as well). The first Test in Adelaide, which featured a carrying-the-bat epic by Sunil Gavaskar, had ended in a draw. When the second Test began, India immediately seized the advantage by reducing Australia to 210-8 on the first day. When the second day's play ended, India looked set for a sizeable lead, thanks to their 187-3, a patient response to Australia's eventual 262 all out. The next day, things got better, even if a little slowly, as India moved to 431-9 (my memory fails me as I do not remember whether rain cost any playing time on the first four days). The Indian middle order of Amarnath, Vengsarkar, Azhar, and Shastri all crawled a bit, but still by close of the third day, a 169-run lead was on the board.

The next day, India were bowled out for 445, giving them a lead of 183. By close of play, they had reduced Australia to 228-8. Allan Border was on 98 not out, playing a familiar role. Incredibly, Australia were only 45 runs ahead with two wickets in hand as the fifth day's play began.

Like any faithful Test fan, I awoke early in the morning to catch the radio commentary. Test wins in Australia were rare; I wanted to be listening in when this happened. The commentators on the radio briefly mentioned impending rain in the afternoon, but I paid little heed to it. The post-lunch session seemed far away. India would have this wrapped up by then.

A few minutes later, Australia were nine down for 231 as Bruce Reid fell to Shivlal Yadav. I snuggled a little tighter into my blanket on that cold Delhi morning, and turned up the radio just a bit. It was still dark outside. My uncle, similarly snug in his own blanket in that cold room, grinned at me. We were faithful fans; we had worked hard for this; victory would be sweet.

I did say Reid was dismissed, didn't I? Not Border? Right. Because from there on, Border and Dave Gilbert proceeded to add 77 runs for the 10th wicket. Not only did Border expertly farm the strike (while letting Gilbert play himself in gradually), he often did so by scoring three runs off the last ball. A single or a three both let you retain strike off the last ball; the latter has the added advantage of moving the scoreboard along just a little quicker. These runs were gold, and every single one of them contributed to the steady lengthening of icicles down my spine.

And that was because the radio commentators were constantly reminding us of the forecast of rain for the afternoon. As Australia's lead grew, as they pushed off the moment of reckoning, they crept closer to the safety of the rain (it promised to be the kind of torrential summer downpour that Melbourne is capable of putting on).

Finally, Border was dismissed for 163; Gilbert remained not out on 13 off 65 deliveries. India needed 126 to win. They had ample time. If it didn't rain. But they knew the rain was coming. They would get perhaps 20, perhaps 30 overs. But we were the world champions of one-day cricket. And, we had won the 1985 VCA Cup in Australia in fine style as well. Our openers included Kris Srikkanth, the hero, along with Ravi Shastri, who was also featured in that batting line-up, of that win. Surely we could put on a chase, with one eye on the clock and the clouds and pull this off. A win in Australia deserved nothing less than an elevation of the adrenaline levels of the batsmen, even if the bowlers had suddenly gone toothless in the morning.

But incredibly, in the most bizarre exhibition of Test-match batting that it has been my misfortune to listen to, India dawdled. Like narcoleptics, the Indian top order decided it was time for a nap. Gavaskar scored 8 off 54; Amarnath 3 off 27; Vengsarkar 1 off 12; in comparison, Srikkanth went berserk scoring 38 off 61. And all the while, the commentators steadily informed us of the impending rain. I stared at my radio set in disbelief. Was this really happening? What was the Indian team doing? Were they mad? In utter disgust, my uncle stormed out to go get a haircut. I slumped down, panicking, wondering if there was some deeper strategy being pursued by the batsmen in the middle that I hadn't divined. But none seemed apparent.

Finally, the rain came. India, chasing 126 to win, were 59-2 off 25 overs. The rest of the day's play was washed out. The game was over. Close, but no cigar.

India could have taken a 1-0 lead, and given the state of the Sydney pitch in those days and the lack of bite in the Aussie bowling (revealed by the run-fest in the next game, which again, India came close to winning) India could have had their first series win in Australia.

Twenty-four years on, I haven't forgotten this Test. Nothing summed up pusillanimous cricket like this did. If there are times my criticism of the lack of enterprise of Indian cricketing teams (and their captains) is harsh, I suspect it’s because I think the memory of this fiasco lurks in my subconscious. Its memory will take some erasing.

Sunil Gavaskar could have been the author of the greatest Test innings ever © Getty Images

Of all the Test matches that India has let slip from its grasp in its cricketing history, three rankle me in particular. As India start a 13-month schedule of Test cricket, which could cement their standing as No. 1 and turn them into undisputed world champions, they might want to think about how three matches that should have been wins turned into draws. Hopefully, India won’t make the mistakes they made in these three games if they want to be world champions, not just in terms of rankings but also in terms of perception.

Exhibit Numero Uno in this rogues' gallery is the Oval test of 1979, the fourth test of the series with England, arranged to take place after India’s disastrous outing in the 1979 World Cup. India had lost the first test by an innings, saved the second after being bowled out for 96 on the first day, and weathered an Ian Botham-storm bravely in the rain-ruined third. Things didn’t improve much in the fourth. India conceded a 102-run first innings lead, and on the fourth day, with plenty of time left in the match, found themselves chasing 438 to win.

Incredibly enough, thanks to the innings of lifetime from Sunil Gavaskar, which aided and abetted a 213-run opening stand with Chetan Chauhan, and a 153-run second wicket partnership with Dilip Vengsarkar, India were, at one stage, 366-1. India had begun the twenty mandatory overs at 328-1, needing five and a half runs over to win. Run chases at that pace were not common back then, and required the raising of a team’s game.

India, however, stumbled badly, going from 366-1 to 429-8 before time ran out. Indeed, a loss looked possible at one stage. The promotion of Kapil Dev to No.4 failed (a promotion that Gavaskar disagreed with as he felt Gundappa Viswanath would have done better by just picking up singles and keeping things moving), while for England Ian Botham did his bit by picking up 3 for 17 and effecting a run-out, and India collectively lost the plot.

There are many ways to not be excessively critical of India: it was always going to take them a long time to switch from thinking about saving the game to winning it (India batted for 150 overs in their second innings); it was a miracle that they even came that close to winning despite their record in the series; and so on.

But it is worth remembering what India missed out on: the greatest run-chase of all time would have been achieved in England, in front of an English press. Would there be any doubt that Gavaskar’s innings would have been reckoned the greatest of all time had India won? The anointment would have been swift and its displacement would have taken some doing. I mention the venue and the audience deliberately because there is no doubting who controlled the cricketing world's information order, the influence on which is as much part of a champion's responsibility as the actual performance on a field.

India had the stage set for them: the right venue, the right moment, had all come together. They failed to rise the occasion, whatever the reason. The Oval test of 1979 was deemed a “brave fightback”, a “glorious draw” and all of the usual platitudes that India seemed to specialize in back then: brave losers and brave fighters. Not winners. In saying this, I’m not being excessively harsh; India did suffer from a loss of tactical and psychological nerve back in September 1979, one that ensured the greatest of cricketing glories slipped away from their grasp. It was the symptom of a fundamental problem, one which would manifest itself in Exhibit Numero Dos. But that’s a story for the next post.

Eknath Solkar had his own victory against Geoff Boycott © Getty Images

A few weeks ago, I read a little story by Eknath Solkar about the time he made Geoff Boycott his bunny on the 1971 tour. As I read the piece a line caught my eye:

In the second innings of the first Test at Old Trafford, I was fielding at forward short leg when he tried to flick Abid Ali away. I stopped the ball instinctively and challenged him to run, wagging my finger at him as I spoke. He was taken aback. In the very next over, I got him to edge one and Farokh Engineer took a wonderful diving catch, almost at first slip.

It was certainly the first time I’d read of any such interaction between Solkar and Boycott, though I knew about Boycott’s difficulties against Solkar’s amiable seamers.

Equally interesting was the reaction of the readers to the story. To a man, no one seemed to have picked up on what Solkar had told us: he sledged Boycott, he “mentally disintegrated” him, he dismissed him using, as part of his repertoire of tricks, the very same strategy a segment of the cricket world would find offensive today. Wagging fingers at a batsman, chatting with him, challenging him to run? Sounds like “mental disintegration” to me. An Indian doing this, in the Golden Age of Gentlemanly Cricket (for this is how most Indian fans regard their cricketers and that period) should seem shocking. But it isn’t and it shouldn’t be.

For to read stories of cricket matches of yesteryears is to be reminded again and again, that cricket matches have always featured chatter in the middle, that grown men, when thrown into close competitive proximity, will often find ways to express a variety of emotions, not all of which would meet the approval of Miss Manners.

When I read Ray Robinson’s On Top Down Under (on which I wrote a glowing review in these pages, I was struck by how many chapters featured reports of banter, edgy verbal interactions, and the like, all taking place out in the middle on the hallowed 22 yards, right from the moment Test cricket began, back in 1877. Sure, those are Australians we are talking about. But Solkar’s story reminds us that even our pure-as-driven-snow Indians weren’t above a little badmaashi when it suited them.

But imagine for a second that the Test at Old Trafford had been covered by a modern television production team, perhaps Channel 9, or Sky, featuring eagle-eyed commentators. Then how would it have gone? The Solkar-Boycott interaction would not have gone unnoticed. Had it not been directly visible, we would have been directed to it, by a replay, perhaps in slow-motion as well, with ample opportunity to try and read lips:

Things are getting a little testy out there. During the last over, Solkar and Boycott had a little run-in. Here’s Solkar, running up to Boycott, and oh boy, he’s sure got a lot to say, doesn’ he? And Boycott’s not looking too happy. These Indians are never short of a word out in the middle. And, let’s look at it again, here comes Solkar, running up, and he’s making a gesture, and Boycott’s giving him a bit of a look too. Pretty tense stuff, the battle is definitely heating up.

And so on. You get the picture.

Yes, indeed, things are a little testy out there. But I’ve yet to find an encounter between adults that is even slightly competitive (corporate meetings or faculty meetings, for instance), that don’t get a bit testy. They just aren’t telecast live with every single run-in replayed endlessly in slow-motion, all the while accompanied by inane commentary, all part of an entertainment package put together for us. How entertaining would our daily encounters be, I wonder, if packaged similarly?

The Australians may have lifted the World Cup in 1987, but many Indian and Pakistani fans were denied watching the most riveting cricketing encounter of all: an India-Pakistan World Cup final. © Getty Images

In 1987, I had just moved to the United States and was dealing with the sad loss of cricketing access as best as I could. When the World Cup rolled around, my sense of deprivation grew even worse. Was there no end to this cruelty, I thought? I cursed myself for ever having succumbed to the "onwards to the US for graduate studies" bug. What price US F-1, indeed, if it meant denial of cricketing pleasures? I, who had been so eager to bid my park cricket friends farewell on the night of my departure flight, now bitterly regretted ever having left. There was no Internet, no Cricinfo, no rec.sport.cricket (newsgroups existed, of course, but I hadn't discovered them; heck, I hadn't worked out how to send email to non-Bitnet addresses).

And then, miraculously, as the Cup progressed, it seemed I would be delivered; perhaps a telecast of the World Cup final was possible via satellite hook-up. An enterprising Indian graduate student had figured out the technical details, and was now set to organise what could be quite a festive night: the final of the World Cup, telecast live on a Saturday night, onto two large projection screens in lecture theatres.

As the final approached, an India-Pakistan encounter looked likely: both teams had made it to the semi-finals. The US $10 tickets that the graduate student association had put on sale went like the proverbial hot cakes, as scores of hopeful subcontinentals lined up at the ticket desk I manned in the student centre. A sell-out was a foregone conclusion.

Disaster struck as Pakistan lost in the first semi-final to Australia. The next day, the lines of the refund-seekers formed early, only to be rewarded with our persistent, “Sorry, no refunds possible”. I suspect a few Indians snickered inwardly at the sight of the disconsolate Pakistani lads. The Cup was ours; or so they thought. Could India really be denied at Eden Gardens?

Alas, a semi-final still had to be played, and in it, India were “swept” aside by the English. And the refund-seeking now had an Indian flavour to it. My persistent cry of “Sorry, no refunds” still rang out, but it was tinged with the same disappointment writ large on the faces of those who had seen their hopes dashed by the Anglo-Australian usurping of the final. The lines were longer; the disenchantment even more pronounced.

I didn’t need a refund because I didn’t buy a ticket; I was employed as a ticket checker and food vendor for the final. Which meant the final was a bit of work, and a bit of pleasure. It also meant I faced an exhausting, sleepless weekend: I had to work from 10am to 6pm on Saturday, (baking pizza in the school cafeteria), then from 11pm to 7am on Saturday night, and then again from 10am to 6pm on Sunday (yes, more pizza). On the night of the final, we still had a full house; no one was going to stay away from a World Cup final, after all, but that largely Indian and Pakistani crowd couldn’t quite summon up the same enthusiasm for an England-Australia final, knowing especially that it was built on the backs of their greatest disappointment.

By Sunday evening, I was delirious with sleeplessness and almost catatonic thanks to all the bad coffee and junk food I had consumed over the weekend. And as I staggered home, on a commuter train that Sunday night, I resembled most of all, those zombie-like creatures that had lined up just a few days previously, demanding their precious US $10, denied, cruelly, what would have been for them, the most riveting cricketing encounter of all: an India-Pakistan world cup final.

There is no strong centralized authority in cricket despite the presence of the ICC © Getty Images

I finished reading two excellent books over the weekend: Gideon Haigh’s latest, Sphere of Influence, and David Post’s Jefferson’s Moose: Notes on the States of Cyberspace. The former is an Australian cricket writer, the game’s master historian; the latter, an American professor of law at Temple University. The first book is about the current state of cricket; the latter, about Internet regulation. One concept the two books have in common, and indeed, are obsessed about, is “governance.”

Post’s analysis centers around the dualism of the Jeffersonian vs Hamiltonian models of governance for the Internet: should regulation flow from a strong, centralized authority or from decentralized, autonomous groups evolving modes and methods of co-operation and power-sharing? The success of the Internet seems to be explainable in terms of the latter, while worries about the loss of its unique “nature” seem to be centered around the fear that the former model will come to predominate.

Haigh is concerned about the game’s governance: its present and its future prospects (readers familiar with his Cricinfo columns will know what he is up to in this dazzlingly written book). The picture painted is often a grim one, despite the fact that the ICC-national board structure seems to possess some of the features of the Jeffersonian model so beloved of Post. There is no strong centralized authority despite the presence of the ICC; the true power seems to lie in the hands of the various national boards. Calls for the ICC to “do something, anything, about X”, where X happens to be the latest crisis riling the minds of players and fans alike, are inevitably met with a shrugged shoulder or two, and the brisk sweeping of the matter under the nearest rug.

This situation has come to pass in cricket because, despite the lack of a centralized authority and the devolution of power to the national boards, cricket’s political economy does not forbid the subsequent concentration of power in the constituent units. The political structure of votes and committees and rotating presidents does a poor job of masking the cricket world’s worst-kept secret: the BCCI, for all intents and purposes, runs the show. In a truly decentralized arrangement, like for instance, the Internet Engineering Task Force, the structures in place, permit no such concentration of power. But political economy can interfere even in this case: the astronomical growth in the value of domain names led to the enrichment and empowerment of Network Solutions Inc. and the Internet Corporation for Assigned Names and Numbers.

The cases of cricket and the Internet demonstrate a point I’m fond of making in my Computers and Ethics class whenever I discuss Post’s writings on centralized versus autonomous models of power-sharing: the challenge, when devising a model of governance is to try and follow the Goldilocks Principle of regulation - control things just enough so that bullies can’t take over, but not so much that individual constituents cannot self-regulate.

It goes without saying that if a local bully is what the communities want for the achievement of shared ends, then they should have it - it is their decision, and theirs alone, to devise the most appropriate means for achieving them. I’m not sure that is the case in cricket, and it is equally not clear that the cricket world could have done anything about the twinned blessings of demographics and economy that have made the BCCI the cricketing power that it is.

But any power, hopefully, is subject to the moral constraint that it be wielded responsibly, and that the shared ends I noted above, are decided upon by some form of consensus building. For if the agreement on ends is not a democratic business, then we might as well not worry about the means.

Tony Greig's 'made-with-fever' 103 in Calcutta will always be memorable © The Cricketer International

Back in 1997, I attended a Yankees-Red Sox game at Yankees Stadium with my friend Tom and his father (the pair are veteran Red Sox fans). Shortly after the game ended, as we made our way out to the car park, I posed a question about base-stealing and its relationship to pitch counts, which was handled rather expertly by Tom’s father. He then followed up with a query of his own, “I bet cricket is a pretty complicated game too?” And I replied, “Well, I’ve been following it seriously for 21 years now, and I keep learning things about it to this day.”

Later that night, when I got back home, I wondered why I had said I had been following the game for 21 years. The answer wasn’t hard to find:1976 was the year Tony Grieg’s MCC team toured India, and I count my relationship with that series as marking the start of my ‘serious’ love-affair with the game, a series in which I ‘came of age’ - as a cricket fan. I was dimly conscious of Tony Lewis’ outfit in 1972-73, and Clive Lloyd’s West Indians in 1974-75 (indeed, the reason Andy Roberts and Viv Richards loom so large in my mind is because they seemed to be the talk of the town in those days). But it was the ‘Winter of 1976’ that did it for me.

Like players then, fans mature too. From that series I learned about the concept of a draw (the fifth Test in Bombay; the only drawn Test of the series, and which might, ironically, have been the closest and most engaging), different bowling styles (the Indian spinners, John Lever et al), nightwatchmen, captains’ innings (Tony Greig’s ‘made with a fever’ 103 in Calcutta), the importance of close-in fielders (Yajurvindra Singh’s world-record equalling performance at Bangalore), ball-tampering (John Lever again) and so on. For the first time, I followed scores obsessively, tracked statistics, and started to become aware of the ebbs and flows of a Test. I consumed, rather rapaciously, the three forms of media coverage then available for cricket: newspapers, TV highlights and of course, radio commentary.

And because I was drawn into cricket’s present, I was drawn too, into its past: I became a serious reader of cricket’s history that year. I bought books, and my library card did yeoman’s work. The series being played that season demanded context, and I sought it. And in so doing, the game snapped ever more sharply into focus.

So my relationship with cricket changed in the 1976-77 season; I became aware of the game in a manner than enabled it to lay the foundation of a relationship that has endured. After that season, cricket became associated with Delhi winters (it didn’t matter that Bombay, Calcutta and Madras weren’t anything like Delhi in the winter; what mattered was that I was in Delhi, experiencing the cricket in my own way). If a winter evening is melancholic for me, it's because I came to associate it with the close of play in a Test match, as the light weakened, and the winds sharpened.

Of course, that series was only the start for with every game, every series that followed, there was more to learn and appreciate. Test cricket, of course, had a great deal to do with it, for it provided the best forum for a measured understanding of the game’s varied offerings. And I don’t think I can point to another series after the 1976-77 one and declaim, “And by that time, my development as a fan was complete.” Because while it is easy to point to the beginnings of one’s education, it is unwise to mark the end.

India celebrate their triumph but more fascinating challenges lie ahead © AFP

A couple of posts ago, I wrote of my anguish at having missed out on a type of Test finish I’d always wanted to see. In the Bangalore Test, I felt the opportunity had come for India to pull off another kind of Test win that I don’t normally associate with them: a close, aggressive chase on the last day. But I was pessimistic about this, because the business of taking the last three wickets was still unfinished. Would India be incisive enough to quickly wrap things up; would they chase hard, and not get flustered by early wickets if they fell? I still thought a draw could happen, and my cautiousness led me to pick this as the most likely result.

But, I didn’t want to miss out on the end, so the alarm was duly set for 5 AM, and I staggered out to settle down for what I thought would be a close-run final session. Well, all I got was another 30 minutes of action. Not only had India ripped through the tail, they had scored at over four runs an over, sent in a debutant at number three ahead of Rahul Dravid, and generally bossed things on their way to a 2-0 win. The end of this series was surprising in more ways than one. The Australians faded fast, and their feebleness contrasted with India’s aggression even more starkly as the day wore on. And so, this frustratingly short series drew to a close. My sleep patterns will be happy but the cricketing part of my brain won’t.

This was a series that can, and should be, used to showcase Test cricket: it is possible for a side to lose two Tests after winning tosses and scoring more than 400 runs in the first innings of each Test; games can be dead even after three days and then swing (almost) decisively one way on the fourth day; one delivery can mean all the difference in retrospect (Steven Smith’s throw, Billy Bowden’s finger could have meant that India could have walked into the Bangalore test 0-1 down); and so on. The daily swings in momentum, sometimes large, sometimes miniscule, were fascinating, as were the many little battles between individuals. (Virender Sehwag lost his against the Aussie bowlers; but still, one can’t be too displeased by the fact that India beat Australia without a significant contribution from him).

In both Tests, India surrendered the early advantage of the toss, fought to keep the opening days even, and then let the Australian lower order take the initiative again. In their responses the Indian batting line-up threatened each time to rack up huge leads, but then obligingly handed back the party ball to the Australians, almost as if taking a first-innings lead would have been unbecoming of the hosts. Sachin Tendulkar would have been justified at screaming with frustration at the lower order on the fourth day of the Bangalore Test; a potentially match-winning double-ton was in danger of turning into another one of those exhibits in the Indian Museum of How We Let Tendulkar Down and Let Him Be Accused of Not Playing Match-Winning Innings.

Thankfully, in each second innings, the Indian bowlers, that much-maligned component of Indian teams, grabbed the advantage. Nothing, bar nothing, gave me more pleasure than watching the Australian tail go quickly. Forget about the top and middle orders; Indian bowlers have gotten rid of those in the past. It’s the tail that always wags a little too much. But not this time.

In all of this, spare of a thought for the Australians. Despite their second-innings wobbles, they were not easily vanquished (and had managed to reduce India to 124-8 chasing 216 in Mohali). While everyone was busy congratulating the Bangalore crowd for rescuing Test cricket, no one bothered to wonder whether the presence of the Australians might not have had something to do with the large numbers that showed up. The Australians are still compelling, despite all their weaknesses.; they are, after all, an indispensable part of the famed India-Australia rivalry. Ricky Ponting, that much-maligned man, did not have his generosity in letting VVS Laxman have a runner in the first Test acknowledged by too many (and sadly, the Indian captain, MS Dhoni did not see fit to acknowledge the opposition in generous terms at the post-match ceremony; now that India are number one, they should show the loftiness of true champions and acknowledge the vanquished with grace). If the Australians can get their puzzling selections sorted out, they can still prove a mighty hard nut to crack for England.

This series is done, but fascinating challenges lie ahead for both its contenders. India will play New Zealand at home before they take on another perennial overseas challenge: the South Africans. Australia will try and regain the Ashes. And Test cricket, I’m pretty sure, will let everyone know what time it is.

Sachin Tendulkar's masterpiece in Chennai © Getty Images

Okay, time for a little honesty: how many of you have talked in glowing terms about an innings that you haven’t seen a ball of? Everyone, right? Good. That lets me start on a story about my favorite Sachin Tendulkar innings. Why am I bringing this up now? For several reasons: an India-Australia series is on; we have been talking about the acknowledged Indian master of the second innings, VVS Laxman; and lastly, in my last post, I talked about the trials and travails of the expat fan, condemned to unfriendly time-zones. To top things off, this story wouldn’t have been possible without the generosity of an Australian cricket fan.

So here we are, back in 1998. I’m desperately struggling to finish my Ph.D. Funds and motivation are low; my landlord has been happy to extend the rent deadline a few times but I’m living on borrowed time (in a room in a third-floor walkup in Alphabet City in New York). But there is a silver lining on the horizon: Australia are touring India and there is hype aplenty in the air. As a significant part of my night-life consists of gazing enviously at those fortunate enough to spare greenbacks for grog, I can look forward to readymade entertainment to while away the midnight hours: Test match commentary.

But not your grandfather’s Test match commentary. This is the line-by-line output of Dougie (and his human operators), the Magic Cricket Scorer on #cricket, the Internet Relay Chat’s cricket channel (the commentary was on #cricket, the chat on #crickettalk). I have already significantly slowed down my doctoral pursuits by spending too many hours in this virtual lounge, and now, face the prospect of spending many more.

The hype builds; Tendulkar takes a double-ton off the Australians in the tour game against Mumbai; the Chennai test rolls around. And I do diligent duty on IRC. But, again, with a slight twist. For one, I am not on #crickettalk any more, but on #crickind, a private channel set up by fellow Indian fans who, like me, have become tired of the bickering and flame-wars on the main channel (yes, blog comment sections are not the first place to witness bad online behaviour). Secondly, my Australian friend, David, who lived two floors below me, has kindly loaned me his precious work machine, an Apple laptop, to aid me in my midnight toils. (I would dial in to the university network to set up a PPP connection and then run an IRC client).

The fourth day’s play is on. India start 29 runs ahead, and will have to get a move on if they are to force a result. When the second wicket falls at 115, India aren’t exactly getting a move on; they have already consumed 43 overs. Tendulkar walks in, the weight of a first-innings failure for 4, dismissed by Warne, hanging over him.

52 overs later, as Azharuddin declares at 418-4, India have gotten a move on. Tendulkar is not out on 155 off 191 balls with 14 fours and 4 sixes. And each and every single delivery faced by him seems to be clearly etched in my mind, though I didn’t see a single one. As each line of Dougie’s output flashed up on the screen, the virtual hooping and hollering on the IRC channel grew more and more unrestrained, the chat increasingly giddy, as we realized that India was doing what many of us did not think was possible: forcing the pace in a Test match with aggressive batting to put themselves in a winning position. Outside my window, the denizens of the East Village drank, made merry, and indulged in whatever pleasures they deemed fit; I stayed glued to the small glowing screen.

Twelve years on, it is worth remembering that Azhar declared on the fourth day, setting Australia a target of 348 runs in a little over 100 overs. With all due respect to Ganguly, Kumble, Dravid, and Dhoni, they would not dare make such a move. And the man who put India in this position in the first place was Tendulkar, playing the innings of a lifetime (yes, against a weakened Aussie attack, but a good one nevertheless).

I stayed up all night, as Australia stumbled to 31-3 by the close. Then, later in the morning, I walked down to David’s apartment to return his machine so that he could get back to work on his thesis. He sleepily opened the door and asked how it went. “Great day’s cricket, absolutely smashing”, said I, as I handed back my connection to Chennai, to a day whose description in staccato bursts of text seemed as vivid as a crystal clear telecast. And no, I still haven’t seen this innings on video (fellow #crickind'ers, if you remember this night, do drop me a line sometime).

There is nothing quite like the thrill of close-fought win © AFP

So near and yet so far. What a crushing disappointment to flirt with a long-held dream, only to have it cruelly denied. I speak not of Australia’s failure to win the Mohali test, nor of Ricky Ponting’s inability to win a test in India as captain. I speak, rather of my failure to watch India win a test by one wicket. I’ve dreamed and dreamed of a day when I would be watching a finish like this go down to the wire (don’t ask why I would want to condemn myself to such painful suspense), and last night, I was cruelly denied by a combination of factors. Yes, I know this is a self-indulgent post, but please, indulge me, for I have hopes that my story will resonate with some.

So, as Monday night drew close to midnight on the east coast of the US, I faced a crucial decision. In terms of fandom and the competing calls made on one’s time, this was about as critical as it gets. Should I stay up late and watch the match through to the end, or should I just wait for the highlights? Tuesday is a bad day at work for me. My first class meets at 9:30 in the morning, and my third at 6:30 in the evening. The time in-between involves meetings and an hour-long subway commute from Brooklyn to Manhattan. The telecast was scheduled to begin precisely at midnight, and there was little chance I would be able to pull off my usual “rise-at-5AM-to-watch-the-post-tea session” trick for games played in India. The game would be over, one way or the other, by then.

But I’m not a spring chicken any more, and all-nighters don’t come easily - not that they ever did. And the thought of teaching Buddhism on only two hours of sleep filled me with something akin to the unease the young Siddartha might have felt on first being confronted by the sight of infirmity. On the other hand, I did know of an office on campus that I could sneak into for a quick nap during the afternoon. Should I risk it? Stay up till 5, grab two hours of sleep, fuel up on a couple of Americanos and then after powering through the Four Noble Truths, and then Kepler’s Laws of Planetary Motion at 11, hit the couch for a power nap?

Yes, why not? Tendulkar was still there, Laxman would bat for sure, hope sprang eternal and all that. Perhaps an Indian test win would sustain body and soul through a sleepless day.

So, I bit the bullet, grabbed my laptop, and moved to the kitchen to try and find a bootleg video stream. And that’s where my troubles began. For one little detail that I have left out thus far, one considerably complicating detail, was that my live cricket provider had inexplicably failed to secure the rights for this series, and had thus relegated me to feeding off the scraps of illicit video streams, pockmarked with commercials, and marred by poor video quality. I had dealt with these irritations with some equanimity in my early morning sessions, fuelled as I was by six hours of sleep, and some coffee.

But the midnight hours are very different; the body doesn’t hold up so well late at night. To make things worse, the network gremlins decided to come to roost in my home. For the nerdy amongst us, my wireless router has persistent DNS problems. Thus, not only was I dealing with a low quality feed, I was dealing with one that was intermittent at best. For two hours, as India moved from 55-4 to 156-8 at lunch, I dealt with it as best as I could, reloading pages, restarting browsers, and restraining myself from slitting my wrists with a butter knife.

But at two in the morning, I gave up. I was tired, I was sleepy, I was worn out. I would not be able to make it through the lunch interval. And the thought of dealing with a full day’s teaching on very little sleep, even if supplemented with a short nap, suddenly took on a terrifying hue. Reluctantly, like a boxer agreeing to let his seconds throw in the white towel, I put the machine to sleep and slunk away to bed. My dreams tormented me: I saw green-capped men hugging each other, roaring triumphantly at empty stands, and handing out quick handshakes to crestfallen men with blue caps.

In the morning, I awoke, staggered into the kitchen, and gingerly touched the space bar on the sleeping machine, dreading the result, whatever it was. If Australia had won, a test was a lost. If India had won, I had missed out on watching a close win.

As the result sprang into view, my disappointment that a golden opportunity had been lost, possibly never to be repeated, was tinged with sweet relief. A sportsman that has always commanded my admiration had come through yet again, and in the grander scheme of things, if I had to make a choice, I would always have picked the second option above. So, thank you, Test cricket, for reminding me all over again, why you are the supreme game, bar none.

Please could we have another game like this? But in a better time-zone for me?

A tour that promised much ended in lawsuits and possible police complaints © Getty Images

One of my favourite cartoons shows two couples sitting in a living room, on couches facing each other. The female half of one is saying to her spouse, “What do you mean ‘we should get going’? We live here!” Yes, indeed, when guests overstay their welcome, things do get a little prickly.

I’m reminded of this cartoon as Pakistan’s tour of England comes to an end. I doubt whether there has been any tour in the recent history of cricket, whose downward trajectory from the giddy heights of Mount FeelGood to Acrimony Canyon has been quite so steep. Like the desperately put-upon hosts in the cartoon above, England must have wanted the tour to end, and soon, even if it meant they would be the ones leaving (possibly to Spain, and not necessarily on a budget flight, to catch the end of the holiday season in Ibiza, where Jimmy Anderson could meet up with his many new friends).

The tour began as a showcase of England’s hospitality and Pakistan’s desperately-in-need-of-a-showcase cricket. It ended with talk of lawsuits and possible police complaints, and the Pakistani and English captains, both now safely ensconced at home, speaking of the stresses and strains they underwent, during the Summer Horribilis of 2010. No good deed, the English will ruefully note, goes unpunished.

Along the way, we had accusations of match-fixing, undercover stings, epic, unhinged rants by senior administrators, calls for suspending Pakistan (Nasser Hussain and Ian Botham being at least two of the worthies that have made this suggestion) and possible brawls in nets (the similarity to cage-fighting is uncanny, don’t you think?). And that was all off the field. Cricket, a staid sport? I think not.

In the midst of these quasi-facetious ramblings, a serious note must be struck. Plenty of damage has been done to cricket. Weeks after the initial allegations of spot-fixing, we are no closer to knowing what, so to speak, went down. A bright and exciting talent like Mohammed Amir in whose praise I penned a paean in these very pages has earned the tag of “cheater.” And another cricketing country has been placed in the slot marked “Severely Dysfunctional”, rendering speculation about the future of international cricket an even more depressing exercise than before.

My hope in the past, when confronted by a depressing turn of affairs in cricket, has been to hope that a good Test match will show up and take care of everything. I still have faith in that regard, for Australia have landed on Indian shores. And despite the depressing lack of pre-match press-conference sledging from Ricky Ponting, the series promises to deliver some thrills and spills. Of course, there are only two Tests, and they will occur at times that could not possibly be worse for this East Coast resident. Still, I’ll take them and hunker down. The alternative is to read more about Pakistani outrage and English counter-outrage. And that option scarcely bears thinking about.

Fans can appreciate the game better by playing it © AFP

The recently concluded US Open confirmed for me what I’d been suspecting for a few weeks leading into it: I’d really started to like watching tennis. All over again. The graph of my tennis fanhood had probably peaked in the mid-1980s, and then steadily declined. Despite the brilliance of Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal, my interest in tennis never attained the heights it had reached when I was enthralled by the McEnroe-Borg rivalry. But this year, and the last, I’d noticed a renewed interest, and also managed to pinpoint a simple reason for it: I’d started to play tennis on a regular basis.

What does all of this have to do with cricket? My answer has two components. First, I’ll note that sadly, cricket’s hold on me seems to have declined, especially this year. Whether it is because I simply do not have the energy any more to deal with low-quality telecasts, the unfriendly time-zones, the lack of results in high-scoring subcontinental games, the proliferation of an unappealing format, the endless, nasty, nationalist bickering, the match-fixing or whatever else, cricket this year has played second fiddle to football, tennis and now, in the fall, baseball.

Secondly, I’ll take note of two articles I’d previously penned here. In one, I wrote of how I didn’t like playing cricket in the US because of the lack of cricketing context; and then another, in which, based on my experiences of watching cricket in Australia, it had seemed to me that a cricket-playing spectator was likely to have a more informed response to the game in front of him.

My experience with watching tennis this year has now convinced me that if I’m to rekindle my interest in cricket as a spectator sport, it will be by making cricket a personal endeavour again, by playing the game myself. International cricket holds many disappointments for me (as I write this, yet another accusation of conspiracy is starting to make the rounds), but perhaps the personal game itself will retain its attractions.

For I discovered, after several weeks of playing tennis regularly, that my tennis-watching senses had become sharpened: even an encounter between minor-league players seemed attractive, for I had more to pay attention to, more to note, more to observe and critique. The game's edges became sharper; my response to the player’s skills was more measured, appreciative, and nuanced.

With cricket, it seems to me that I’d done the reverse. As long as I’ve lived in the US, I’ve not played cricket. This, of course, was not the case when I lived in India or in Australia. Of course, there is the lack of a cricketing context in the US, but I’d compounded it by not playing. Not coincidentally, the last time I can really remember being enthralled by cricket since I’ve returned from Australia has been on my various visits to India and Australia. The US will never provide that sort of background to my cricket-watching, but I can do my bit by simply picking up bat and ball.

And I can do so in the most American of ways. A young New York local, who I’ve become friendly with in the past few months, coaches a group of Bangladeshi schoolboys in a New York school league (how about that for a role reversal?), and has invited me to join them for a game or two. Next year, I plan to take up that invitation. What the international game won’t do, perhaps this lower-level game will.

Once you are committed to spot-fixing, you are distracted © Getty Images

Another cricketing scandal is upon us.Well, the incorrigibility of Pakistan cricket is not new, so let us stop flogging that particular dead horse (after all, we know the usual round of bans, cover-ups, appeals, and reinstatements awaits us down the line) and move on to thinking about why spot-fixing is even more dangerous than match-fixing in many ways.

Most importantly, spot-fixing promises a wonderful two-fer for the morally wavering cricketer: a chance to get rich while preserving one’s sense of integrity. For in spot-fixing, you don’t throw the game. As Cricinfo’s helpful guide to spot-fixing points out,

Spot fixing is about getting players/officials to act in a specified predefined manner at a particular time or during a particular session of a match, with or without adversely affecting the overall outcome of the game.

A player can easily reassure himself that he won’t compromise his team’s result; all he’ll do to clean up a little pocket money for himself is take a small action that should have no bearing on the overall outcome. That done, he can get back to normal business.

But of course, it doesn’t work that way. Once you are committed to spot-fixing, you are distracted. Rather than thinking about line, length, and dismissal strategies, you are thinking about the number of balls bowled, the no-ball that has to be delivered, the fat pad of bills waiting for you. When warming up before the start of play, a player’s thoughts aren’t exclusively concentrated on limbering up and hunkering down, they are thinking back to the precise nature of the deal that was struck, on thinking about the next phone call that might show up with a new deal for the morning session, for the post-tea bowling change. When the player is back at the hotel, he might have more business to attend to, more details to be sorted out.

Spot-fixing isn’t about fixing the outcome; it is about micro-managing the little atoms that make up a match, the individual deliveries. As such, while it is ostensibly about staying away from global reach, it pervades the entire proceedings, especially if many players are involved in it. The smaller the fixed event, the more numerous their occurrence, until the rot is pervasive. And indeed, given the micro-managed state of affairs there is a greater logistical overhead.

In the end, the game’s outcome becomes irrelevant, because it has been transformed into a placeholder for all the various “spots”, all the little “fixes”.

For the players, the temptation is tremendous: do what you do normally with just a few exceptions and clean up handsomely. But like all Faustian bargains, this one takes a great deal more from the players than it gives. They might imagine that their integrity has not been compromised; but in fact, it has been, even more fundamentally and invidiously than ever before.

Fixing hasn’t gone away; fixers haven’t; and neither have players who succumb to temptation. But most sadly, what also remains constant are managerial entities that are determined not to clean their Augean stables.

John McEnroe loses his temper at Wimbledon in 1980 © Getty Images

I’m writing a follow-up to my article on Stuart Broad to respond to a contrary note struck by a few readers in the comments section. In doing so, I will briefly stray from cricket but I think the exercise is worth it, because it will illustrate a point of relevance to cricketers: the relationship between temperament and on-field performance.

Recall then, that in response to my claim that “Sportsmen, mediocre ones especially, have a tendency to get frustrated when they are under pressure from their opponents”, some readers said that even champion sportsmen were prone to petulance. The poster child for this claim is John McEnroe.

First, it should be noted that I was not suggesting expressions of frustration under pressure are the exclusive province of mediocre sportsmen. Rather, my claim was that what distinguishes the mediocre from the great, by and large, is that the former have failed to master the art of grace under pressure. The Zidane, Cantona, and Ponting examples provided by readers are all instances where the player’s behaviour was an aberration that cost him and his team dearly, and they will be the first ones to acknowledge that their behaviour was deeply counterproductive. In each case, the player’s behaviour was a sign of weakness, not strength.

But what about McEnroe? He smashed rackets (and would have done the same to umpires given a chance), cursed (at himself, other players, umpires, linesmen) and generally raised hell on the court, didn’t he? Of course, most but not all, of the time McEnroe’s outbursts were directed at himself; his rage was in equal parts self-loathing and petulance. Still, he won seven Grand Slam titles. Perhaps this petulance was a kind of “good aggression”?

There is a problem with this thesis. It is that McEnroe almost always played badly when he was indulging in an on-court meltdown - most famously during the 1984 French Open when he blew a two-sets-to-none lead against his arch-rival Ivan Lendl. When most people think of McEnroe’s behaviour, they are, in general, thinking of matches that he was either: a) playing in the early stages of his career (admittedly, his famous “you cannot be serious” outburst came during an early-round game at the 1981 Wimbledon, which he eventually won) or b) losing or c) losing in the later stages of his career i.e., after his 1985 loss to Kevin Curran at Wimbledon, including his infamous default at the 1990 Australian Open.

But when McEnroe was at his 1980-84 peak, and playing his finest tennis, he was also at his coolest. It is no coincidence that McEnroe never lost the plot during his epic encounters with Bjorn Borg. And neither is it a coincidence that McEnroe never went overboard during the finals of any of his seven Grand Slam wins. What McEnroe’s temper and temperament did was to hang like a millstone around his neck and prevent him from fully realising his genius. Seven Grand Slams for a man whose talent outshone that of any other player in the modern era seem like slim pickings. McEnroe did as well as he did in spite of his temper; it was not a focusing device, it was a distraction.

Returning to cricket, the laundry list of counterexamples to my claim included plenty of fast bowlers and yet if the record of their temper tantrums is examined closely, most of them occurred during a bad spell of play, either for them, or their team (c.f Holding’s stump-kicking heroics). What makes the hot-headed great really great is that he is able to transcend this weakness most of the time. When a player is involved in too many of these incidents in their career, the suspicion is entirely justified that this is a cover-up for incompetence. Great players master the public display of temper and turn it into a steely resolve; rather than the loud tantrum, they seek out an icy rage that retains their focus. That is why sledgers the world over know who lets opponents get under their skin and who plays better when taunted.

A common confusion in this argument is to conflate an aggressive attitude with displays of temper. But the two have nothing to do with each other. A captain can, by field placings, toss decisions, bowling changes, and other moves, show his unbridled aggression without raising his voice. A batsman can show his aggression by his strokeplay, a bowler with his control over line and length, with the artfully directed bouncer followed by a yorker. That is aggression, the business of keeping relentless pressure on your opponent, not letting him relax at any time.

The public tantrums are a sideshow and a distraction. And even the occasionally hot-headed greats know it.

Surviving long enough to make big runs, even against weak bowling, is a skill in itself © Getty Images

Some time ago, on this blog, I'd written that one of the aims in my posts was to pay tributes to (what seemed to me) unheralded cricketing achievements. Another of my plans was to try and provide counter-arguments to claims commonly made in the heat of a cricketing debate. Here is one example: “this innings by batsman X is worthless because it was made on an easy pitch against a substandard attack.”

The sentiment at the heart of this claim is admirable. It is typically made in the context of comparing two players' records, and the intention is to establish a distinction between innings made in more trying circumstances and those made in situations where the batsman is, to put it mildly, not taxed excessively. That sort of difference is often crucial, and it is an interesting example of how the numerical marker of an innings is not enough to judge its quality.

There are times, however, when this claim shades into a more extreme claim, one that would want to completely discount all large scores made in this fashion, to the extent that they are taken to not provide any evidence whatsoever of the batsman's abilities.

That, I think, takes matters a little too far.

The simple fact is that making a very large score is a difficult business and it is not really made any easier when dealing with pie-chuckers and roads. One little cricketing fact gets in the way, encapsulated in the sage advice given to young batsmen over the years: “Make one mistake and you're back in the pavilion.” And one thing pie-chuckers and roads do very well is induce a false sense of confidence, which leads to that optimistic drive down to long-on, resulting in, well, that long walk back to the pavilion.

I realized this thanks to a batting experience of mine many years ago. In backyard cricket, no less. My fearsome opponent was my kid cousin, a young lad who was dutifully serving up a mixture of full-tosses, half-volleys, and delectable short-and-wide ones. The boundary was barely 20 feet behind him. I had just seen Zaheer Abbas lay the Indian attack to waste, and I was keen to emulate his feats. I had also never scored a century in any form of the game (my highest score, in any game where scores were kept, is a paltry 38). The stage was set.

I started out promisingly. Boundaries were there for the taking; Sandeep Patil and his five consecutive fours off Bob Willis had nothing on me. I was lashing them straight, over the bowler’s head, wide of his despairing reach (did I mention that there were no fielders?).
But somehow I couldn’t get to a hundred, no matter how many times my cousin and I repeated this little slaughter. Invariably I dismissed myself; I would be bowled aiming an ambitious drive, or would hoick the ball over the back fence (an automatic out as everyone knows). It was all a little too easy. Carelessness and hubris got in the way.

Those twin demons take down batsmen all the time. Sometimes boredom does the trick. Whatever it is, the business of making a large score requires at the least, a batsman to survive long enough to make it.

And that survival still needs to be sensitive to the danger that lurks behind every delivery sent down by a bowler, a sensitivity which requires concentration and batting ability in equal measure.

So, by all means, do take claims of cricketing deification with a large spoonful of salt when you notice that a batsman has racked up runs on a featherbed. But don’t write it off completely. That batsman still knows how to not lose his wicket. And that is most definitely one part of being a great bat.

Time to grow up © Getty Images

I’m not huge fan of coaches, and I have said so on this blog. Part of the reason is the
mind-numbingly inane remarks that pepper most of their conversations with the press. After reading Duncan Fletcher’s pronouncements on the latest tantrum thrown by Stuart Broad, I think I've been entirely justified in the snappiness of my remarks (ok, he is an ex-coach, but you catch my drift).

Consider for instance, Fletcher’s claim that, in throwing the ball at Haider, “Broad was responding to frustration, not pressure. They are completely different things.” This sounds like a very sophisticated distinction but in point of fact, it’s a sophistical one. Broad was frustrated precisely because he was under pressure. Sportsmen, mediocre ones especially, have a tendency to get frustrated when they are under pressure from their opponents. That’s why they slam rackets, curse umpires, or pick fights with spectators and/or other players. It's a sign of weakness, not aggression and it is what distinguishes the greats from the also-rans.

Even more confusing in some ways is Fletcher’s suggestion that we not judge Broad on the basis of his on-field displays; that indeed, a “true” picture of his character will be better formed by having access to his dressing-room demeanour. This is again, a vacuous claim couched in the garb of a seemingly holistic approach. Why spectators, who only have access to a player’s public performances, and who are engaged in critiquing a player’s publicpersona should be be concerned with a player’s dressing-room behavior is beyond me. We are critiquing a player's public behavior, aren't we?

I personally don’t care if Stuart Broad doesn’t call his mum every week, or helps old ladies across the street, or sends his yearly earnings to Oxfam. I’d simply like him to stop behaving, on a cricket field, like a school-kid who keeps begging for six of the best. But the match referees haven’t obliged until now, and even then, given his recidivist inclinations, “Broady” got away lightly.

But it is not all Duncan Fletcher’s fault. The biggest culprit is the partial acceptance in the cricketing world of the incoherent claim that rudeness, petulance, and plain old immaturity are somehow equivalent to aggression. So long as that piece of idiocy continues to make the rounds, we’ll continue to be treated to the spectacle of grown men throwing their toys out of the pram.

Either implement the UDRS across the board, flawed as it may be, or do away with it completely © Getty Images

Recently the just-retired Rudi Koertzen opined that the Umpire Decision Review System (UDRS) should be implemented world-wide in all Test cricket. I personally don’t like the UDRS (as it stands) for a variety of reasons: the technology does not work as well as it should; it has been introduced prematurely into the highest form of the game without adequate trials at lower levels; and more sentimentally, it injects a form of second-guessing into the game that robs one of the elements that makes the game what it is - the dreaded finality of the umpire’s raised finger. But I agree with Rudi anyway.

For if the UDRS is to be implemented, and certainly, as matters stand, it will be, then I suggest that it either be implemented in every single test played anywhere in the world, or not at all. This piece-meal implementation, subject to the whims of individual boards and the local availability of technology, is an incoherent state of affairs for a very simple reason. When the UDRS is used in a game of cricket, you simply aren’t playing the same game as one in which it is not used.

A game is constituted, and more strongly, defined, by its set of rules. To call a game basketball it is not enough that you play on a court, which has nets on both ends, and is of the right dimensions; the players' activities must be constrained so that what they do on the court is recognisable as ‘basketball’. Otherwise (say if contact with the foot was allowed), they are playing some variant, possibly an interesting game in its own right, but it has lost the right to be called basketball.

What the current implementation of the UDRS does is to introduce a variance, and a significant one at that, into the very heart of the game. Nominally, batsmen are out when the umpires say they are out. With the UDRS, the batsman is out when the umpire says he is out, and provided an appeal against the decision has not been overturned; or the batsman is out in case a successful appeal against an earlier decision of “not out” is made. In both cases (UDRS and non-UDRS), the umpire on the ground has to raise his finger but the decision-making process is significantly altered.

Surely, I’m not the only person who thinks this radically changes the nature of the game? What was out in Trent Bridge was not out in Galle and vice-versa. A batsman or a captain playing in a Test with UDRS appeals to spare is playing in a very different set of circumstances than one playing in one without it: the dismissals of batsmen proceed according to a very different set of constraints.

My contention that the introduction of the UDRS makes the game a different one is a rather strong claim, but I make it because the UDRS interferes with batsmen’s dismissals and not just things like boundary calls. A batsman’s dismissal is a singular event in cricket; if there is one thing in any version of the game that should be globally uniform it is the definition of a wicket. And it is precisely that that the UDRS alters.

Such would not be the case if the UDRS was used in all Tests the world over. All teams would proceed with a uniform understanding of what constituted a valid dismissal. All of the system’s glitches and built-in human idiosyncrasies would be everyone’s cross to bear.

But the current state of affairs is simply incoherent: we are being treated to the spectacle of the highest form of the game being played according to different sets of rules depending on the location of the game and the identity of the participants.

It's bad enough that versions of the game have proliferated; do we really need two versions of Test cricket as well?

The carnage taking place at the SSC reminds us that spectators don’t like fast scoring in Tests if it doesn’t lead to a result © AFP

Sometimes, even the cricket-fan-in-exile can be spoiled for choice when it comes to live cricket. Today, I was presented with the opportunity to watch not one, but two Test matches: India v Sri Lanka and Pakistan v England. So what’s an Indian fan like me to do? Watch Pakistan v England of course.

The reason for that goes back some thirty odd years to the late seventies. That’s when I became aware that there were an awful lot of drawn games played in India (they were also the years that India played host to a couple of promising, but severely World Series Cricket-weakened teams). But nothing quite drilled that message home like the snorefest of the 1981-82 series against England. I don’t think I’m alone in saying that something in me died that year.

Since then, the subcontinent has seen its share of exciting cricket but it’s also provided some of the most pointless and turgid games in the history of the game. While it might seem that there have been more of these in recent times (I’m thinking in particular of the India-Pakistan series of 2005-06), I suspect the proportion of drawn games has remained roughly the same over the years. It’s just that our collective patience has run out.

So this morning, there was little chance that I would tune in to the SSC Test. Why not watch a game instead where you could see the world’s most promising fast bowler in action, in conditions that might help him? A game where there promised to be some movement toward a result? (As I write, my pick has been an inspired one - Mohammed Aamer has put in a beautiful spell for three wickets, and Mohammad Asif has bowled Kevin Pietersen with a peach).

Meanwhile, the carnage taking place at the SSC reminds us that spectators don’t like fast scoring in Tests if it doesn’t lead to a result. India and Sri Lanka have combined to score at some 328 runs per day. But it all feels a little flat, doesn’t it?

No one, not us bloggers with too much time on our hands, or cricket fans the world over who vote with their feet, has tired of making the same point again and again: run-fests like the SSC one will kill Test cricket more surely than the IPL ever will. But there is little evidence that anyone is listening.

The most astonishing thing about the current state of affairs in Test cricket is that the world of cricket could have had it all. The way Test cricket had been played had changed for the better thanks to the influence of limited-overs cricket: the fielding was better; batsmen had a wider range of attacking strokes (and a slight concomitant loss of defensive technique); technology had aided in making more close-line decisions go the fielding side’s way. The balance of the game had the potential to tilt, finally, just a little away from the batsman. Test cricket could, and would have, settled into a more result-oriented trajectory had the last piece in the puzzle been taken care of: the pitches.

But, no, the urge to self-destruct lies deep within Test cricket. And so we find ourselves at this pass. Where even a devoted fan of Test cricket cannot bother himself to check the highlights of a game. (I haven’t done so for the SSC Test).

So, thank you, Aamer, Asif and Umar. And thank you gloomy English summer. It’s brightened up this day of mine in a way that the glaring sun at the SSC hasn’t been able to.

"If India lose at SSC, it won’t be because Virender Sehwag batted in the only way he knows" © Associated Press

On 26 December 2003, sitting high up in the stands of the still-under-construction MCG, I watched with dismay as Virender Sehwag, after having gone to 195 with a six off Simon Katich, holed out in an attempt to go for the double-century-clinching six. At that moment, I wasn’t sure what I was more upset about: an Indian batsman getting out, missing out on a chance to see a Boxing Day double-hundred scored by an Indian, or even more importantly, the anxiety over a possible collapse. India slid from 278 for 1 to 366 all out [India were 311 for 3 when Sehwag was dismissed]; Australia racked up a huge lead in response, and by the end of the match India had surrendered a precious 1-0 lead in the series. With that, India’s best chance of ever winning a series in Australia went down the proverbial drain.

This morning, I woke to find out that Sehwag had gone for 99, rushing out to a spinner to get a six and his ton, and merely earning himself a stumping in the process. India were 165 for no loss (in response to a Sri Lankan score of 642 for 4) and promptly subsided to 173 for 3). Thanks to the Tendulkar-Raina stand, all is not lost for India yet but there is still plenty of time left in this game. They could still go down 0-2 by the game’s end.

So, shall we all do a Boycott, and ask for a look at Viru’s cranium to see if there is anything in there? I might but if I did, my interests would lie in the direction of checking to see if there was anything in there that I could possibly emulate. I wouldn’t mind being in a position where I get to score Test centuries thrice in a row, and miss out on the fourth one by a solitary run.

Clichés about living and dying by swords, and about sticking to what works for you aside, it would be spectacularly churlish to blame Sehwag for the loss of the MCG Test (or the SSC Test if that is how things turn out). He made more than half the Indian total at the MCG; the game was lost because the remaining 10 men on the team failed to pull their weight. If India lose at SSC, it won’t be because Sehwag batted in the only way he knows; it will be because the Indian bowling had already allowed 600 runs on the board. Indeed, it is a singularly depressing fact to note that India have, by and large, wasted Sehwag’s tons. (The stats are worth looking at for the curious).

I suspect that once the disappointment of the missed ton faded, Sehwag was the first one to allow himself a chuckle at how things turned out. But I don’t think the frivolity will last long. Sehwag’s reaction to the MCG loss was, as he pointed out himself in interviews later, the spur to go on and make bigger scores (he went to a triple-ton with a six in Pakistan a few months later). Perhaps he will set himself some new target. Perhaps he will have his eye on Randiv for some special treatment in the next Test. All of which is only good news for those of us that like watching Sehwag bat.

The sights and sounds of a World Cup football game are among the most enthralling in sport © Getty Images

I read Rahul Bhattacharya’s “where is my love for cricket gone” piece with great interest. Like him, in recent times, I’ve experienced a rather dismaying loss of interest in the great game.

Last year, I could not be bothered to pay attention to the India-West Indies one-day internationals, and this year, I barely took note of the Asia Cup. Given the Asia Cup involved India playing Pakistan, I should have been more enthused, but the emotional roller-coaster that I associate with those encounters was missing. And it is not just with ODIs that I’m finding it hard to get excited about. The South Africa-West Indies series also failed to evoke serious interest on my part: I had subscribed for a broadband video package but spent most of this last Test thinking about, and watching football.

I mention football deliberately because La Copa Mundial brought me two things that I’ve been missing (rather desperately) in a lot of recent international cricket: a physical environment that places the game in an appropriately dramatic setting and a meaningfulness associated with each game. (I know a lot of folks aren’t happy with the number of goals scored and the refereeing, but that for now, is besides the point).

The meaninglessness of so much international cricket that is played in a year has been commented on in too many fora and by too many writers to bear repeating here. There is much to be learned from football here, especially as regards the World Cup.

Ironically, even though the football World Cup has become bloated in recent years, its qualification process and structure still make a good case for a leaner, meaner cricket World Cup; one staged every two years, and featuring a qualification system that permits six countries to qualify (15 round-robin games, to eliminate two more teams, then semi-finals and finals). Qualification points would be earned over the intervening two years’ ODIs. It would make individual ODIs more meaningful and hopefully lead to some standardisation of the annual ODI calendar.

I know this cuts against the grain of the “lets popularise cricket world wide by bringing in minnows” thesis but there are many other ways to do that without sinking cricket’s premier tournament.

The question of an appropriate setting and stage for cricket is a little more tricky. The sights and sounds of a World Cup football game are among the most enthralling in sport. It would be too much to expect such an atmosphere at all Test matches or ODIs but cricket seems to specialise in providing the direct opposite.

For a few years now, watching a Test in the subcontinent or even the West Indies has been to watch a rather drab affair. The aura of an important international game is simply not to be detected. The stands are, more often than not, sparsely populated, the ground’s physical infrastructure is substandard, and there is little spectator atmosphere to soak up or revel in. To tune into too many cricket games today is to be treated to the sight of an international sporting event taking place in a rather forlorn setting. While the game is supposed to provide sporting drama by itself, it is always aided by its placement. That, in modern cricket, too often seems to be lacking.

I’m still looking forward to the India-Sri Lanka Test series. As Rahul Dravid sagely pointed out a while ago, there is a challenge to be met here. But even acknowledging that fact will not bring about an abatement of the desire for packed and boisterous stadiums. I wouldn’t even mind a few vuvuzelas being sent over from South Africa.

Thanks to the over-enthusiastic hyping of Indian cricket, Indian fans seem to have confused economic power with cricketing power © Getty Images

Brawlgate is singularly depressing in reminding me of just how ugly the flip-side of Indian fanhood can be. Unrealistic expectations and exaggerated over-reaction, are, as many brighter lights than me constantly point out, the hallmark of this mode of existence. And as in any dysfunctional relationship (from a not-so-great-distance, this is what it appears to be) things won't change till both parties do. The players "simply" need to play better. The task for the fans is much harder.

What precisely is it that creates such over-wrought expectations? The Indian team has never approached the consistency of champion teams. The local maxima of a good performance in one tournament or Test series is very quickly succeeded by the trough of a catastrophically bad performance. What is consistent about Indian teams is that they are not very consistent. Perhaps this roller-coaster induces the exaggerated reactions? But why doesn't it induce the calm of the long-distance traveller?

The answers for that question would take too long to detail in this space. But somewhere along the line, thanks to the over-enthusiastic hyping of Indian cricket (a hyping whose din only seems to have grown in recent years), Indian fans have perhaps confused economic power with cricketing power. And not only that, we seem to have confused the highlight reel, set to music, with the real-time pace of an actual cricket game. What else would make Indian fans forget that our bowlers are always on the mend, or on the sidelines, that our batsmen had not provided any evidence since the World Twenty20 of their improvement against the short ball, that our fielders still lack nous and verve?

That is, when you know your team has significant weaknesses in batting, bowling and fielding (did I leave anything out?), why demand so much? Why not, instead, settle for the pleasure of an unexpectedly good performance if it does happen to come along? I'm pretty sure there will be some later this year.

The purpose of therapy, Freud reminded us, was to get from misery to common unhappiness. Indian fans, like neurotics the world over, would make themselves, and possibly others, less miserable, if they could adjust the settings on their expectation meters and come to grips with the reality principle in their domain of interest.

Which is, in short: you win games consistently if you play the game at a consistently high level. And if we would cast our eyes about, we would notice scant evidence for this proposition when it comes to Indian cricket. (There are Test-playing countries that we have still not beaten in an away series).

My purpose in this post isn't to denigrate the Indian team. They have a pretty rock-solid claim on my loyalties. But I have to remind myself that we don't have the domestic infrastructure of champion teams, that our board is run by non-cricketers, and that our young cricketers are rewarded excessively for too little, too early. In these circumstances, talent-spotting and nurturing is hard, selection policies are Kafkaesque at best, and the motivation of all but the most disciplined is likely to flag. Combine all of this with the undoubted presence of cricketing talent and we have the recipe for inconsistent, sporadically delightful, performances.

Searching for the golden mean is always a good idea. But judging by the evidence from BrawlGate, many Indian fans simply couldn't be bothered to join in this particular quest for moderation.

	How much of the BCCI's fortunes have flowed back into local development schemes for cricket? © PA photos

India, we are told, is the world's richest cricketing nation. I presume the wealth in question has something to do with its "burgeoning middle-class", the IPL, and something called TRPs. But what of the cricketing wealth in India? How does the Indian balance-sheet stack up on that account?

Years ago, when comparisons between "blue-collar Bankstown boy" Steve Waugh, and "Maharajah Snooty" Sourav Ganguly were common (and invariably unfavorably inclined away from the Indian captain), I was struck by the absurdity of it all. Ganguly might have grown up in a household with hired help (an unimaginable luxury in the Waugh household, I'm sure) but in cricketing terms he was a pauper when it came to Waugh. I do not doubt for a second that Captain Courageous grew up with access to an established, well-organized, cricketing structure, to cricket nets provided by the local council, to high-quality equipment, and all of the rest. And I'm willing to wager good money that Ganguly's access to anything similar was far more attenuated. When it came to cricketing riches, Steve Waugh was the true millionaire.

In 2000, shortly after I moved to Australia, I was asked by an office-mate (and future team-mate) whether I'd like "a net". A few days later, I was staggered to find out that we could just stroll up with a kitbag and lay claim to a pair of cricket nets at the Waverley Oval. We batted and bowled for over an hour, and repeated the process over the next few weeks as the suburban cricket season started up.

There never seemed to be a shortage of cricket nets all over Sydney; access was simple and free. Most city councils featured a large and beautiful oval (Bankstown has one; I saw a limited overs game there between New South Wales and Queensland). When we wanted to get fancy, we booked a net at the SCG (the practice facilities for which featured 12 nets with playing surfaces varying in bounce and pace). (The major cricketing grounds were, of course, comfortable more often than not, and spending a day at them was the furthest thing from an imposition).

My reaction to this cornucopia of cricketing affordances was one of unbridled amazement. Precisely how easy was it in this country to play cricket, to nurture it, to foster its future growth? Very, it seemed to me. Of course, this assessment grossly understates the hard work and the effort put into the creation of such an environment. And it also understates the financial backing for the creation of such cricketing nurseries. Be that as it may, the final evidence was there for all to see. Cricket had been woven into daily life; playing and practicing the game was made easy and pleasurable.

Which finally, brings me back to India. After three years of the IPL, and several more years of the financial domination of the BCCI, how much richer in cricketing terms is India? How much of the BCCI's fortunes have flowed back into local development schemes for cricket? Do we have a cricket net in each major urban neighborhood, or perhaps BCCI-subsidized cricket nets at schools and colleges? I know that space and population constraints in India are severe, and do not allow for a direct comparison with countries like Australia. But I'm still genuinely curious. Besides the attention paid to endeavors like sponsoring the India A tours, or age-group tournaments, will the BCCI ever take a crack at upgrading cricket facilities across the country so that the next generation of cricketers can grow up with ready access to the game?

If and when that happens, the descriptions of the cricketing wealth will ring a little truer and displace the current sensation of watching the relentless accumulation of non-cricketing wealth by a select few. That includes those domestic players lucky enough to be selected for an IPL-paypacket. The fortunes of these players have certainly improved, but that does not diminish the need for the creation of a cricket environment that can nurture the next generation of Indian cricket.

Now that the IPL is on (and on and on) there is, as might be expected, plenty of talk about big-hitting, and especially talk of the biggest hits and hitters. Indeed, to hear IPL commentators (and some of its fans) go on, one might think that six-hitting was invented by the IPL. But my point here is not to complain about IPL coverage; there are plenty of folks already engaged in that worthwhile task. Instead, I'd like to talk about the biggest hitting I've ever seen, which funnily enough, didn't happen in the IPL. But it didn't happen in a Test or a one-day international either.

Because what I mean by big hitting here is not necessarily an objective assessment of the distance covered by a cricket ball after it left a batsman's blade. Rather, my assessment of the biggest hitting of all is very much a subjective notion, a reaction to the awe-inspiring power that I was able to bear close witness to. I've seen Kapil, Richards, Botham on television; their hitting was some of the most brutal ever, but there was nothing quite like this spectacle, just because one could hear the bat, hear the sound of the ball's trajectory, and track its flight clearly. And it was made all the more impressive by the context of the game.

Permit me then, to set the stage. In my last post I had written about my cricket watching experiences during my university days. In those days, the trials for the college cricket team were a major event on the sporting calendar. Many folks tried their hand; a select few made it through. Those rejected sometimes took it with grace, sometimes with resentment, mutterings about nepotism, and sometimes with an ostrich-like denial of their lack of playing ability.

At the end of such one trial, when the smoke had cleared, a happy band of twenty or so players had advanced to the next stage, and a larger bunch of young lads were left disappointed. But there was a chance at partial redemption, at partial confirmation of one's sporting self-esteem; the intra-departmental tournament was around the corner.

The hero of my story, a young man whose name I can remember as Manish, decided the only way to deal with the disappointment of his rejection from the cricket team was to let the coach know just how bad his bowlers were and how faulty the process of team selection at the trials had been. To this end, he decided (I'm making these intentions up; they are the only rational explanation for what followed) to direct his particular ire at the bowlers who played in the tourney.

In the matches that followed, in each and every single game, we were treated to an amazing display of power-hitting. (The games were 40-overs a side; I do not remember if he ever scored a century but there were definitely a string of fifties produced). I was called out to watch the first time he went on a rampage and thereafter, every time we heard Manish was on strike, the crowds grew at the boundary edge. The sixes (and there were many in each innings) were giant hits; they lacked neither elevation nor distance. The sound of bat and ball conjured up visions of cracking whips and gunfire. A diligent chiropractor could have made a killing treating all the whiplashed necks at the ground.

Manish's resentment over his lack of selection was a well-known fact amongst those who watched. This gave his hitting a particularly distinctive flavor: every shot was a defiant flip of the bird at the selection panel, who were invariably spectators at the game.

The pleasures of watching cricket at close range are many and varied; while visual and aural proximity can render the action clearer and more dynamic, a true connection to the action in the middle, one that emphasizes its particulars, arises from knowledge of the context of the game. The knowledge of the cricketing history of nations has always enhanced the serious spectator's experience of Test cricket. In this case, knowledge of the (probable) psychological context made one young man's actions appear larger than life. The passage of time has ensured that his feats have only grown in my mind. They are still bigger than any DLF Maximum out there.

A couple of years ago, after I read Sambit Bal's wonderful piece on his cricket-watching experiences at Galle, I got to thinking about which cricket ground had provided the best cricket-watching experience for me. And the more I thought about it, the more I realised that once I had moved past considerations of best viewing angles and the aesthetics of particular grounds, I was left with only one choice: the almost-squarish cricket field at my alma mater, Hindu College, in Delhi University.

This judgment is, as I said, not because there were bucolic visions of nature or architecture available. Rather, quite simply, it was at this ground that I've watched the most high-quality cricket, up close, at leisure, and in a state of mind that can only be described as insouciant. And because too, the players were not excessively remote in a crucial way; they were, to run the risk of cliche, just like me and my mates.

In the 1980s (and I suppose even now), Hindu College and Delhi University were the cricketing powerhouses in Delhi. The best high-school cricketers competed eagerly in the trials for admission to the college; some hoped to make the progression to the university team and then the Delhi Ranji team. The more serious followers of the game among us kept track of who was trying out for the team, and who could be expected to feature in the first XI in the coming season. There was always the ever-present possibility that one of these might be an international cricketer down the line.

And from the moment the cricket season started, we, the cricket spectators, were treated to a bonanza of cricket watching, from the extended nets sessions to the fielding practice drills to the warm-up friendlies to the more serious encounters in the college competition. Watching serious cricket talent up close was revelatory in more ways than one: the straight bats, the dazzling strokeplay, the pace of the bowling, the fielders' reflexes, all served to convince us that these young men were on a different plane from us when it came to playing a game we all loved. And yet, they were not that different from us; they had gone to schools we knew about. They were not older men. It was this simultaneous intimacy and distancing that made this cricket watching the most entrancing experience of all.

The college ground itself allowed access right up to the boundary line. One edge was the fence with the Faculty of Management Studies; another a road that ran in front of the Chemistry and Physics departments; one that ran alongside the tennis courts and another along the college boundary road that separated us from other colleges. Tall eucalyptuses, some hedges, some fences with creeper-like growth, softened these edges and rounded out the picture. Legend had it that big hitters had occasionally hit sixes into neighboring campuses; I never saw any of those but some did land on the road that separated us from Kirorimal College.

When games were on, we watched from various angles; behind the bowler's arm from one end, then from another. Sometimes the autumn sun became a little harsh; we sought shade and found it next to the little tea-shop at deep-fine leg. There, armed with a cigarette, a cup of sweet, milky tea, and a fritter or two, we would sit, contentedly, gazing out at the boys in white. Sometimes we were interested in the fortune of our team; sometimes in the fortunes of a player who might be a friend of ours. Sometimes, a Test match would be on. Then, we would monitor two games as the radio commentary kept us abreast of happenings in distant grounds. The immersion in cricket was complete.

It might be asked: weren't there classes on? Perhaps; but it didn't seem to be a pressing concern in those days. I should have been taking notes on the Weak
Law of Large Numbers, but the only statistics I was worried about were cricketing ones. The only worry, if there was one, was whether the last direct bus back to South Delhi would leave while I watched.

Years later, when I had graduated, migrated, and when academic performance became a pressing concern, I thought of my college experiences with mixed feelings: I hadn't worked hard enough; I had been a slacker. But somehow, I could never bring myself to wish that I hadn't spent those lovely winter afternoons in Delhi, sprawled out on the grass, watching young men whose cricketing talents provided me intimate access to the highest levels of the game.

Here is a little bet I set myself: I could open Ray Robinson's On Top Down Under (a collection of biographical essays on Australian Test captains) to any page at random, and find a memorable turn of phrase. So here goes.

Exhibit #1: On GHS Trott: "Harry folded his shirtsleeves as formally as banquet serviettes around elbows that knew how to bend after a hot day's play."

Exhibit #2: On W Bardsley: "He would notice which end had worst visibility, whether a sightscreen was missing, which were the farthest boundaries, and whether they were favoured by slopes, casing the joint for stealing runs."

Exhibit #3: On Arthur Morris: "Hooking to the four winds and the white pickets, Arthur's bat seemed to have no top edge."

I could go on. But I think you get the picture. As do I, as did many, many other readers of Ray's. If there was one thing that he was good at, it was to combine verbal virtuosity with a deep passion and encyclopaedic knowledge of the game. This talent is abundantly on display in his opus On Top Down Under and it has been in every book of his.

Hooking to the four winds and the white pickets, Arthur's bat seemed to have no top edge © Rick Smith Collection

I first encountered Robinson's writing when I ran across Between Wickets, safely stashed on my cousin's bookshelves. I was too young to read it then but I looked through the photographs, made a mental note of his name, and carried on. Years later, I ran into Robinson again, reading the description of the (literally) riotous Bombay Test of 1969-70 between Bill Lawry's Australians and MAK Pataudi's Indians (excerpted from The Wildest Tests). The Test came alive to me; I could almost smell the cordite as it were.

And then, this past (southern) summer, I found him again, running across the first edition On Top Down Under on the top floor of Berkelouw's on Oxford Street in Sydney. (This version ended with a portrait of Ian Chappell; the book has subsequently been re-released with additional work by Gideon Haigh that updates the captain's list). "Score!" I went, under my breath, as I plucked it out of the shelf. Many large lattes later, (all consumed on beautiful Sydney mornings in gentrified Newtown), I had consumed the book; it went down as easy as a fine meal. My enjoyment of the book was considerably enhanced by familiarity with many of the place-names that Robinson sprinkles throughout the book; an excellent example of how the reader's background can affect his take on a book.

Writing a series of concise biographical portraits of cricketers is more difficult than it might sound, for the mastery of what to leave out and what to include is hard to come by. It's made harder because each of the cricketers in this work was the captain of the same country; how many times can you riff on the same theme?

But Robinson does it, mastering this particular challenge by dwelling on a variety of different points of contact to bring out a cricketer's character (both sporting and personal). As Robinson notes in his foreword, he wants to round out the exclusively cricketing view of the men he writes on, because, given the near-mythic status of the Test captain in Australian culture, there is no way these men can be understood as just manipulators of bat and ball. We get formative childhood moments, relationship quirks, weaknesses of character, evidence of candidacy for sainthood; it's all here.

Robinson is sometimes present himself in the book, when he recounts a conversation with one of the subjects of his prose. It is no accident that he comes across as the modest voice of wisdom in the little encounters that he describes. At those moments, we don't resent his intrusion; rather, they serve as a reminder of his place in the world of Australian cricket. It is an exalted position, one well-deserved.

Every serious cricket fan, whether Australian or not, should read On Top Down Under. You'll learn about cricket, and you'll learn how to write well.

Neville Cardus was the spark for a most interesting discussion © Getty Images

On this blog and on Eye on cricket, I'm fond of noting my American location: perhaps to make a complaint about American media coverage of cricket, perhaps to note the similarities and dissimilarities in professional sports rivalries and those in international cricket, perhaps to mildly complain about the lack of cricket books in the US or, like my post yesterday, to report a sighting of cricket-related art (an exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art, featuring the Mexican conceptual artist Gabriel Orozco, whose works feature cricket photographs).

So, in that vein, I would like to report what strikes me as the most unlikely encounter I've had with anything cricket related in the US: an Immigration and Naturalization Service interview. In the course of this procedure, and in process of "becoming American", cricket became intimately involved.

Some ten years ago, after some years in the US with a permanent resident card, I decided, (as can be imagined, with some mixed feelings), to apply for American citizenship. As usual, the paperwork was tedious, and I was required to make a final appearance before an immigration service officer who would review my papers.

On a bitterly cold December morning, I lined up at the Federal Building in New York City, submitted my papers and took my place in the cheerless waiting room along with dozens of other applicants. The room was a veritable United Nations; the expressions of the folks therein reflecting a similar diversity of emotions ranging from boredom to hope to eager anticipation.

Finally, my turn came and I walked in for my interview. The immigration officer, a young man in his thirties, sat me down and turned to a brisk inspection of my passport, quickly (and at times brusquely) querying me on the contents of my passport: what was this trip made for, when, for how long and so on.

Then, at one point, he held up my passport, and pointing to a visa stamp made by the Jamaican authorities, said "Were you visiting Kingston for a holiday?" I replied I had gone to Kingston to watch a Test match between India and the West Indies, that I had spent five days in Jamaica, all of them at Sabina Park (in 1997).

I expected my reply to be met with incomprehension. Instead, my interviewer put down my passport and began a conversation about cricket. He knew about it, he had followed the game occasionally, he was fascinated by it, and all because, wait for it, he had studied Neville Cardus in a class on creative writing back in his university days! To describe my reaction as being flabbergasted would be to severely understate matters.

The interview was now comprehensively sidetracked. We chatted about the game, about its biggest rivalries, its future, modern innovations and so on. Finally, with some regret, the INS officer looked at his watch and noted that we should wrap things up. There was one last step left. I had to write a sentence in English, which would attest to my mastery of the language. What should I put down?

The topic of the sentence was a no-brainer; its content was immediately suggested, on the basis of our conversation, by my newly-made friend: "I prefer Test cricket to the shorter version of the game." I duly complied, wrote it down, and finished the remaining formalities. A handshake later, and I was done.

When I stepped out into the windswept, icy canyons of Manhattan later that afternoon, my naturalization papers in my backpack, I had to restrain a giggle or two. Who woulda thunk it? A conversation about cricket in my US citizenship interview? The deal sealed with an expression of my preference for Test cricket?

Years later, this remains my favourite US-related cricketing story.

	Who says no one would ever care about teams whose name consisted of a pairing of an Indian city and some other noun? © AFP

The IPL attracts, as it should, given its prominence and importance in the world of cricket, a lot of commentary. Some critical, some adulatory. In the former dimension, one finds well-meaning worries about its influence on Test cricket, aesthetic discomfort at the crass commercialisation on display (and the prominence afforded to the grinning visage of Mr. Modi). In the latter, admiration for its delivery of an exciting assemblage of players, the broadening of the appeal of cricket, and an entertainment package neatly wrapped up for the post-work hours.

I've handed out my share of brickbats to the IPL. But I always found one particular line of criticism (or scepticism) directed at the IPL to be utterly baffling. That this strain has almost died down is adequate testimony to just how strange (and revelatory of an almost knee-jerk dismissive mindset) it always was.

For this scepticism about the IPL centered almost exclusively on expressing doubt about whether anyone in their right minds would ever care about teams whose name consisted of a pairing of an Indian city and some other noun. Our cricketing pundit would thus proclaim in a tone of almost pitch-perfect incredulity, "Who is going to care about some outfit called the Jaipur Whatchmacallits or the Rajasthan Rovers or the Landikotal Lotharios"?

What was the basis of this particular rhetorical pitch? As far as I could make out, it was the evocation of two moods: one, a sad post-colonial hangover that associated the names of Indian towns with distance, remoteness, a peripheral existence; the second, a faux-genteel distaste for the in-bad-taste excess of marketing mavens.

Has there ever been a more incoherent basis for scepticism? When I cast my eyes over the names of teams in the English Premier League or the National Basketball Association, I see teams named after English and American towns that very few could locate on a map, often paired with just as unlikely monikers.

The Utah Jazz? (Right, this makes sense, because when I think of Mormons, I think of jazz music). The Orlando Magic (Oh, I get the Disney reference; do you?) Is Aston Villa a city? Where is Fulham? I always thought Arsenal was the name of a quarter in Paris or a place where anarchists went to load up for the revolution. Turns out it's a club based in North London.

A good Vietnamese friend of mine always wore an Arsenal shirt when he could. He didn't know it was based in North London. I'm not sure he cared. He cared about the players that brought it glory. (In those days he obsessed about Thierry Henry). And in the end that’s all that mattered to him. He had succumbed to the marketing, to the creation of a sustained fantasy.

Teams in professional leagues don't acquire auras or brand-value instantaneously. It takes them time, especially, if as in the case of the IPL, they start with a brand-new league as well. Very few teams have the privilege of tapping into a well-established league or an already created market (as in the case of NBA, NFL and MLB expansion teams).

That cricket pundits even imagined this was going to be a semi-coherent basis for dissing the IPL says a great deal about an entrenched mindset that prevailed then (and in some quarters even persists now). It's one thing to express a lack of personal interest (for instance, as I've been reared on international cricket I find it hard to be too invested in any particular IPL team). It's another thing to suggest that no loyal fan base could be built up over a period of time by such a well-marketed, lavishly promoted league.

This is the third season of the IPL. Whatever the particular strains of criticism that will be directed at the IPL this season, I'm pretty confident that the version I've mentioned above will be a fast-vanishing one.

Cricket fans living in the United States used to complain about lack of access to the game. Well, we got live telecasts (on satellite and broadband video) and we got the chance to play the game itself. But one thing is still hard (impossible?) to find: a bookstore that carries cricket books.

Ray Robinson's opus On Top Down Under is yet to be rivalled as an intimate portrait of Australian captains © Cassel Australia

Thus, one highlight of my recent trip to Australia was a chance to visit stores that actually carried decent selections of cricket books and to rediscover three masters of cricket writing: John Arlott, Ray Robinson and Gideon Haigh. The icing on the cake was that two of the books are genuine classics: Arlott's An Eye for Cricket is a pictorial one, featuring the photography of Patrick Eagar, the greatest cricket photographer of all; Robinson's opus On Top Down Under is yet to be rivalled as an intimate portrait of Australian captains. I do not attach the adjective "classic" to Haigh's Silent Revolutions only because its vintage is too recent; give it a few years and it will be so, the quality of the writing to be found in there will ensure it endures and continues to edify.

I purchased books by this trio from both first-run bookshops (Readings in Melbourne) and second-hand specialists (Goulds and Berkelouw in Sydney). My procurement method included the roundabout technique of looking up titles on www.abebooks.com and then calling in orders.

In buying and reading these books, I rediscovered several pleasures which had started to become distant memories: the idle browse through several decades of cricket history, the serendipitous discovery of a classic, and most importantly, when reading cricket history, the chance to find out just how much has changed and how much remains the same in this game. There were other, more tangible pleasures: the chance to start each day with a stroll down to the coffee shop on the corner, followed by a leisurely immersion in cricket history.

Reading these books was also a humbling experience. I used to pride myself on being well-read about cricket. Well, as one of my students in Brooklyn might say, ‘you ain't there, son’. For as cricketing historians, Arlott, Haigh and Robinson stagger with their erudition (and dazzle with their writing flair; Arlott perhaps less so but that’s just because he is a trifle more understated).

Haigh has established himself as a modern master par excellence; one is relentlessly exposed to what a library of 3000-plus cricket books can bring about. He is an allrounder too and I wonder how many Cricinfo readers realise he is one of the best business writers out there? If anyone is qualified to analyse the foibles of the IPL from a business perspective, he is. I urge Cricinfo readers to track down his masterly take-down of the cult of the CEO; the word "cricket" shows up nowhere in the book, yet it manages to teach us about modern cricket.

In the case of the sadly departed Ray, I was reminded again of what a deft touch he could bring to his writing and how prominently his affection for the game comes through in his portraits of Australian captains. He reminds me (in his finished product) of no one more than David Halberstam (also now sadly departed) the great American journalist and writer who showed the same skill of being able to combine staggering amounts of information into a seamless narrative that informed and entertained.

In the weeks to come, I hope to review all three of the books mentioned above; in the case of the Arlott and Eagar book, I will be handicapped by not being able to share the photographs with you, but some of the photos are likely to be so well-known that a mere mention of them should be enough to sustain my verbal descriptions.

Pakistan cricket has plunged into yet another crisis, and it calls for a different reaction from outsiders. © Associated Press

Apparently, there is some drama in the world of Pakistani cricket. The headlines are sensational, and the outraged reaction even more so. But really, is this even mildly interesting? All the banned players will be back soon enough and Pakistan cricket will go on the way as it did before: dysfunctional in the extreme.

There is a way of describing Pakistani cricket, which used to be tiresome but which has now started to strike me as patently offensive. This is the insistence that Pakistani cricket is charmingly erratic, wonderfully unpredictable, beautifully inconsistent, sublimely indisciplined. Right, I'm making these up. But you see the pattern. Pair a couple of adjectives which span the spectrum from the sublime to the sordid and have a go at describing Pakistani cricket. And I suspect the world of Pakistani cricket revels in this description, because this sort of indulgent tolerance gives it a free pass.

A common feature of the calls for a display of solidarity with the Pakistani cricket world in its "time of need" is the invocation of "family" and "fraternity". I find that a bit over the top, but let’s stay with it for a second. If we are going to invoke the family trope, then let’s go the whole hog. What kind of family member is Pakistan then? Your lovely talented nephew who can't behave himself? Your incapable-of-good-manners little sister? What does it take for the family to say "Enough is enough"? (I don't know what "enough is enough" amounts to in the cricket case but at the very least it should be an end of the amused indulgence of Pakistani dysfunction, whether it is within the team or between the board and the team).

Pakistani cricket has been lurching from disaster to disaster for a very long time, marked by endemic indiscipline and a stunning lack of professionalism in all too many fronts. From Inzamam-ul-Haq’s assault on a spectator, to the many player-captain disputes, to Test-match forfeits, to the doping scandals, to the failure of security. Yet, the worldwide perception of it as, you guessed it, charmingly erratic, persists. And the clarion calls for solidarity to support, shoulder-to-shoulder, whatever latest species of misbehaviour it throws at us never cease. Where one would demand introspection and self-correction, we are asked to look for failures elsewhere: umpiring conspiracies, non-cooperative neighbour boards, ignorant, racist, paranoia about safety, the list goes on.

We could all do with a little tough love. The continued winking at the indiscipline that pervades both the PCB and its team is part of the problem that affects Pakistani cricket. Crises of behaviour among members of a group demand introspection and change from all members of the group. The first step for outsiders (the Pakistanis have their own work to do) would be to ask themselves what role their constant indulgence of the foibles of Pakistani cricket has played in its random walk down Indiscipline Street.

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The Rawalpindi Express chugs into the platform © Getty Images

That sports-writing is full of clichés is, well, a cliché. And that isn't too surprising when you think about it. There are lots of variations on a theme but the theme never quite goes away. Journalists write for deadlines. And even good writers get lazy sometimes and reach for the favorite (case in point: I loved Dileep Premchandran's use of the word "coruscating" to describe a batting performance from a few years ago. A short while later, I felt he was using it excessively. Sure enough, a google search for "Dileep Premchandran coruscating" shows too many hits for his liking. Just last week, a reader pointed out I tend to overuse the word "tend").

But this post isn't about to complain about clichés. Rather, since I'm feeling pretty self-indulgent today I wanted to focus on a little phrase used in cricket writing, whose frequency of usage I’m not sure about, but which always seemed to me to be marvelously evocative in many different ways.

The phrase I have in mind is "steaming in" or "steams in" when applied to a fast bowler, as in, "Michael Holding steams in from the Vauxhall End" or "He's been steaming in all day from the Paddington End". I don't know where I saw such usage first, but I'm pretty sure it was a long time ago.

So what is so great, you might ask, about a little verbal trickery that analogizes a fast bowler to a steam engine? Many things, for this little verbal flourish brings me face to face with the power, dynamism and sheer irresistible nature of the fast bowler. (It also helps that it conjures up images of those beautiful, majestic, steam locomotives that dominated the railways in India many, many years ago).

I associate a veritable library of images on reading that phrase. I think of a fast bowler running in powerfully off a long run up; the approaching menace as he nears the wicket (perhaps triggered by thoughts of a steam engine's shrieking whistle?); the compressive force generated by the violence of his delivery action. There is also, buried in there somewhere, an associated image, of a fast bowler working patiently through a long spell, unflaggingly putting his body on the line, summoning up all the force he can muster in an attempt to break through the defensive line arrayed against him (oops, slipped into war imagery there).

I do not mean to say the inventor of this phrase meant to summon up all of these but just that this is how I respond to it (or at least think I do when I pay closer attention to why I find it evocative). And shouldn't a good turn of words have this ability to be evocative for different reasons to different readers?

I don't know where I've seen "steaming in" the last time and don't know when I'll see it again, and certainly I'm not sure if it’s used that much these days. But at times when we are used to getting impatient with writing on the game, it's nice to be able to note how someone, somewhere, got it right. Perhaps not for too long for this might get tired too. But it’s sure fun while it continues to work.

How tough is it to deal with the stress of giving a decision under stress? © Associated Press

Like every single cricket fan on this planet, I've cursed umpires and given the finger to the gentlemen who give my heroes the digital salute. But I like to think I've grown (just a little bit) out of my previously immature reactions to them. For willy-nilly, I took Atticus Finch's advice, and walked around in an umpire's shoes. And from then on, I never viewed umpiring in the same light.

In my university days, I played a bit of casual cricket with my mates at college. Nothing too serious; our talents were limited. But Hindu College, my alma mater, was a cricketing powerhouse in the Delhi cricket scene, and there were plenty of stars to watch up close and admire. The concentration of cricketing talent in our institution meant the inter-departmental competition often afforded some of the best cricket viewing of the year. We could get close to the action, and we could see players that were Ranji, and possibly India, aspirants. The strongest departments (History, Political Science, Economics, General Arts) were packed with members from the college team. (Unsurprisingly, the sciences were left to fight for the scraps).

One fine morning, a group of us gathered to watch Political Science take on General Arts (Indian folks will know the latter better as "the BA (Pass) boys"). The games were 40-overs a side and approximately ten players from the college side were out there in the middle, playing for the two departments.

A few overs into the game, one of the fielders trotted over to us (down at long-off) with a request. One of the umpires had to go off for a family emergency; would one of us agree to umpire? (I hasten to point out the reason the fielder had picked us was because we knew him from some friendly games earlier in the season). I eagerly volunteered; umpiring seemed like a great way to get into the thick of the action and watch it up close.

A few minutes later, I had started to regret my decision. The action out on the middle felt fast and furious; the fielders were aggressive and hortatory; a fast bowler who was constantly over-stepping didn't appreciate my no-balling; and the fielding side's captain, who came on to bowl his off-spinners, was a pesky, inquisitive, irritating type, who kept moving me around.

I was surrounded by young men, older, and bigger (make that much bigger) than me. It was noisy and even the unambiguous sounds I expected to hear out in the middle were not so clear. Bat against cloth, pad against ball, pad buckles against bat, ball against body; the sounds were a little potpourri of clicks and nips.

I felt a buzzing in my head; I was keeping track of too many things, and was worn down by the stress of feeling I might get things wrong. And I did. A batsman went down to sweep the off-spinner; the ball had pitched on off and middle. He had plonked his leg down the pitch; the ball would have spun past leg. I was worn out. I raised the finger. He glared; I averted my eyes.

Shortly thereafter, I asked to be relieved of my duties. I wanted to be back on the sidelines, smoking a cigarette, sipping a cup of tea, soaking up the beautiful Delhi winter sun. I didn't want to be hassled and harried out in the middle. I wanted to enjoy the game, damn it all.

I think my experience is instructive and it forms the basis of the following modest proposal.

An international cricketer could do with a little apprenticeship in umpiring as part of his graduation to the highest form the game. The Don studied for, and passed, an umpire's exam. In similar fashion, I propose that a pre-condition for playing in a Test should be that the player in question should have umpired in a few games; perhaps first-class games, perhaps something a level just below. (Australians could consider umpiring in the city grade competitions, for instance)

They should stand for a few days in the sun and properly soak up the hurly-burly an umpire experiences. They should experience, in no particular order: the stress of giving a decision under stress; being pressured by constant appealing; feeling like all eleven men in the fielding side dislike you and multi-tasking that would put a modern computing architecture to shame.

Perhaps then, with their felt experience of an umpire's lot under their belts, they might experience some empathy for the lot of those who "only stand and wait."

"Is Monty Panesar too deferential toward the people who are giving him bad advice?" © Getty Images

Yesterday, I read Mike Atherton's article on the 'failure' of British Asian cricketers with mixed feelings. Mixed because in the course of a worthwhile investigation, Atherton offers an analysis that goes hither and thither, travelling some well-worn and predictably non-informative grooves and ends up going nowhere. (One hint of the problem in his analysis lies in the choice of headline "Depressing culture of failure" (my italics)).

It has been evident that despite the greater visibility of Asian players on the English cricket scene, few have managed to stake out a firm regular spot in the English side. That includes Bopara, Rashid, Ramprakash, Solanki, Panesar, Patel(s), Mahmood, Shah, Chopra et al. Some have shone briefly, others not at all. Monty Panesar enjoyed the longest honeymoon in recent times but even his star seems to have described its arc and is now in decline. (Incidentally, why does Atherton not consider Nasser Hussain in his list? Is Hussain "too English" to be counted here? Is that because of his mixed parentage, or is it because Hussain has somehow transcended "Asianess"?)

So what’s the problem? After all-too briefly wondering, and not really entertaining as a live hypothesis, whether English cricket has been welcoming enough, Atherton considers cricketing reasons: Mahmood is not good enough, Patel is not fit enough and Rashid has been over-promoted (perhaps in a rush to find an English Warne or a spin replacement for Panesar). These three form part of a brief denying of any charges against English cricket. Their putative counterexamples apparently suggest any facile generalised charge against the management of English cricket is unlikely to stick.

But Atherton does not consider that a lack of welcome from English cricket might not be a necessary condition in the failure of the players but merely a sufficient condition. Given the importance of dressing room politics and the notorious ease with which players slip into cliques, this would have been an angle worth investigating.

Cultural reasons poke their head up when it comes to Panesar. Perhaps he is in awe of authority (measured by something termed a "power-distance rating": India is high, England is low on this scale) and so perhaps is too deferential toward people who are giving him bad advice (Atherton also gratuitously throws in mention of Panesar's wedding being "an Indian affair" as proof of his irredeemable grounding in his Indian background).

But Shah and Bopara do not fall into this category; they have never seemed deferential enough. The failure might be the cricketing equivalent of "lack of moral fibre" for Atherton suggests Bopara was "mentally shot" after his failures (against Australia) and that Shah has suffered from selectorial slights.

But Atherton fails to consider another factor when offering this social-scientific analysis (if you're going to do it, do it right): that those in power seek to emphasise their distance from those below them, that those in power are capable of recognising and emphasising a power-relation that suits them. Might Vaughan and Fletcher have failed in this regard? Power relations are not maintained by one party in the relationship after all; they are constructed jointly. Atherton does not wait to consider this possibility. He is in a rush to figure out the cultural underpinnings of such failure. We might ask: whose culture?

What about Shahzad? Well, he seems to be doing some things right. Apparently, he isn't eating his mum's "rotis and curries" (and has substituted fish and chips with beers at the pub?) and his private school background has helped his integration into the English team. His success would, for Atherton, help dispel two notions: that British Asians can't hack it, and that English cricket is not welcoming enough. The latter seems to be Atherton's primary concern.

Could diet be the answer? Well, that would certainly explain why lots of Indian players never did well. But would that explain the success of those (like most in the Indian team) who continue to pack away rotis and curries? The "it was the curries wot did it" explanation is a silly one and especially in this context; is the English diet known for its sports-ability enhancing qualities? I know that Atherton has in mind a proper sportsman's diet, but following that is a problem for plenty of people in the English team.

The problem with Atherton's analysis is that it is scattershot in dealing with a complex problem: there are leads that Atherton considers but does not chase down, and he throws out enough suggestions to keep the waters muddied. And as noted, he simply does not consider the flip-side of the possible solutions considered. Any kind of causal analysis needs to pay attention to a variety of factors; sure, the short-circuit caused the spark that caused the carpet to catch fire, but it needed the presence of oxygen and a flammable material to get going.

British Asians are not a monolithic bloc. They are made up of a variety of different religious, cultural and economic backgrounds. And that includes their English class and regional ones. To treat them as a bloc is the first problem in Atherton's analysis. There are many equivalence classes in a set; the first step to finding an analysis that works is to divide up the set of English cricket players properly. There are working-class players from the North who don't integrate (Rashid for one, but do all the lads from up North fit in easily?); there are fitness slobs who don't do the hard yards (the young Flintoff and Samit Patel); would going in this direction enable Atherton to answer the broader and perhaps more interesting question of why English cricket in general is mired in a level just above mediocrity? Is the failure of British Asians in cricket their problem or is there a larger problem in English cricket waiting to be discovered?

Indeed, as Atherton bounces from hypothesis to hypothesis, he might have realised the answer was staring him in the face: the young men he is talking about are Englishmen. They have more in common with Englishmen than with any other nationality. Any analysis of their success or failure should begin and end by considering their case along with those most like them: other Englishmen, no matter what their ethnic background.

	Truth be told, it seemed like there was only person who could pull it off: Tendulkar © Getty Images

I tend to be a bit obsessed about cricket statistics. And given my vintage, it's entirely understandable that Test statistics tend to reign supreme. Indeed, to this day, one of the reasons that I don't get so hung up on the results of one-day internationals is that I started off thinking of them as unofficial games. But official they are, and their statistics are recorded faithfully. And there was one one-day statistic that I did spend some time thinking about: would a batsman ever make a double-ton in a one-day game?

I first entertained this thought not because of Viv Richards' 189 against England in 1984 but because of a glorious innings that preceded it: David Gower's 158 off 118 balls against New Zealand at Brisbane during the 1982-83 WSC triangular. For the time, Gower's innings was a true paradigm subverter; that rate of scoring was unprecedented, his domination complete. Indeed, that innings stood out even more than Richards' did, because, well, Viv was Viv, and you expected him to do that sort of thing. But Gower amping it up at a strike rate of 133, hitting four sixes, and all of the rest made me think that perhaps someday, someone could pull it off. (For the record, Viv's strike rate was 111 so Gower had one over the great Viv in that regard!)

When the modern era of one-day internationals got underway, the 200 became a real possibility. Of the ten 180-plus scores in one-day internationals, there are only two from the 1980s. And yes, both of them are by the great Viv. All hail the King! Folks like Anwar, Hayden, Jayasuriya, Kirsten, Ganguly, Dhoni, Tendulkar, and, er, Charles Coventry, racked up the rest. I did think for a while that the 200 would come in a World Cup game against one of the minnows.

And Sehwag's feats seemed to make him the logical choice to put your money on when it came to the business of going past the 200 barrier. But Sehwag doesn't make big scores in ODIs. His name features nowhere in the list of big-scorers in that variety of the game for whatever reason. I've given up trying to understand that particular genius.

It seemed to me that if 200 was to be made, it would be made by an opener, someone who would score quickly in the first 15, settle down in the mid-section, and then have enough nous and stamina to play through the inevitable acceleration to the end. And truth be told, it seemed like there was only person who could pull it off: Tendulkar.

For if there is one thing that seems to come easily to Tendulkar, it is the kind of innings I've just described. They are a dime-a-dozen for this man. He does it effortlessly, shifting gears when he wants, racking up runs, not letting his strike-rate drop. It always seemed like a matter of time before he would not lose his wicket in the final acceleration and simply go on to the logical next destination of the double-ton. 200 runs off 150 balls (a strike rate of 133.33) always seemed eminently doable for this master of the limited-overs game. No one else seemed to have the full package.

And on February 24th, he did it. Indeed, he seemed to have calculated it perfectly: 200 off 147 balls. The initial acceleration, the quick, expert farming of well-run singles and doubles, the final acceleration. It was a masterpiece of attack and accumulation (and the brilliance of shots was something to behold). And he did it against South Africa on an appropriate stage, a ground at home, in front of thousands of his ever-adoring fans.

The genius of this man is that such a singular feat should always have seemed so well within his reach, that his final breach of the barrier should come as no surprise.

"Just like even a broken clock can tell the time correctly twice a day, even Lalit Modi can get it right at times" © Getty Images

I'm not a huge fan of Lalit Modi. One reason why I am reluctant to watch IPL games is there is always the chance that I might stumble across the latest Modi photo-op; I have described him as a zamindar in the past (when his ICL crackdown was in full swing); and when Modi acolytes have shown up on Eye-on-Cricket and demanded I respect his organisational skills and financial acumen, I have politely declined (I similarly find myself reluctant to sing hosannas in praise of Bill Gates and Steve Ballmer, gentlemen who have plenty of fans but whose achievements I find strangely uninspiring).

But respect must be shown where it is due. Just like even a broken clock can tell the time correctly twice a day, even Lalit Modi can get it right at times. And Modi’s response to the release of the independent report commissioned by players' unions in England, Australia and South Africa that has led to talk of shifting the 2010 IPL to another country is a good example of that.

First, Modi correctly notes that "Nobody in the world can safeguard the safety of the players in any tournament. All we have to do is ensure we are putting on the best security". Indeed, there might be disagreements over what constitutes the best security for the visiting players but there can be no guarantees about the player’s ultimate safety (perhaps El Al, the Israeli airline, might be able to provide one but I doubt even those formidable folks would go so far). And while the ‘threat’ to the international players is possibly ‘credible’, all that can be done is to hunker down and make sure that as many angles as possible are covered. Fleeing to another country isn’t really a viable solution. Last year’s move to South Africa took place because no security apparatus could be in place.

The IPL’s staying put is just the way it has to be for anything else that has to take place in India (plenty of folks continue to go to work in Mumbai, I'm told). If terrorists were to issue kidnap threats against businessmen in India, should business come to a grinding halt?

But there are other reasons why Modi’s comments make sense for they raise an interesting point about the very nature of the IPL, about whether it is a domestic tournament or an international league. For Modi goes on to say (showing a non-Vitalstatistix-like personality), "The heavens aren't going to fall...this is an Indian tournament...we have the key Indian players and only a few international players. You have to understand that the market for us is India...it's not only dependent on foreign players, although they are part of it.”

Modi is calling his own bluff here. If the IPL goes ahead and is a success even with a diminished international player presence (and truth be told, I think there is a high probability there won’t be a complete pullout because the greenback rules), it will have displayed its viability in an Indian market with Indian players and maintained the domestic competition image.

For now, Modi has done all he could do. He has spoken reassuringly to sponsors and has done the right kind of spinning when it comes to the status of the IPL. Behind the scenes, negotiations over the player’s security demands will carry on.

The IPL will be played in India. If something does go wrong, there will be terrible consequence, sure. But the worst ones will not be that international players’ concerns will have been vindicated. It will be that innocent lives will have been lost. And that is a risk that folks in India are used to.

Australian cricketers recreate the famous image from the 1915 game at Shell Green on a visit to Gallipoli in 2001 © Getty Images

Sports, war, what’s the difference? Not much, or so it would seem, if one were to go by the language of sports-writing: crushing defeats, campaigns, humiliations, pitched battles, offensives, assaults, and so on. And of course, defeats in sporting contests can take on the significance that normally afforded to a besting on a military battlefield (depending on the insecurity of the concerned parties); witness the obsession over India-Pakistan cricketing games.

But cricket and war can be run together even more directly. The most famous instance of this came during the Gallipoli campaign, when on 17 December 1915, a game of cricket was played on Shell Green by ANZAC troops. In the now legendary photograph of this game, Major George Macarthur Onslow of the Light Horse is batting (and rather unfortunately, for the major, is in the process of being dismissed). The game, played while artillery fire continued overhead, was an attempt to distract the watching Turkish troops from the departure of allied troops.

(The Australian Light Horse also featured in another less-known cricket game during war, that between English and Australian soldiers on 25 October 2006 in Basra, Iraq. The match was put together to commemorate the soon-to-be-played Ashes series and in a sign of things to come, England made 109 for 9 off their 30 overs, and then watched as the Aussies ran up 113 runs off 27.5 overs.)

This sort of connection of cricket with war is considerably more benign than the linguistic one I began this article by noting. But the two can come together, nowhere better exemplified than that during the siege of the town of Mafeking during the Boer War. Here, a British garrison (and a motley crew of civilians) led by Robert Baden-Powell (the original Boy Scout, if you will) held out for 217 days (October 1899 to May 1900). The Boers, led at various times by Piet Cronje and J.P Snyman, mounted several offensives of varying intensity, supplemented by a shelling campaign from a variety of artillery pieces.

Amongst Baden-Powell's tactics for maintaining the spirit of the military and civilian residents, was (besides the regular publication of newspapers and the staging of evening variety concerts), the organization of a regular game of cricket on Sundays. That these games could be staged at all was due in no small part to the fact that at the beginning of the siege, Cronje and Baden-Powell had agreed there would be no fighting on Sundays! (Such Christian sensibilities clearly didn't extend to the idea of not fighting at all in the first place).

As the siege dragged on, the Boer President Paul Kruger decided enough was enough, and sent his grandson Field Cornet Sarel Eloff with reinforcements to bring an end to the siege. Besides fresh troops, Eloff was possessed of a sense of humor as well, and on arriving at Mafeking and hearing of the Sunday games of cricket, sent in a note to Baden-Powell on 30th April, suggesting a match between the troops on either side.

Two hundred days of the siege had passed. And so, Baden-Powell wrote back, saying that the Mafeking garrison had already scored 200 not out against Cronje and Snyman. Eloff was not in the least upset by this rebuff, and instead, amusedly remarked, that it was “tough, but true enough.”

The Boer War was a pretty vicious affair; reading its history (I can heartily recommend Thomas Pakenham's excellent The Boer War) can sometimes be a pretty depressing business. In the midst of that grimness, this little anecdote provides just a little relief.

Not too much, for war remains a bloodthirsty pursuit. And we should be thankful that sport is not even a bit like it, despite what over-eager journalists might suggest.

Two Tests did not do justice for the rivalry between the teams © AFP

Let me get in the obligatory quick slam against the BCCI before saying anything else about this India-South Africa 'series'. Two Tests? Are you for real?

Now, on to the series itself. This putative world championship of cricket featured two big, lopsided wins; both by an innings. If one were to cast about for sporting metaphors this would be a pair of boxing matches where each boxer knocked the other one out once (Schmeling-Louis anyone?) India looked outclassed in the first Test, and South Africa, despite the closeness of the finish, were severely outgunned in the second (to think they were 218-1 on the first day and ended up batting 347 runs behind in the second innings!).

Despite the lopsided nature of the games (at least far as the margins went), these were both very good Tests, just because there was so much outstanding cricket on display: high-quality swing bowling, determined, gritty, stylish, pugnacious batting, and some very good spin bowling at times.

But the margins of defeat in each Test showed that the two teams, despite being the top two in the world, did display some inconsistency and vulnerability. India's lack of resistance to Dale Steyn in Nagpur was perhaps more understandable in that any batting line-up, especially one weakened by injuries and dubious selection strategies, will always be susceptible to the kind of high-quality display Steyn put on. More worrying for India in that Test was the failure of the bowling attack to drive home the early first-day advantage or to even exert any sustained pressure thereafter.

South Africa's performance in Kolkata indicated a greater breakdown of sorts: they collapsed from 218-1 to 296 all out; they left their bowling plans in the hotel; they dropped catches and then when the time came to save the game, they played into India's hands by never remotely looking like they would get past 347 (the second innings ran for 131 overs and resulted in 290 runs).

There were other data points in the tests that are interesting: South Africa's batting is shaky (Graeme Smith kept playing Zaheer Khan with gaping gaps in his defense and the JP Duminy – Ashwell Prince pair always looked out of sorts); India's youngsters were disappointing at best (S Badrinath played one good innings and then looked out of his depth thereafter; M Vijay wasted his chances; and there were some dropped catches by the new brigade as well). While Gautam Gambhir failed to come to the party, the rest of the Indian batting line-up prospered: Virender Sehwag, Sachin Tendulkar, VVS Laxman, MS Dhoni all did their reputations no harm, with the former two shining in particular. And Hashim Amla's serene journey to almost 500 runs in three innings will long be remembered by those who watched him play; the impassive nature of his reaction to a painful blow on the elbow on the fifth day was inspirational (if only I could summon up such a response to the adversities of life!)

India's strong finish in the series makes them come across as marginally stronger, especially in home conditions. Kolkata emphasized that point strongly, for there was no doubt that the presence of that crowd had an effect on both the teams. South Africa will be keen to use their home-grown pitches to try and put one over the Indians when they visit, and one can only hope the Indian batting will be up to the task (I'm optimistic that a full-strength Indian fast-bowling attack will be a handful in those conditions).

Which brings me back to the point with which I began this post. The BCCI's biggest problem is not its supposed greed or mendacity; it's that it lacks imagination. This series, with more Tests played in the metropolitan centres like Mumbai, Chennai et al, could have been a genuine humdinger and would have allowed for the building of a rivalry similar to that India enjoys with Australia (and possibly one without all the nastiness that has come to be associated with it). Not for the first, and certainly not for the last, will I bemoan the failure to grasp the obvious by the powers that be.

	Despite the heroics of folks like Jason Gillespie, the notion is still ridiculous © Getty Images

I don't like night watchmen. I've got nothing against those poor souls that are sent out by their timid captains to weather the storm, but I do have a principled objection to the very idea. It is internally incoherent, is poor cricketing strategy, and when the captain does it to protect his wicket, it looks especially pusillanimous.

The first time I encountered the concept of a night watchman was when Srinivas Venkataraghavan went out in the fading Delhi light on the second day of the first Test of the 1976-77 series against the touring MCC. The score read 49 for 3, and India were tottering. Anshuman Gaekwad, Mohinder Amarnath and Gundappa Viswanath had all gone lbw to Lever. A deadly spell of swing bowling was in effect. Two balls later, Venkat joined the procession, bowled for a duck by the same bowler. Brijesh Patel had to come out and bat for time.

I thought the idea was silly then, despite its 'rationale' being explained to me by my ever-patient father. Why was Patel not batting? If Lever could blow away that illustrious bunch that had preceded Venkat, why not Venkat?

Years later, despite the heroics of folks like Wasim Bari, Tony Mann and Jason Gillespie, I still find the notion ridiculous. Captains send in a tailender to deal with a difficult passage of play so that a recognised batsman won't have to? (Yes, batsmen are a pampered lot, we all know that). And if a wicket does fall, does not a recognised batsman have to come out anyway? Or are we going to send out another night watchman? Or is the task of the night watchman to hope for the best? That either he survives till the morning, or he chews up enough deliveries before he gets out so that the incoming stalwart only has to face a few deliveries?

Of course, the next batsman will have to deal with a more hostile and testing atmosphere, because the bowling side has their tail up, having taken two wickets, and because facing five deliveries at the end of the day is harder than facing ten.

The incoherence of the night watchman strategy especially becomes apparent when captains use it when three or four wickets are down. By doing this, they ensure that a recognised batsman is shoved further down the order, and is reduced in his effectiveness.

The night watchman strategy seems to work well when they hang around the next day, frustrating the bowling attack, which wants to get on and dismiss the recognised batsmen. But the bowling side's task has already been made a bit easier by the fact that the recognised batsmen will be forced to bat with more of the tail than they'd like to. And of course, night watchmen, if they simply hang around and block, can get in the way of a team trying to push on and score quick runs to drive home a potential advantage.

The reason why I feel compelled to write this post is because I was reminded of the points made above when I noticed Amit Mishra being sent out as night watchman near the close of day two at Eden Gardens. Dhoni's decision was nothing short of ludicrous. With one stroke Dhoni managed to do three things: potentially expose Mishra to Steyn (there was no guarantee the bad light suspension would have taken place), push himself down to No. 8, and last, by not coming out himself to face the music, I dare say he didn't exactly look like Captain Courageous.

In a post on this blog a few days ago I complained about batsmen being treated with kid gloves by the laws of the game. Its a pity their captains don't even feel like making them earn their keep.

	The Indian spin quartet of the 1970s had the backing of a skilled bunch of close-in fielders © Getty Images

Puzzlement (or glee, or anger, take your pick) is often expressed these days over the supposed cricketing demise of Harbhajan Singh. But I'm perplexed by something else altogether: why don't Indian captains of recent years set more attacking fields for their spinners? If it was Australian captains like Bobbie Simpson who pioneered the umbrella slip field for their quicks, then I'm inclined to think (with little more than a vague memory) that Indian and Pakistani captains pioneered truly aggressive fields for spinners. And even if they didn't, they certainly exploited them the most fruitfully.

But in recent years, the most aggressive fields for spinners that I've seen have been set by Ricky Ponting for Nathan Hauritz, Graeme Smith for Paul Harris, and Andrew Strauss for Graeme Swann. (No cracks about any of the bowlers on that list; they've managed to inspire faith in their captains).

For many years now, if there is one feature of Indian outcricket that stands out (in my mind at least), it is that we don't seem to have enough men close to the bat. Harbhajan most commonly bowls with a slip and a forward short-leg. Forget the absence of a silly point, which would seem like a no-brainer for a bowler who is supposedly an exponent of the doosra, Harbhajan often doesn't even employ a backward short-leg. When Mishra bowls, he will often not employ the backward and forward-short-leg. It is almost as if these men are supposed to only be bowling their stock-balls and not their wrong 'uns, and as if the psychological value of having a close-in man has been completely discounted.

And I'm not even going to get into the business of whether fields for them have been sufficiently attacking a little further away from the bat. Instead, we've been treated to field settings that are vanilla in the extreme, with a pronounced tendency to go on the defensive all too quickly.

Perhaps this defensive attitude has been forced on modern Test cricket with the dominance of the bat due to dead pitches, heavy bats, shortened boundaries and the like. But as the example of the captain-bowler combinations above shows, it's still possible to display an attacking mindset.

This display of faith by the captain, and confidence, by the bowler, can be infectious. I'm inclined to think that part of Harbhajan's problems stem from his reluctance to take on an attacking posture in his field-settings. Freed of the pressure of close-in men, batsmen milk him endlessly, and he retreats further into his shell.

Of course, my complaints about the lack of “men in your back pocket” is only partly a complaint about tactics. It's also partly aesthetic. Some of the most wonderful sights of Test cricket have involved spinners wheeling away with a cluster of eager, alert, (and sometimes talkative) brave men, waiting for that little nick, that quick deflection, that little pop-up. Imran's fields for Qadir on the 1982 tour of England were a delight to watch, and enhanced the drama of that series in wonderful fashion.

I used to complain (to anyone that cared to listen) that part of the reason I disliked one-day international cricket as a spectacle on television was the sight of empty fields close to the bat as the game wore on. Sadly, that denuded vision is all too common even in Test cricket played by the country that has had the richest tradition of spin attacks in the history of the game.

I tend to classify my political views into two categories: those where I can understand my opponent's point-of-view and am willing to entertain it seriously, and those where no matter how hard I try, my brain doesn't seem to understand why anyone would hold a contrary view. Matters of economic management tend to fall into the first category and lifestyle choices fall into the second.

Similarly, when it comes to cricket. An example of a view where I don't understand the case for the opposition is the business of legalising ball tampering. I would ask someone to explain to me why ball-tampering is still illegal, but since I don't get it, I'll stick to expressing my bewilderment. At a time when cricket has increasingly become a batsman dominated game, when the single biggest threat to Test cricket is not the IPL or T20 but the roads that are routinely produced by groundsmen the world over, what precisely is the case against ball-tampering?

The great Wasim Akram, arguably the finest exponent of the arts of swing in recent years, has argued that it is pointless. But with all due respect to Akram, there is very little chance he would have come out in favor of ball-tampering. Given the steady stream of allegations against Pakistan bowlers over the years, it would have been highly problematic on his part to have come out in favor of ball-tampering; plenty of people would have regarded it as a tacit admission of guilt and simply said, “About time the Pakistanis 'fessed up. The Pakistanis must have been doing it in 1992 and Pakistani cricketers and journalists have been lying since then.” No, not really a satisfactory state of affairs.

But Akram's comments then prompt a further question: if he doesn't think tampering is going to help bowlers swing the ball, then why not simply make tampering legal? Let bowlers do their worst; at the very least, we won't have any of these silly allegations made against fast bowlers. Indeed, Akram seems to have missed a trick on this one. It is the illegality of ball tampering which has criminalised so much behavior and led to so much rancor.

Other arguments are straightforwardly moralising: it is cheating, it is unfair, it sends the wrong message to youngsters. These “what will the children think” expressions of concern are touching. But they leave me cold, for they fall into the same old tired pattern of only proscribing that behavior in cricket which favors batsmen.

To proscribe an activity is to seek to discourage some behavior and concomitantly send out a message about what behavior is considered permissible in a society. Keeping ball-tampering illegal does neither. Bowlers and fielders continue to strive for advantage in a world stacked in favor of batsmen and the moralists in the game continue to throw around the “cheat” slur. Cricket remains locked in a mode where it persists in making some behavior illegal almost as if to ensure that a certain discourse continues to take place amongst its followers.

This sanctimony helps no one; it inflates batting averages, stacks the field unfairly against bowlers, and contributes, most irritatingly, to a vocabulary full of the word “cheat”. When I see an area of conversation that is full of morally-inflected slurs thrown around at behavior that is common, I know something is amiss. (Like the conversation surrounding "drugs", where hypocrites like to think those that smoke marijuana are “doing drugs” while they pour themselves a glass of fine Pinot Noir).

Cricket should get over the batsman-favoring morality it is so in love with (witness the shock and horror over Mankading, which plenty of fans think is unsporting). Every single moral debate in cricket has something to do with making the world safer for batsmen: restrict bouncers, increase over-rates, condemn Mankading, keep ball-tampering illegal, don't appeal if you think the batsman is not out, and so on.

One of my favorite cartoons, reprinted in the World Cricket Digest many, many years ago, shows a trembling vizier confronting a beturbaned maharajah, while a loincloth-clad servant waits. The vizier says “Your majesty, I risk your displeasure, and death by a thousand lashes, but the laws of cricket do not permit your servant to take your run-up while you bowl.”

Cricket has a bad habit of treating bowlers like the maharajah's minions. It's about time they were treated like first-class citizens, able to shake up the comfort of the privileged class made up of willow-wielders.

Sigmund Freud famously wrote of the impossibility of autobiography and biography. Part of the reason the good doctor thought thus was because that wonderful human facility, memory, which is often thought to be constitutive of our personalities, is also an amazingly flaky thing. To put it mildly, if you know what I mean.

As cricket fans, we are all subject to the vagaries of the art of recall. Players grow in stature; we are mysteriously present at games we never attended; statistics grow and multiply.

And in the modern internet era, we no longer need to rely on the photographic memories once needed to commit all those Wisdens and Frindalls to the insides of our craniums. And the internet can also serve to remind us of the things we get wrong.

For years, one of my favorite cricketing stories was told to me by my father. It concerned two greats of years gone by: CK Nayudu (the Colonel) and Keith Miller. Their encounter, during the Australian Services team tour of India in 1945-46, had for my father, the status of legend. In 1998, I posted an account of this story on the cricket newsgroup rec.sport.cricket. Some folks enjoyed it, and I certainly enjoyed telling the tale. Recently, I posted the story again on my blog, Eye-on-Cricket. There is a twist to the story that needs some tackling.

For it does not seem that the story told to me by my father and faithfully reproduced by me can possibly be true. At least, not in its statistical details. I had realised even back in 1998, that I needed scorecards to confirm its authenticity. I didn't do the needful for a very long time. Perhaps subconsciously, I resisted the moment of truth.

A quick examination of the scorecards of the Australian Services Team to tour India in 1945 shows that they played nine games. They played one game (Princes XI vs. Australian Services) in Delhi, the one that I presume my father attended. More the point, it was the only game of the tour that CK Nayudu played in (his youger, and largely overshadowed, brother CS Nayudu played for the Indian team in the Tests of the series as well as in this game). The scorecard for the Delhi game shows that Miller was bowled CS (not CK) Nayudu for 18 in the first innings; that CK Nayudu was bowled by John Pettiford for 14 in his first, and in the only second innings, Miller was caught and bowled CS Nayudu for 35.

So, something is amiss. Miller could not have hit 30 runs off CK Nayudu in either innings. CK's bowling figures (4-0-28-0 and 5-0-15-0) make that impossible. And neither did CK do that off Miller. Whatever happened that November in Delhi, it wasn't exactly like the way the story goes.

And of course, it’s not clear whose memory is at fault. Did my father tell me a reasonably simple story of how perhaps Miller and Nayudu hit a six or two off each other, and I grew that little tale into an epic? Or did my father, then attending the game as a wide-eyed 10-year old schoolboy, himself embellish that tale before passing it on to me? Or was it a combination of the two?

I realised of course, that it didn't really matter in the end. Some things still stood out: the impact that those flamboyant allrounders Miller and CK Nayudu made on my father; the recall of CK Nayudu at the age of 50(!) to play the Aussies; and the fact that the two greats did have some kind of encounter. For after all, the game did take place in Delhi, and Miller and Nayudu did play in that game. That much is true. The rest is in the story and it’s worth recounting.

And it’s still a damn good yarn. For if nothing else, it contributed to the romance I associated with the game, and played a significant role in the attention that I paid to its history. So, if there is ever a campfire around, I’ll make sure I tell the story in the form (I think) I heard it first.

Captaincy, while being an honour and a privilege, is also a rum business © Getty Images

A couple of weeks ago, on my return to play a game with my old Sydney team, I was generously invited to captain the team in the absence of our regular captain, who had been called away on family duty. And I learnt once again, that captaincy, while being an honour and a privilege, is also a rum business.

Many years ago, in my final undergraduate year, I had captained the Mathematics Department in the Interdepartmental competition. We lost narrowly to Chemistry by three runs as I failed in both tactical and performance dimensions as captain: I glibly assumed the one attacking plan I had would work, and later, I failed to stick around long enough to let our star batsman finish the job he had started. In the former, I assumed our star opening bowlers, both left-handed quicks, would simply run through the opposing line-up. The bowlers instead, lost their line and length and I was left floundering. When we chased, I came together with our best batsman and simply had to hold up one end while he blasted away. But I got too cute, and in trying to play a clever tickle, got myself bowled. The collapse of the tail was inevitable, and we were out of the competition.

My recent experience in the Northern Sydney Suburbs competition was similarly educative on another aspect of captaincy: how is the captain to assert authority? I was captaining a team many of whose players I barely knew: the personnel turnover had been high in my absence. I had gone in at No. 10, and scored one not out; they had no idea whether I was a decent bat or not. And I couldn't bowl, because I had a bad back. All I could do, really, was ring in the changes, set the fields and say the right things out on the ground.

Easier said than done. Our opening bowlers were set upon by the opposition batsmen who began blasting boundaries on a smallish ground. It's hard to make fielding changes when boundaries are being scored at a high rate. Where does one make the necessary changes? Several of them seemed to suggest themselves all at once. But could I really send a man or two out of the park? For ball-retrieval, sure. But for fielding?

And then things got worse. Our leftie seemed to be struggling a bit with form. It would help if he got a wicket. Sure enough, he induced an edge. And I dropped the catch at second slip.

At that moment, the balloon of authority was well and truly punctured. Our team is a good-spirited one, and my catch wasn't the first to be dropped. But I was the captain, and I had placed myself at slips.

Did I say things got worse? More gloom awaited. We dropped more catches, and continued to get carted all over the park. Time was running out. We had taken two wickets (both bowled, thankfully) but needed more. I decided to call back our quickest bowler for one over. He already had two catches dropped off him. He came on, induced the edge. And I dropped it.

Mercifully, the match ended soon thereafter. While I hadn't made too many tactical blunders, I had failed in a very simple way: I hadn't performed. Whatever chance I had of stamping my authority on the game and the players rested on my being able to take those chances when they had come my way.

After the game, we drank our cold beers, and cracked a few jokes at our collective fielding incompetence. It was just as well I hadn't been the only one with butter-fingers out there. And it was just as well it hadn't been a close game.

As a sub-teenager, cricket players were, quite literally, giants © Cricinfo Ltd.

Cricket fans, like pitches, change with time. Where a devotee of the game might once have spent his youth waking up early for radio commentary from distant lands, he could move on to spending those morning hours playing with his little children; where an ardent lover of the numerical aspects of the game might have spent hours calculating the fluctuations in his hero's batting averages, the only number with decimal points he might care about in his thirties is likely to be the mortgage rate on his city apartment.

In my case, the most significant change was the realisation a few years ago that I was older than anyone who currently played Test cricket. That slowly developing shift in my perspectives on the game's players has been enlightening in more ways than one. This change has occurred at the same time that I have had increasing access to the players via the media: their spoken words, their writings, their antics in the many-splendoured television coverage that is now ubiquitous.

As a sub-teenager, cricket players were, quite literally, giants. They looked bigger, they did adult things. They looked like my uncles (and these were just the Indian players). When it came to cricket players from other countries, the distance was even greater. They looked different; they were names in books, faces in photographs, flickers on television screens. They weren't real, really.

When I finished high school and started university, I realised with a start some of the young men I was friendly with were potential international stars. [Syed] Saba Karim was a college mate, and he played for India (years later at Kingston, I called out to him from the boundary line and he stopped and chatted briefly; he invited me back to the hotel for a chat with the rest of the team, but alas, I had a flight to catch the same night). It was the first time I realised the pitches out in the middle of a large cricket field were not on distant planets. They were just a few dozen yards from the boundary ropes.

At the same time, I saw more, read more and heard more, about the players. Their aura, once carefully constructed by my temporal, psychic, and physical distance from them, crumbled rather easily. When I had run across Kapil Dev outside a Delhi restaurant in my final year of high school, he had seemed a giant; when I met Chaminda Vaas at Melbourne's airport in 2003, I realized with a slight start that I was speaking to a young man who, had he been in high school with me, would have had to give up his school bus seat had I demanded it.

But it was their ever-increasing presence in the media that did the most to make me realise that cricket players were rather more easily worshipped when I had less access to them. They had cricketing talent, but that didn't necessarily translate into superior moral qualities or intelligence. Any projection of these attributes on them (and the resultant disappointment when they failed to uphold my standards) was more a reflection of a felt need on my part, than any failure on theirs.

I had grown, and the players hadn't. They formed an abstract grouping; one whose positions were occupied by a revolving cast that came and went, going about entertaining and performing. My perspectives on them, modified irrevocably by the passage of time, could proceed in no other direction than that of the markedly less hagiographic.

Nothing reminds me of this shift over the years better than when I go to see an international game at the grounds (as I did at the MCG and SCG these past couple of weeks). It's a game, and some men play it really well. And we like watching them go about their work. The rest of the romance is our doing, more easily sustained by younger, less jaded versions of ourselves.

	It's not too fantastic to imagine a scoresheet, that along with the batsmen and bowlers' names, also records the fielders' names as well © AFP

A few weeks ago, I wrote a little piece suggesting cricket take a leaf out of baseball's book and maintain statistics for fielders. The practical difficulty with this suggestion is that cricket scoresheets do not contain this kind of information: fielders do not figure on scoresheets except for when they take catches. The runouts and boundary saves they make, the catches they drop, the misfields the inflict on their team are all missed.

But for a few years now, a scoresheet has been present which could potentially address this difficulty. I am referring to the Cricinfo ball-by-ball commentary, which currently records brilliant fielding, catches, drops, some misfields (if they are particularly egregious), and sometimes information on the fielder.

Consider the following excerpts from the Ashes:

9.4 Harmison to Ponting, 1 run, oh dear! Huge run-out chance missed there by Ian Bell! Ponting prods to cover and takes off for a single, but it's misjudged and Ponting had given up on making it as Bell's throw bounced over the stumps. Ponting was about three metres out there. Enormous chance missed.

And:

26.5 Broad to Ponting, no run, prodded out to third man - no, brilliant stop from Anderson at gully! He's a lithe and brilliant fielder for a fast bowler.

In this commentary/scoresheet, besides the usual recording of dot balls, runs, batsman and bowler, we have information on the fielders, on what they did or did not do. Thus the Cricinfo ball-by-ball is in fact, an annotated scorer's sheet, which could be used to generate the kind of fielders' statistics I had in mind in the piece linked above.

Of course, the annotations in the Cricinfo commentary are voluntary; they are placed there by the commentators on duty at that time and the level of detail can vary. The commentary still does not record fielders' names when there is no error as in:

25.2 Harmison to Watson, no run, shorter delivery, slapped to point

Here, we do not know who was at point, and thus we have no way of finding out, for instance, whether a particular fielder commits more errors at point and is better placed somewhere else. Adding this information would certainly add to the burdens of the (possibly already overworked) commentator/scorer. But it's not too fantastic to imagine a scoresheet (suitably tweaked to make the commentator's task easier), that along with the batsmen and bowlers' names, also records the fielders' names as well.

How would fielders' statistics be extracted from such a scoresheet? That task would be made considerably easier if the commentary facilitated the use of keywords that would allow for automated processing of the commentary transcript (another requirement would be a form-like entry for fielders for each delivery). Hopefully, such a tweak to the commentary software would not be too involved.

Fielder's statistics for too long have been ignored in cricket. Instead, we are left with a host of entirely subjective statements like "he is worth 30 runs in the field" or "his fielding has declined over the years" and so on. Quantification and recording of fielder's statistics would not only allow for comparison and record-keeping, it would also permit a ranking and recognition system for fielders that is long overdue. Annotated commentaries like the Cricinfo version point the way forward in this regard.

	Ian Botham and Viv Richards - one of the greatest cricketing friendships © PA Photos

I read the late and great David Halberstam's little gem, The Teammates, this past weekend and like many of its other readers, was struck by the simple story of the multi-decade friendship of four sportsmen (in this case, Boston Red Sox luminaries Ted Williams, Bobby Doerr, Dominic Di Maggio and John Pesky).

Halberstam's tale concerns friendships amongst members of the same team, and of those, I've heard, a few when it comes to cricket. But one cricketing friendship featured two giants of the game who played for opposing teams in international cricket (albeit the same team in a domestic cricket competition): Ian Botham and Viv Richards.

The reasons the Botham-Richards friendship struck me as so distinctive (in clearly idealized ways) were numerous: they were both cricketers I admired for the way they played their cricket; there was something undeniably romantic in the notion that men used to fierce competition against each other in one context, could then put shoulder-to-shoulder in another; a camaraderie amongst sportsmen in a sport centered largely on international bilateral contests was uncommon; the political overtones of a proud black cricketer finding comradeship with a Somerset lad; and so on.

While tales of friendship amongst team-mates were common in cricket (in the Indian context, the friendship between Sunil Gavaskar and Gundappa Viswanath was well-known), this kind of trans-border mateship was rare (though admittedly, in English county cricket, these had become increasingly common), and thus, there were more contrasts to be seized on, many more differences to point to as having been bridged, and many more commonalities to note amongst the two.

The stories that surrounded the Botham-Richards friendship were numerous and of varying quality and veracity: that Richards was responsible for ensuring that Botham never signed for the rebel South African tours because Botham could not have faced Richards' disapproval thereafter; that Botham was resolutely on Richards' side in any dispute including the famous ones with Peter Roebuck; that Richards haughtily waved off a congratulations and a handshake from Botham in a Test, because "this isn't a county game"; and of course, my favorite, that Richards introduced Botham to the pleasures of an occasional toke of cannabis (is that why Sir Ian gained so much weight in the 1980s?)

But I suspect the real reason the Botham-Richards friendship appealed so much to me (especially when I was a teenager) was because the idea of a cricketing friendship spanning the divisions of national sides was a romantic one that brought relief from the tensions engendered by Test cricket. One theme common to many positive reactions to the IPL's first two editions was the sight of erstwhile opponents celebrating together when brought together for an IPL outfit.

I suspect that while we celebrate nationalist rivalry on the ground, some of us like to be reminded that it is a bit of play-acting, that the same men who snarl at each other on the ground, and gladly knock each others' heads off, would in other contexts, put that nastiness aside. That is, despite the quasi-xenophobic bluster, most notably displayed in the comments sections of cricket blogs, we're softies at heart, and such friendships reassure us that all is well, that these men acting like brash warriors are really just folks like us in many ways. Maintaining and sustaining an edgy sporting rivalry can be exhausting, for players and fans alike. The friendships that international cricketers strike up in the course of their careers aren't just valuable for them; they bring us much pleasure too by humanizing the players, and bringing them down to earth.

And as the story of Richards waving off Botham in a Test reminds us, we know that when they step back onto an international arena, they'll go right back to being flag-waving ogres.

My weekend got off to a rough start, but the news I read this morning, that India and Pakistan might play Test matches at a neutral venue (sometime after 2012) has put a huge smile on my face.

Hopefully, the sensible thing will be done by staging these in England. India and Pakistan need to stage their Test cricket somewhere else; in stadiums that might actually fill up with loud, enthusiastic fans, of which there will be plenty in England for both teams. Pakistan can regard North England as "home" and India can do the same with the South. Many expats will fly in to watch the games (I would seriously consider flying over for one Test at least), and hopefully, English pitches will co-operate with the weather to produce some result-oriented cricket. The India-Pakistan cricket relationship needs a shot in the arm, and this might do it.

The fact of the matter is that even without the politics that has been getting in the way, India-Pakistan Test cricket in recent years has been a bit of a crashing bore (and not just because both boards have staged too much cricket between the two). The series in 2004 was played in empty stadiums, an especial irony given all the pre-tour hoopla about how desperate the Pakistan cricket fan was to see the Indian team in action. The two series played in India since then have been impressive showcases for India's inability to close the deal in Tests. In both series, India held the upper edge, and managed to royally stuff things up. In the 2004-05 series, they won one Test when Pakistan obligingly rolled over, but failed to drive home the advantage in another, and then completely lost the plot by putting together a nice last-day collapse in the third Test.

In the last series played in India, Pakistan sent over a team which looked so lackluster on the field that I almost felt like asking them to walk back to the pavilion for an intravenous coffee drip. India failed to put this bunch out of their misery as well, managing only a 1-0 win when by all rights they should have wiped the floor with a 3-0 margin. The last Test featured that perennial favorite of Indian Test captains: the meandering, cautious move toward a declaration, which is then delayed so much that a draw is the only outcome possible.

But the crowning glory of India-Pakistan Test cricket in recent times was the series in Pakistan in 2006, which showcased dead pitches and horrendous run-fest snoozes in the first two Tests, before India redeemed matters with a spectacular display of incompetence in the third game (it takes special talent to lose after your quick bowler has taken a hat-trick in the opening over of a Test).

I can only hope with fingers crossed, that the games will be staged in England and that plans will be finalised soon. The current enforced gap is a good thing; it has made cricket between India and Pakistan a little less common, a little more desirable. A good India-Pakistan Test can be the best of the best. But it needs some large crowds and a co-operative pitch or two. I think these will be found in England; I'm sure about the first and optimistic about the second. India and Pakistan will both have attacks capable of exploiting the conditions, the locals will be looking to pick up some bragging rights, and many English fans will turn up to watch as well. It has all the makings of a good summer of cricket. Bring it on.

Cricketers have mentors. Those that inspire them to reach heights they might not have dreamed of. I think cricket fans have mentors too. Those that inspire our fandom, pointing us to corners of the game we might not have thought of exploring, whose influence makes us the fans we are today.

My mentor in cricketing-fandom was (and is) my uncle (my mother's younger brother). He taught me how to read cricket scorecards, to calculate batting and bowling averages, to find cricket commentary from England and Australia (and to tune shortwave radios), and introduced me to many of the game's greats. Indeed, he made me aware of so many different facets of the game, that it would take a column considerably longer than this one to do justice to him. Before I came to the US, it was no exaggeration to say that if I had experienced a pleasurable moment in watching cricket, the odds were high it was in his company.

I still remember the day I was first struck by what seemed like his uncanny ability to read a game. We were watching highlights of a Test between Tony Lewis' English side and the Indians in 1972-73. BS Chandrasekhar strode out to bat. My uncle calmly said, "Watch, he'll be bowled first ball." And so it came to be. I gazed at him in admiration; this man was prescient!

But more seriously, his utter and total devotion to the game - from tracking its minute variations, to his raw emotion when denied victory and his joy when the cricketing gods smiled upon his efforts, served as a model for me to emulate. Nothing quite impressed me like his logbook of cricket scorecards, faithfully copied out from newspapers, with every attendant statistic carefully noted. Here was devotion to the game, writ large in his careful handwriting.

Over the years we watched Test cricket on television, we heard it on the radio, we saw one-day internationals and we dissected games to bits. Some of my favourite cricketing memories (among others) involve him: listening to Pakistan make a brave attempt to chase down 294 against West Indies in the 1979 World Cup semi-final, and Kapil Dev lashing 89 off 55 balls against England at Lord’s in 1982 in a brave attempt to ward off defeat, and of course, watching the 1983 World Cup semi-finals and final on a crystal-clear BBC broadcast.

There were crushing disappointments too: we still haven't got over India's failure to
wrap up the 1985 Boxing Day Test. Denied by Border and the rain sure; but really, by India's inability to close the deal. The memory of that cold Delhi morning, huddled next to a radio, waiting and waiting for the last Australian wicket to fall, and for the Indian openers to get a move on, still rankles, and colours my perceptions of the modern Indian side.

My uncle had a rogue's sense of humour: he taped the end of the radio commentary of the fifth Test in the India-Australia series in 1977-78, played it back for me, and almost convinced me the umpire had called back Chandrasekhar for a second chance at batting. Only his giggling gave the game away.

He perfected the art of playing hooky to watch cricket with me. He would have his elder brother drop him off at my place on their way to work so he could watch the ODIs beamed live from Australia during the 1985-86 season (and then, he would be picked up in the evening; my grandparents never found out). As the game progressed, his old statistics-obsessed self would come to the fore: he would faithfully track the run-rate at the end of every over, and call out projections and predictions. When India won the Benson & Hedges World Championship in 1985, we both agreed it was a better win than 1983, simply because India had been so convincing, and best of all, we had beaten Pakistan in the final. There was no else I would have wanted to share the moment with.

Of all the cricketing losses I've suffered by moving to the US, not having him by my side to watch a game has been the worst.

Four years ago, he turned 50. I called him to wish him a happy birthday and knew there was only one way I could do it. I asked him to take fresh guard and go for his ton. I hope Mamaji does it. Heck, I'll run on to the ground and garland him if he does.

I've just finished reading Satadru Sen's remarkable book, Migrant Races: Empire, Identity and K.S. Ranjitsinhji. As might be evident from the title, the book is not primarily about cricket, and neither is it a straight-up biography of Ranji. But to read this academic, yet accessible, study is to understand a little better what a remarkable life Ranji lived, to add another piece to the jigsaw puzzle relationship of colonialism to cricket, and finally, to view today's world of cricket in just a slightly different light (compare the language used by colonial authorities to describe lazy natives in the 19th century with that used by cricket commentators to describe South Asian cricketers and you might just squirm a bit in your seat).

Sen's primary objective is to illustrate the multiple identities Ranji claimed and had foisted upon him: an exotic Indian in England, evidence of both the Empire's civilizing influence in making him an honorary Englishman, while simultaneously being a subject resistant to Englishness because of his inherent Otherness, and an England-returned Indian appearing both as a potential agent of modernizing change and a visible symbol of the decadence of Indian princely life. More than any other sportsman of the era, he was Englishman and Indian both.

Ranji's movement between these identities was fluid, and he was not always possessing of full agency when it came to transitions between them. In many ways, he was a tabula rasa for fertile imaginations: those that saw in him the magic and the darkness of the East and the power and brutality of the West.

Ranji was conscious of his multiple identities and he certainly aspired to occupy these roles when it suited him. Ranji moved physically, and he moved psychically: he lived in England, and then moved back to India. Among other things, he studied and played cricket in, and for, England, served in the Great War, returned to India to rule his princely state, became embroiled in disputes with colonial officers over the familiar issues of allowances, jurisdiction and federation, wrote books, cultivated long-lasting friendships with Englishmen (and women), and attended the League of Nations.

In doing all these, he managed to offend those that saw him as a symbol of Eastern decadence or indolence or insensitive princely power. He tried to please many, and didn't always succeed. When he did, it was often as a cricketer, sometimes as a friend, and only rarely as a ruler or Indian. The language used to describe Ranji, his cricket, and his character, is well worth calibrating against that used to describe subcontinental cricketers and cricket today.

The particular plight of the immigrant, his involuntary schizophrenia caused by his locational and cultural displacements, is a familiar trope today. The story of Ranji is a particular instance of this, except that Ranji was an exceptional immigrant in being possessed of a talent colonial masters of the time found useful to celebrate because it enhanced their standing.

In reading these transitions between identities, there is no point in asking, Who was the real Ranji? For the salutary effect of Sen's scholarship is to also illustrate just how much a function of our climes, our backgrounds, and our locations, our supposedly fixed and stable personalities are. Ranji just happens to have played a game which thrust him into the spotlight, and which made his struggles to stabilize his self an intensely public one.

Sen deserves the appreciation (and readership) of any cricket fan interested in understanding why cricketing politics and its attendant literature is such a rich, varied and complex business. This book is about a 19th century cricketer but it continues to illustrate the 21st century version of the game. Much has changed, but power and those who wield it, and resent its usurpation, are still players today.

	"I could have sworn Duleep Mendis' square-cutting and driving was the fiercest I'd ever seen in my life" © Getty Images

One of the things I promised myself I would do when I started writing on Cricinfo was to point out cricketing achievements that didn't seem to have been noticed enough by the cricketing world. I'm not sure I've done that adequately yet, but thought I'd make a start by talking about two Sri Lankan batsmen who played two of the most amazing innings I've ever seen: Roy Dias and Duleep Mendis. And they did it in the same Test.

I saw Dias and Mendis bat - on television at least - for the first time during Sri Lanka's first official Test against India at the MA Chidambaram Stadium, Madras, in September 1982. The monsoons had just ended in New Delhi but their traces remained: I was down with a viral fever. This meant I couldn't attend school, and would have to stay in bed. And be forced to watch Test cricket. Truly, it was a tragic time.

I knew enough about the Sri Lankans by then to know they weren't pushovers. They had handed India a crushing loss in the 1979 World Cup when they were (unfairly) regarded as minnows, and in their first ever Test, had put up a brave fight against England. Still, they were relative unknowns in my mind. I didn't know what to expect when the first day's play started.

To say that I was taken aback on the first day was an understatement. Mendis smashed 105 off 123 balls with 17 fours and a six. I could have sworn his square-cutting and driving was the fiercest I'd ever seen in my life. Indeed, I thought this short, burly man with bulging forearms would decapitate an Indian fielder or two by the time he was done. I had seen Viv Richards and Collis King batting in the 1979 World Cup final, but I was suddenly doubtful whether they hit the ball as hard as Mendis. Later that evening, when I was talking about the day's play with my uncles and brother, I struggled to explain just what a revelation his batting had been. The flair and style on display had been staggering.

The Sri Lankans might have been unknown, but they had suddenly created an indelible impression; they had rattled along on the first day, scoring 311 for 8, at a run-rate then unknown in Tests in India, before ending up with 346. India easily outstripped this relatively modest total and posted a 220-runs lead - they did have a strong batting line-up of their own.

Some time was lost to rain on the third day but the Lankans still faced a daunting task when they began their second innings on the fourth day. Matters quickly became worse as the first wicket fell with only six runs on the board. At this stage Dias walked out and launched into an amazing counterattack.

	Roy Dias on the attack © Wisden Cricket Monthly

The best way to describe this innings is to mention one simple statistic, which I've never forgotten, and never will: when his score reached 61, Dias had hit 15 boundaries. I've never seen that percentage approached by any batsman in any class of cricket for a score of over fifty since. The boundary rate slowed down thereafter, as did Dias. Finally, when he was out - almost sparking tears in me - at 97, the score was 157. The Sri Lankan second innings continued on the fifth day, and amazingly, Mendis hit a second ton as they went on to make 394 at four an over. India needed 175 to win as time started to run out, but were thrown into a spin by Asantha De Mel who grabbed a five-for to reduce them to 130 for 7 before Gavaskar batted out the last few overs to ensure a draw.

Phew. What an impression to make in your first Test against the local big league. And how. Thanks Duleep. Thanks Roy. I'll never forget those innings.

PS: Wisden disputes my memory of the Dias innings in saying "Dias scattered the Indian attack, reaching his 50 in 53 minutes with twelve 4s." By that calculation, he would have had to make 62 to include 15 boundaries and not 61. But this is one occasion where I trust myself more than the Almanack. Part of the reason Dias' innings sticks out in my mind is that it was always 'fours plus one', and I kept waiting with bated breath to see when he would score his second non-boundary run. And the reason I remember 61 so clearly is that that's when it happened. So I'll back myself against the Almanack. Only the scorer's sheet can settle this dispute.

Here is a question I'm often asked by people who know of my obsession with cricket: why don't you play cricket in the US? The answer to that is a little tricky and I struggle to express it clearly. It goes something like this: I prefer playing cricket in a context where the game fits in organically with the rest of its surroundings. I know this is not entirely rational, and I welcome feedback from folks who do play cricket in the US on how they experience the game here.

I've played cricket in India and Australia, and indeed, after arriving in the US some 22 years ago, played a few games at my university (with the usual grab-bag of Indian, Pakistani and West Indian students). Since then, I've never picked up a bat or ball in the US. And given my present location in Brooklyn, which is one of the hotbeds of cricketing activity in the US, this is a surprising business.

For, somehow, I do not feel a strong desire to play the game here. I often see students at Brooklyn College playing a quick game on the grounds; I often see Bangladeshi boys practicing close to Prospect Park, and more than once I've seen young men walking around with cricket kit bags on their way to a game. But I never feel the compulsion to walk up and ask for a bowl or a bat.

It’s not because I've become too old. In the intervening years, I've played cricket in Australia and will do again in Sydney this January. But I look forward to those games in a way that I don't in the US. When I played cricket in Australia, I was surrounded by the game and its trappings. Walking around in the city center in whites, carrying a cricket kit bag, felt normal. We played on city council grounds meant for cricket; during innings, as I relaxed on the sidelines with my team, we checked cricket scores on the radio; when games were over, we retired to pubs where we ran into other cricketers as Test cricket was shown on a big screen. And when I went to parties later at night, my other friends would ask me how the day's game went, and would respond appropriately when I told them of a duck or a four-for.

In short, cricket was everywhere, and we contributed to the big picture. In contrast, in the US (in a way well described in Joseph O'Neill's Netherland), cricket, despite being proudly played by large, important, immigrant communities, sticks out, and is played on sufferance. To play cricket meant participating in an oddity, something out of whack with its surroundings.

Perhaps the best way to explain this state of mind is to draw a parallel with my music tastes. I noticed on my trips back to India after living in the US that many artistes and genres that I was fond of listening to in the US, sounded discordant when listened to in India. In 1992, I played Ministry in my brother's living-room in Ambala, and quickly turned it off. Al Jourgensen felt jarring in those surroundings. And conversely I felt less comfortable with listening to Indian artistes and genres here in the US; somehow Pandit Jasraj didn't blend with Manhattan street sounds. It’s almost as if I needed an organic, seamless meshing between the music and its setting to become fully lost in the listening experience.

I know this is an entirely personal, idiosyncratic and possibly ill-founded reaction. But I cannot deny its presence in my decision to abstain from cricket in my present setting. It's not as if I decline invitations to play cricket; if I were to be asked, I would probably say yes, because, what the heck, it is cricket. It's just that I've never taken any active steps to play the game.

The music example is perhaps illuminative in other ways: cricket, as a game, has a cadence and a rhythm of its own, one that demands a certain location, a certain tuning with its setting. In the US, that co-relation has been missing on a deeply personal level. Perhaps, as the game grows, even if only in small ways, - like becoming a recognised school game in New York City - that adjustment will take place and I will be able to play my beloved game in my adopted home.

Everyone is talking about The Oval, so I might as well get into the act.
But not by talking about the fifth Ashes test, but about a match that took
place 38 years ago. The 1971 Oval Test remains the only Test match whose
scores are committed to my memory. England 355 all out. India 284 all out.
England 101 all out. India 174 for 6. India wins by six wickets as Abid Ali
hits the winning runs. India's first Test win in England.

It’s a little strange, really. I didn't see this match live (or even hear
any radio commentary). The only parts of it that I've seen on television
highlight reels are those clips that feature BS Chandrasekhar's 6 for 38 (one of
those few Indian bowling figures that I also know by heart). It just
happens to be one of those matches that is hard to forget, whose memories,
by virtue of being so frequently imprinted by the written word, are now
locked away securely, impervious to the ravages of time.

But I've seen a little bit more this weekend. And a tiny video clip
reminds me of how much the cricketing world has changed. And what makes
this clip puzzling is that it is not clear to me whether the change is for
the better or worse.

Pay attention, then, if you will, to the closing moments of this Test in this linked YouTube
video, pay attention from 3:15 onwards. India need two runs to win.
It's 170 for 4. Farokh Engineer and Ali are at the crease. After hearing out
Engineer's advice that he stay calm and knock off the single required, Ali
square cuts for four. As the crowd invades the pitch, the players scramble
for the pavilion, but only after the obligatory scramble for stumps.

Here is where things get interesting. Ali is rushing off, but without a
stump, and so, tries to take a stump from Alan Knott, presuming that stumps are
victor's booty. Knott, however, is having none of it, and a little tugging
match ensues (there are some verbals but obviously, we can't hear those).
Finally, Ali, who was not expecting this resistance, turns and sprints for
the bowler’s end, where the stumps are still standing. Knott turns and gives
the stump to the umpire coming up behind him. After this, the video shifts
to scenes of the milling crowd carrying Engineer on their shoulders, and
then cuts to a black and white photograph of the Indian team. I do not
know what happened to Ali and whether he managed to get himself a
little souvenir.

I've played and replayed this little clip and still don't know what to
make of it. I know a similar scene would not occur today. For one thing, a
losing team simply does not bother with the stumps. Secondly, it is hard
to imagine a losing team's player actually resisting a winning team's
player's attempts to obtain a trophy even if the stump happened to be in
his possession. It is even more unlikely that the player, having
successfully resisted the invading marauder, would then turn around and
hand the stump over to the umpire.

So, what was Knott up to? Was he disapproving of the process of
trophy-grabbing? Was he simply collecting stumps to make sure they didn't
go to the crowd? Would Knott have resisted an Australian player's
attempts to obtain a trophy? Were crowd invasions a new enough thing in
England at the time that the "right thing" for Knott to do was to make
sure they stayed with the umpires after the game was over?

These questions might seem trivial, but answers to them would be useful I
think, in figuring out English players' perceptions of various opposition
teams, the proprieties of souvenir hunting, the changes in crowd behavior
as a function of the success of teams other than Australia in England, and
lastly, the changing standards of player behavior on the field (on what
was considered proper and what wasn't).

Knott's actions appeared to be petty and ungenerous to me, but perhaps he
knew of no other way to react, and perhaps my perception of his actions as
such, reveal a great deal of how much the cricket world has changed since
that memorable day in 1971.

Yesterday, on my personal blog, Eye on Cricket, I penned my 1000th post. In a comment offered in congratulation, one of my readers complained about the excessive use of cliches in sports journalism. To use a nineties Brooklynism, word.

One persistent complaint of mine is the East versus West cliche in cricket journalism. A glaring display of this came in the aftermath of Pakistan's World Twenty20 win (I'm not referring to any particular article for these sentiments were present all over the place). In this art versus science view of cricket, Pakistan's victory in the World Twenty20 was a triumph for flair over persistence (this sentiment was especially on display after the semi-final win over South Africa). While believing this story about the modern cricketing game would certainly aid in the construction of a narrative that says 'unpredictable, divine genius' will always trump 'solid, old-fashioned, mechanical competence', it did nothing to help us understand South Africa's loss to Pakistan from a cricketing perspective.

Pakistan beat South Africa in the Twenty20 semi-final because, in fact, they did certain very ordinary cricketing things better. They had the better spin bowlers on a turning track (how extremely unpredictable to pick good spinners and bowl them on a track that turns) and they had a better exponent of reverse swing in their bowling line-up (how delightfully erratic to have a reverse-swing bowler saved up for when the ball gets a little older). Pakistan's batting was not particularly different from the Twenty20 efforts of many other teams: an opener that flails away in the opening Powerplay, a hard-hitting allrounder, some canny single collection when the pace went ever so slightly off the ball.

Pakistan played better cricket and won. There was nothing mysterious, or oriental, or wholly unpredictable about their cricket. South Africa did not match up to the Pakistani spinners and to Umar Gul's dead-set accurate bowling. If Gul had been an Englishman or a South African, everyone would have been raving about how his bowling spell reflected a "canny, pragmatic, level-headed, strangulation of the opposition."

But because this young lad possesses a Pakistani passport, suddenly he becomes a poster child for the dark arts. It is not surprising then that when so much of what he does is classified as mysterious and strange, that he suddenly becomes the dusky assassin, mysteriously strangling the white explorers in his part of the world's cricketing jungles, and provoking complaints by the New Zealand cricket captain.

I'm not sure cricketing teams from 'that part of the world' are done any favours by the maintenance of this mystery about the game they play. It aids in the construction of a narrative where Indian, Pakistani and Sri Lankan cricketers are representatives of the Strange East, all dazzle and no substance, who do no hard work to master the skills of this difficult game, who have no tactical nous. That virtue seems to be reserved for the science side of the aisle, inhabited by dour, businesslike Englishmen, South Africans and Australians, all grit and no flair apparently, who don't play cricket as much as execute a business plan in their flannels.
This description of their cricket is no less an injustice, disregarding as it does the very real dazzle that they are able to bring to their cricketing performances.

These descriptions of a supposed divide in the way cricket is played and understood and mastered by its various exponents worldwide have some truth to them, just because players from different parts of the cricket world do display some differences in their approach to, and execution of, cricketing skills. But to insist on it as a lens through which the cricketing world must be viewed is to ultimately do disservice to talented and hard-working cricketers. Their cricketing skill, rather than being viewed as the understandable result of what happens when perspiration meets inspiration, is lost in the rush to shoehorn it into a tired old storyline about the Pragmatic West versus the Mysterious East.

To this list, one must add, "alone, slumped in a work chair, in front of a nineteen-inch flat screen monitor." Well, at least, that is how I watch a lot of cricket these days. On broadband video, at home (the work connection is a little slow, unfortunately). And in general, these pleasures of cricket watching are experienced in splendid isolation.

When the hours are right, I can turn on the speakers and enjoy the sensation of the crackle of crowd sounds and commentators permeating the ambience of my apartment, otherwise, when the timezones are not favorable, I have to slip on a pair of headphones and enter further the illusion of being confined to a tiny sphere, my activities incomprehensible to most around me. Nothing confirms my sense of isolation as an immigrant, an exile in the world of cricket, quite like that feeling which steals over
me when India play their home games, when my hours of vigil commence just
as my wife turns out the lights and goes to bed, and I stay up in the living room, headphones strapped on, struggling to stay awake, as a cricket game goes on, thousands of miles away.

But watching cricket like this is a frustrating business. Because those that watch cricket games like to talk about it, to offer an opinion, to do both in real time, and sometimes, to even listen to what other folks might have to say. In the old days, even if I watched part of a game alone at home, I was guaranteed conversation about it if I stepped out on the
street, or on the university bus the next morning.

This role, obviously, has now been taken up by the internet, with all its attendant mixed blessings. Like legions of graduate students in the 90s, I whiled away many hours on rec.sport.cricket, delaying a dissertation and a healthier bank balance for the love of cricket. I finally left in 1995, exhausted by the flaming and the inevitable recycling of discussions. A few years later, living in Australia meant a return to the pleasures of off-line conversations about cricket, to the day-after office conversation, the discussions of scores throughout the day.

But that relief was temporary and soon I found myself back in the world of the polite New York Times references to cricket, the late-night telecasts of World Cups, and the social query of "You're really into cricket, aren't you? How come you guys wear so much body armor?"

Under these circumstances, starting blogging was a non-brainer. I began in 2004, got nowhere, tried again in 2005, and only made some headway in 2006. But blogging has not removed all of the isolation; I still detect in the writing of bloggers, writing from cricket playing lands, a level of connection with the game that I do not always experience. Sometimes the disconnection is mundane: I'm not always as familiar with all of the world's players that folks exposed to more telecasts are. Sometimes it is about failing to catch a mood: I've been assured by many friends that I would not be able to resist the IPL fever if I was back in India. There is a distancing from the game that is not always physical.

But like many other aspects of my stranded position, I've come to appreciate this place, set slightly apart from the cricketing world. It lets me offer a slightly different perspective, an alternative take, if you will, on cricketing affairs. The value of that perspective, admittedly, is sometimes only visible to me (as the comments section assures me). Still, it offers one more viewing panel, and in our more generous moments, I'm reasonably sure we could acknowledge that wasn't such a bad thing.

But at most times, the isolation is a chilling one. Hooping and hollering at a computer monitor is a strange business at best; dashing off a few words on a keyboard for an instant display of one’s emotions on a blog takes some of the edge off that jonesing for an audience, but not all. When it comes down to it, there is still nothing quite like having a fellow fan at hand to receive, amplify, and enhance, one's immediate, unvarnished take on a game of cricket.

I'd stand accused (and rightly so) of being an utterly naive fool were I to say that I had not anticipated some of the comments section flaming that followed on the heels of my post about Ricky Ponting. But that doesn't make it any less depressing. I'm not counting the posts here that simply criticized Ponting as a captain, batsman or whatever; I mean the posts that were pointedly personal or generalized remarks about the respective countries' teams, players and fans. The India-Australia bickerfest shows no sign of abating, and while it might provide the occasional entertaining moment, it is by and large, a very unedifying business.

Now, I have gotten into net spats myself. I have not followed the simple policy of thinking long and hard about whether I really want to post the angry retort that I've just typed up. I'm a flame war veteran, and will be the first to acknowledge that I've exploited the anonymity the Internet affords when it comes to online disagreements. But in the particular context of the India-Australia rivalry, there is a certain line I don't cross (or at least, I hope I haven't), and the reason for that is quite simple.

I have Australian friends. Most of whom are passionate cricket fans. Very knowledgeable ones. And I love discussing cricket with them. They know their cricketing history, they are very appreciative of Indian cricketers. I've lived in Australia for two years and played cricket with Australians and loved every single minute of it. This winter (the southern summer) I will travel to Sydney again and hopefully play a game again with my old team.

In these circumstances, there is no way I can bring myself to negatively generalize about the country, its cricket teams, fans or the cricketing culture. If I've ever done it in the heat of the moment, I've regretted it deeply.

So in that spirit, I'd like to make a simple suggestion as the fourth Ashes Test gets underway. I might be accused of being cheesy but I'll take that risk.

Find a way to watch a game with a fan from the Other Side. This won't be easy for Indians in India, but if you're a member of the Great Diaspora, try and find an Aussie expat and a venue for cricket watching. If you're an Aussie, you won't have a hard time finding an Indian cricket fan in your town. Find a pub that shows the game, buy a few rounds of pots, middies or schooners (or whatever the standard measure happens to be in your state) of beer, and watch a game of cricket together.

It's hard to be rude and offensive when you have to do it in person. It's easier to listen when the other person is talking face to face to you. And it's harder to generalize when there is a concrete counterexample to your generalization sitting in front of you.

The India-Australia relationship in cricket is a special one. On the cricketing field, it has provided some of the best cricket of recent years. Indian fans know their history and their game. So do the Aussies. This constant puerile flaming online does no one any credit. The rivalry is intense sure, and I've even joked about it here, but really, does everything need to get so personal?

And besides, the Ashes are on, and there is a Common Enemy to confront! If that doesn't bring us together, what can?

Question: What do a snowball in hell and an Indian fan of Ricky Ponting have in common?

Answer: They are both non-existent entities.

Yes, that is an exaggeration. But such hyperbole captures one uncomfortable fact about the Australian captain: he is not popular among many, many cricket fans all over the world. Given that Indian fans make up a majority of the world's cricket fans, it's a fair call to say he isn't a very popular man in the world of cricket. So as a corrective, I'd like to offer a tribute to Ricky Ponting on the occasion of his having surpassed Allan Border's run aggregate in Tests. And I do not for a second think that I'm alone, even amongst Indians, in holding these opinions of Ponting.

The truth of the matter is that Ponting is one of Test cricket's best batsmen of all time, has been one of its most entertaining, dynamic and attacking batsmen for the last 14 years, and is a superb fielder to boot. He has been a classically Australian cricketer: an aggressive, purposeful batsman who loves, besides all the fierce cuts and drives in his repertoire, two quintessentially Australian shots: the hook and the pull, and is a great slip catcher and a quality patroller of any part of the cricket field he happens to be placed in. I have never seen a boring innings by him (yes, I'm including the ones where he has struggled against spin), for Ponting is attacking down to the core of his being when he has a bat in his hand.

One innings that always stands out in my mind's eye was the first one I saw him play in a Test match. It was a little gem of 88, played at Brisbane in the first test of the 1996-97 series against the West Indies. Matthew Elliott had gone early for a duck and Ponting strode out to face Ambrose, Walsh and Bishop for the first time in a Test (it was the fifth of Ponting's career). Taylor and Ponting added 126 runs for the second wicket; Taylor's contribution was 39. Ponting's innings was full of his flashing pulls, hooks and squaredrives; but he had to work for it.
There were edges through slips aplenty and some evasion as well. It was a classic, hard-fought session of test cricket which continued after lunch.

The West Indian quicks pressed for another breakthrough but to no avail. I watched it utterly spellbound; Ambrose and company could have broken through that morning and wrested the initiative early in the series but a youngster had resisted and counterattacked.

There was a buzz while Ponting was at the crease. Part of it had to do with his restless, shuffling, body language, one that suggests early vulnerability in his innings (especially when he appears to fall over as he plays across), but which later, is more indicative of a coiled energy
waiting to strike. Once he left, Australia buckled to be 5 for 196 before the old firm of Waugh and Healy bailed them out again.

Over the years, Ponting has lived up to his early promise (Ian Chappell was one of those talking up this new Tasmanian Bradman in his debutant days). While small weaknesses have been found by opponents over the years, such as against high-quality swing (but really, who doesn't have a weakness against this?) and offspin, he still remains a quality batsman, one to be feared, whose wicket is prized over any other by the opposition when they play Australia.

He has hit purple patches (like those double tons against India in the 2004 series), he has hit lows (like those off-spinning blues in the 2001 series against India), and as Australia
struggles in the post-McGrath-Warne-Langer-Waugh-Hayden era, he has struggled too.

Still, whatever his problems as a captain, and a communicator, and he has quite a few in that regard, I have nothing but admiration for him as a batsman and fielder. I like watching him when he steps on to the field; he is, as he might like to hear, "very good value."

It has been a long time since I've felt genuine affection for an English cricketer. More precisely, since David Gower and Ian Botham packed up their kitbags and left. Freddie Flintoff stepped into the breach, and despite my initial viewing of him as a drunken soccer oaf, he managed to impress me with his ability to ratchet up the atmosphere in a Test match with his justifiably famous spells, to be combative with batsmen while not descending into puerile abusiveness, to hit the ball hard and long, and with all those other ineffable qualities that make disbelievers into
Freddie fans. Flintoff evokes feelings in me that remind me of my childhood following of cricket.

But in all of this, I have never considered Flintoff a 'great' cricketer just like I never considered many other darlings of mine (like Kim Hughes for instance) to be greats. And it dismays me to see that term thrown about so freely in this Ashes summer as the English media gear up, almost hopefully, for a final orgy of Freddie-anointing. Good yes, talented yes, mercurial yes, brilliant to watch yes. But great? No.

If one is to believe the emanations of the English press after the Lord's Test, it is possible for a bowler to be called great despite possessing the mediocre statistics that Flintoff does (he has, I might like to remind readers, not even taken three wickets per test over his career), for a player to be called a great Ashes performer despite leading his side to a 0-5 whitewash at the hands of the Great Enemy (and visibly losing all control of his team as the series wore on), for an allrounder to be called great despite only being able to swing an occasional match in favour of England with his bowling and batting.

While statistics do lie on occasion, there is something to be said for reserving the adjective 'great' for those cricketers able to maintain and sustain a high level of cricketing performance over an extended period of time. To call Flintoff a 'great' Test cricketer is to admit him to an exclusive club whose membership has taken far more work, dedication, skill and longevity on the part of its members than Freddie has been able to show.

Flintoff's famous injuries have managed to obscure the fact that he has not taken smart decisions with his body, in choosing to play certain games and not others. The Flintoff legend makes these injuries sound like the fates conspiring against him, a biological conspiracy of sorts. But reality is a little more prosaic than that.

Cricket fans are familiar with the archetypal figure of the talented-but-not-great cricketer: men who showed dazzling displays of brilliance but were unable to sustain it over their careers. These men provoke passionate defenses on the part of their fans that typically take the form of "You say X is a great cricketer but I'd rather watch a short innings by Y any day" and so on. These men encourage a disdain for statistics, for the stories the scoreboards and record books tell.

Flintoff will always prompt such defenses and it is tribute to him that he does so. I have defended him in similar fashion on my blog in the past. But I've done so knowing the charges against him have contained a kernel of truth.

A great cricketer leaves his mark on the game over an extended period of time, by performing well at home and away, by setting standards (yes, statistical ones too) for others to try and emulate, by being a pioneer in some fashion. Flintoff has come close to doing some of these things but he is not there yet.

Flintoff will always be remembered as a wonderfully exciting cricketer that managed to make a couple of Ashes series played in England the stage for some great cricketing theatre. But the rest of his career, his away performances, his inconsistency, his early retirement from test cricket, will ensure that he will not be considered a great cricketer - at least in the eyes of many folks who don't write for English newspapers.

	'I don't think sports teams should be using war cemeteries as venues for training' © Getty Images

I come from a military family (more precisely, of air force pilots). Thus, I'm generally inclined to agree with sentiments of recognition directed towards the service of war veterans, the commemoration of the war dead, and more broadly, with a sympathetic take on folks who serve in the military. Still, I would be lying if I did not say that both the Australian team's visit to Gallipoli in 2001, and the English team's visit to Flanders yesterday filled me with some unease.

What bothers me about these trips is the idea that paying a visit to war cemeteries or memorials is a "bonding exercise" for sportsmen about to engage in a major sporting encounter. This notion is deeply problematic on two counts.

First, it encourages a facile identification between sport and war (note, I'm not saying the visits do it - they just encourage it). This identification has already infected sports journalism - what with its language of "sporting battlefields", "fierce battles", "thrashings", "humiliating defeats", "gallant resistance", language that is the stuff of headlines and which often makes me cringe. Some of the borrowing of this language is unavoidable; I'm sure it slips into my blogging as well.
After all, sports is a competitive encounter with winners and losers; war is a "competitive encounter" as well. But there the similarity should end.

The terrible realities of war are a far cry from even the fiercest sporting rivalry. Rick McCosker, broken jaw and all, would be the first one to acknowledge that his "battle" with the English pacemen in the 1977 Centenary Test bore as much resemblance to war as a passing shower bears to a category five hurricane. Given this dissimilarity, it would be nice if all of us could ease up on the "sport is war" analogy-making. It dangerously elevates passions in sport, and it trivializes an activity that is perhaps mankind's most terrible invention. No matter how fierce the 2009 Ashes will be, they are tiddlywinks compared to war. (Cue Keith Miller's comments on pressure here).

Secondly, at the risk of sounding like an old conservative fart, I don't think sports teams should be using war cemeteries as venues for training. Whatever the expressed emotion, these visits are clearly some coach's brainchild, part of a strategy to prepare a team for a game. But if you visit a cemetery, come to pay your respects and nothing else. Do not use the cemeteries as a means to an end, to facilitate some sort of organizational success. Who wouldn't find it tacky if we heard a corporate board was visiting Ypres as a bonding exercise, as part of a day-long "strategy planning retreat"?

If you feel your wards are in need of a little maturity, and should appreciate that no matter how tough their lives, other young men had it much, much worse, then encourage them on their own time to visit war museums and other memorials and read some history (perhaps buy them all a copy of John Keegan's The Face of Battle). But this programmed, publicised with photo-ops package tour, which uses the graves of thousands of men as part of an elaborate training routine is lacking in some desperately needed good taste.

By all means, pay your respects to the men who died in distant lands, often fighting for causes they only dimly understood. By all means acknowledge the horrendous toll in life that wars have exacted, and remember the men who could not have full productive lives, and the families who lost them. But to be truly respectful to them, leave your agendas out of it. Especially if those are part of a new-wave sports coaching plan.

Yesterday, Mike Holmans found the singing of the national anthems before the Women's Twenty20 final tear-inducing. And a week or so ago, Rob Steen wrote that the singing of the national anthems before the WC T20 games was a "tacky and transparent attempt to assert the primacy of the international game". But Rob is also someone, I think, who would like the primacy of the international game to be maintained (if I'm mistaken, please correct me). As someone who quite likes the national anthem ritual before sporting encounters, I feel obliged to throw in my tuppence.

Perhaps part of the reason Rob does not like the performance of the national anthem is because it is an overtly nationalistic gesture (in a time when a prima facie reaction to nationalism is that it is pretty darn unfashionable). Perhaps the disagreement is just about tactics. Rob might want to assert the primacy of the international game, he just doesn't want it done via the national anthem route. Fair enough. But I'd like to argue that national anthems aren't tacky and transparent and in fact, when it comes to trying to frame the international game in terms of some pomp and circumstance, it's a very good option (compared to the alternatives we have).

Now, I'm in an odd position when it comes to speaking up on behalf of national anthems. I don't live in my country of birth; while I stand for the US anthem at public events where it is played, I don't do the hand-over-the-heart routine; and in general, I dislike sanctimonious patriotic clap-trap as much as anyone else. So what is the deal?

Quite simply, I like national anthems before international sporting encounters, for quasi-aesthetic reasons, if they form part of a relatively simple nod to nationalist sentiment before the game (i.e., I'm not in favour of trotting out war veterans, politicians, screaming jets lighting their afterburners, parades etc). National anthems hush the crowd momentarily, which is always a good thing for getting the atmosphere of tension and anticipation just right; they remind everyone present that this game is played by national representatives; for spectators, national anthems can be marvelously evocative, largely because of childhood memories I suspect, in a way that other nationalist gestures simply aren't; and lastly players get a kick out of the anthems because it sets up the prizefighter-chomping-at-the-bit imagery quite well.

Compared to other nationalist gestures, the national anthem is relatively tasteful: some of them are harmless little ditties about how beautiful the respective countries are, which isn't too far from the truth, really, if you think about it; some are slightly triumphalist but I don't think any of the cricketing nations anthems do too badly on that account. For instance, Jana Mana Gana; Quami Tarana; Advance Australia Fair; God Defend New Zealand; the South African hybrid of Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika and The Call of South Africa etc are relatively harmless and unlikely to cause offence. Indeed, the people most likely to complain about these national anthems are folks from their respective countries themselves because they find them boring or archaic or whatever.

And my attitude is that if it doesn't cause offence, and it helps to assert the primacy of the international game, then I'm all for it. Because one thing we don't have too much of these days are attempts to do just that. And international cricket needs it. Just like it needed this great Twenty20 World Cup.

	Batsmen, and not the batting order, should be flexible in the approach to a match situation © Getty Images

It is not my intention here to offer a full-fledged post-mortem of India's early exit from the ICC World Twenty20. All I would like to do is to point out a mistaken emphasis in India's planning for its batting line-up. Which is that the Indian captain seems to think that flexibility in approaching match situations is achieved by changing the batting order. I'd like to suggest that the flexibility should inhere in the batsmen themselves, and not in the order in which they are sent in.

That is, a cricket team should concentrate on making sure the batsmen in the batting order are flexible in their approaches to a particular match situation. If you are a No. 3, and an early wicket falls, you play a little differently than you do if there are a hundred runs on the board. If you are a No. 6, and the team is in trouble, as opposed to looking for a declaration, you bat a little differently. And so on.

Yes, I know, its obvious. But if it's so obvious, then why can't the Indian team settle into a stable batting order, with instructions to its members that read, "When you go out to play, keep in mind the match situation and play accordingly?" Why, instead, does the standing rule appear to be "We'll send in different batsmen in every game, depending on how things are panning out in the middle?" The latter doesn't seem to indicate great confidence in the batting order's ability to be flexible and capable of raising their level depending on a given match situation. And a batting line-up that is not capable of responding to a variety of match situations doesn't sound like a very good side.

I realised, with a little start of surprise, as this World Cup went on, that I have absolutely no idea of what the Indian batting order, is, or has been, for a while. I've associated Sehwag and Gambhir with the opening position. The rest is a bit of a blur. Who is our No. 3? Who is our No. 6? I have no clue. Do the batsmen in the team know which position they will be playing in on a given day? Sure, sending them in at different positions challenges them. But why not give them stability in their expectations of where they are to play and instead demand adaptiveness in their responses to match situations?

The game of cricket throws many, many, variants at its players. The good teams adapt and alter their game in response (as do the good players). The Indian team has the right idea. But the tactic it has chosen, that of constantly chopping and changing the order, is backwards. Make a player own a position, and tell him he needs to change as the game demands. He
will be a better player for it; and the team, having established some stability in one part of its tactical arsenal, can get on with planning around it. Having to decide, before every single game, what the batting order is to be is an unnecessary increase in workload for both captain and coach. A relatively stable batting order would be one step towards enabling a greater focus on improving cricketing skills (such as fielding and playing the short-pitched ball, for instance). Which really seems to be where the Indian team's attentions should be directed at this point in
time.

A couple of weeks ago, I announced my intention to give this year's IPL a go, i.e., to try and see if I could get myself to support a team in cricket that was not a national representative side. I picked two teams: the Delhi Daredevils, because, I'm from Delhi (I still say that even though I left 'home in 1987), and Kings XI Punjab, because, well, my last name says so. I went for hometown and ethnic affiliation. I bought myself a broadband video package that gives me live telecasts,replays and highlights of all the games. I even baited Mumbai fans, just to get myself pumped up.

I'm not sure that all of this has worked for me. The first indication of this came in the Delhi vs. Chennai game on May 2nd. Delhi were chasing Chennai's 163, and to be honest, I was getting into the swing of things. After Dilshan fell with the score at 53, Dinesh Karthik and David Warner came together, and seemed to be taking Delhi toward Chennai's total. Both were batting well, and victory looked within sight. And since both players are not Delhi locals, my support for them could be seen to be a reasonably good indicator of the IPL's ability to overcome my desire to have just homegrown folks playing for my hometowns team. Of course, I've admired Karthik as a player for the Indian team (and even had high hopes he would find a permanent place in the side) so I'm sure that played some part in my perceptions of the situation.

But something interesting happened in the 16th over. Shadab Jakati, a young Goan spinner, who had already impressed me by bowling Dilshan with a beauty, was in action, and after being hit for two fours by Karthik, came on to bowl to Warner. At that moment, rather than wishing that Delhi continue their charge, I found myself cheering for the Indian youngster
against the Australian newbie. Suddenly, my desire to see Delhi, supposedly my team, beat Chennai, was eclipsed my desire to see an Indian spinner put one over the Aussie bludgeoner. When Jakati had Warner stumped, I was delighted. Guile had done in power, always a good result to see in Twenty20, and an Indian lad had done in an Aussie one. National pride had poked its head up.

Delhi lost the game, and I went back to being disappointed when locals Manhas, Sangwan and Bhatia all failed to support Karthik adequately. Somehow, in the midst of a Delhi-Chennai game, Id managed to let an India-Australia matchup distract me.

And then of course, there was the Delhi-Mumbai game; if there was a game I should have been able to get excited about, it was this one. But somehow, at the end, when Delhi had won, it was hard to convince myself that we had put one over the old enemy. Indeed, I couldn't even bring myself to send a gloat or two to my Mumbai friends (the ones who cared about the result, that is). I'm really not sure why this was the case, and to date, I'm no closer to understanding why a Delhi-Mumbai game didn't get me riled up. Was it because I don't think these are 'real' Delhi and Mumbai outfits? I've heard some Mumbai fans disown this unit as just "Ambani's lot", and yet others say "A Mumbai team is a Mumbai team". But I do know that my reactions on beating Mumbai in a Ranji game would not have been as muted as they were in beating them in their IPL matchup.

So the IPL's charms haven't worked on me as yet. Perhaps if I was matching the games with friends in tow, my reactions would have been different. It's hard to get really excited about an IPL game when you are watching it alone at home on a 19-inch monitor. The lack of such company (noted in the comments section in my last post on the IPL by reader Anabayan) is crucial, and it will be the subject of my next post.

I've just finished reading Golden Boy: Kim Hughes and the Bad Old Days of Australian Cricket , Christian Ryan's biography of Kim Hughes and have a few thoughts to offer (to add to Michael Jeh's piece). First off, this is a good read. Ryan writes fluently, and conveys the sheer physicality of cricketing action remarkably well. There are many colorful turns of phrase, and they are all needed when describing a) a cricketer as interesting as Hughes and b) a cricketing culture as hard-boiled as the Aussie one. Ryan's English is unmistakably Australian, with its directness and verve, and he has done well to construct the book as a kind of oral history, based on extensive interviews with many of the participants--players, coaches, journalists--in the Hughes saga.

I've always wondered whether my unbridled admiration of Hughes's dazzling, fleet-footed strokeplay was an aberration and I'm glad to find out that other kids (including some that went on to become Test cricketers) thought just as highly of his dancing down the pitch, his cover driving on bended knee, and his luscious pulling and hooking of the world's best fast bowlers. It's a pleasure to read about the three Test innings played by Hughes that have entered cricketing lore as all-time classics: the 213 at Adelaide vs India in the 1980-81 series, the 100* at Melbourne against the West Indies during the 1981-82 series, and the 84 against England during the 1980 Centenary Test at Lords. If you like extravagant strokeplay, you should buy the book just for the photographs of Hughes batting in the Centenary Test. There is one photograph in particular, that will leave you breathless, and wondering "How the hell does someone play that?" (If you are curious, go to Patrick Eagar's website, search for Kim Hughes, and browse; you'll know when you hit it).

When it comes to describing the bad old days of Australian cricket, the Chappell-Lillee-Marsh saga of relentless conspiracy and non-cooperation is depressing but in the end, it is just one component of a larger dysfunctionality in Aussie cricket at the time. Ryans most salutary contribution to Australian cricket writing is debunk some persistent Aussie myths about the cricketing scene (besides mateship). No one who reads this book will ever again believe that when it comes to sledging, what happens on the ground stays on the ground, and that folks just shake hands after a game and make up (at the least, such feelings about on-ground conflicts don't seem to be universally held amongst Australians). At times, in Ryan's telling, Australian cricket seemed to have as much factionalism as Indian cricket, and that's saying something. But it is no surprise to find out just how badly cricketers were treated by administrators. At times, one marvels at the sheer feudalism of crickets managers.

As I wrote to Christian earlier today, there is an interesting book waiting to be written about the relentless image construction of Australian cricketing lore and history, as conducted by CA/ACB/PBL/NineMSN et al over the last 20-25 years. The souvenirs hawked on Channel 9 are just one part of it. Christian has already contributed to this process with his revelatory article on the singing of Under the Southern Cross and it's place in dressing-room post-match rituals. Next in line should be a piece on the mythology of the baggy green, which Ryan alludes to in the book, which Ian Chappell has already sought to dispel, and which might, in many ways, be by far the hardest to do.

Kim Hughes was not a simple man; he had many personal and cricketing faults. But in full flight, he was a sight to behold, and brought pleasure to many cricket spectators, including a young Indian schoolboy in India in 1979, who intends to write a blog post describing that obsession in the next couple of days. Ryan has written a book as only a fan of Hughes the batsman could, as one who struggles to understand why the glory of a an epic innings is not consonant with the considerably less glamorous facts of the politics of cricket. I'm glad he has written this book; I hope he has others in store.

In a couple of days, I'm going to try a little experiment. I'm going to declare my allegiance to two cricket teams I've never given a damn about before and see if it gets me all worked up.

My loyalties as a cricket spectator are directed toward supporting India and Delhi. The former for all international games and the latter for domestic cricket; it has worked so far. For games involving other teams, a variety of other factors have always gelled to enable the identification of a clear-cut favorite. Growing up it meant the West Indies and Australia, two teams whose style of cricket promised plenty of attack and aggression. Later, it meant supporting the plucky Kiwis during their glory run in the 1980s. I cheered for the South Africans when they returned in the 1990s; it was an improbable return and demanded recognition. I cheered for Pakistan when Zaheer, Asif, Majid and Imran were my heroes. In domestic cricket, as in international cricket, the villains and the heroes were clearly defined: bold, bustling Delhi against those stodgy, tiffin-packing Bombay-wallahs. I identified with the Delhi players; they had gone to colleges I had heard about, they played in clubs with names that were familiar from the local newspapers. Heck, I even knew where they had grown up.

Last year, during the IPL's inaugural season, I found myself not caring about any of the teams performances. I didn't really care who won or lost, even though there was a Delhi team in the tournament. How could I ever get excited about it if true-blue locals weren't involved? Even though the Delhi team was largely made up of Delhi players, something about the overseas hires made it a bit fake. Part of the problem was that I hadn't subscribed for a broadcast package and so only read about the scores and the action after the games. The highlights seemed over-accelerated; the razzle-dazzle a bit jarring. But most importantly, where was all the nationalistic fervor that seemed to mark serious international cricket? Without it, cricket seemed to have lost a bit of bite. Sure, it was interesting to note Delhi players running up to McGrath and Asif to congratulate them on a wicket. But the tension of the games seemed artificial; how serious about the games could these players be, I thought, if an international game wasn't on the line?

I've lived for 21 years on the East Coast of the US, and have clear-cut favorites in all the New York teams: the Giants, the Jets, the Yankees, the Mets, the Knicks. But the constant rotation of players, the clear knowledge that these are players who could be playing somewhere else next year because of a better contractual deal ensures on my part a certain lack of attachment (and as a result, I don't buy into the contrived intra-New York rivalry either). Manny Ramirez should be playing for New York; he is from Washington Heights. But he plays for Los Angeles (and before that, for the RedSox!). Try as I might to reconcile myself with this fact intellectually, at some emotional level it means that I don't really get upset about the games' results. As someone pointed out a long time ago, cheering for large professional franchises in sport is a bit like cheering for Ford v. Chrysler.

But still, perhaps the city-based-professional-mercenary league is a good thing. Perhaps this detachment is required from the game. To be honest, after the incessantly nasty India-Australia spats of 2007-8, it was a bit of a relief to not have so many controversies lingering over every single game. And players play the game hard because they have professional pride and a competitive instinct (the hard-fought games in the EPL, the NFL or whatever else bear adequate testimony to this fact). Certainly, the IPL's games didn't seem to lack competitiveness; that I didn't get into them didn't mean the games weren't played hard and contested right down to the last ball.

So this year, I've gone ahead and purchased a broadband video package for the IPL. Ill try and cheer for the Delhi Daredevils and the Kings XI Punjab. I don't know if I'll get into it; I don't know if I'll be heartbroken if the Delhi Daredevils lose to the Mumbai Whatchmacallits. But it's worth a shot.

I do know one thing: I'll care much more about the T20 World Cup. And I'm still happy about the fact that in cricket, unlike any other sport, the bilateral international encounter still remains the pinnacle of the game.

Given the large number of responses to my previous post, I thought it only fair that I write some sort of response. I've tried to organize this into a series of questions and answers. More broadly, I would say that it doesn't really matter what my (or anyone else's) background is when it comes to writing on cricket or on anything else. What needs evaluation is the argument, not the person making the argument. Anyway, here we go.

1. You're just drawing on the benefits of hindsight. Why didn't you say this before? Actually, I did. On the third day of the Test before tea-time, I wrote in Eye-on-Cricket, "I'm glad that it has rained a bit at the Basin Reserve. And I hope someone has pointed out to MS Dhoni that it'll get darker an hour sooner there. For hopefully, this lunatic suggestion going around that India should just keep on batting, and batting and batting will die the quick death it deserves. Get the lead to 500 and declare, and give yourself time and plenty of runs on the board to set attacking fields and get the 20 wickets to win. Why imagine the Basin Reserve will remain sunny and dry till the end of the fifth day? And if you don't think you can win despite setting a target of 500 I'd suggest a hunt for the proverbial chullu-bhar". I followed this up with a post on the fourth day as well. I had hoped for a declaration on the third day. When India batted on, I gave them the benefit of the doubt, thinking that NZ might not have batted anyway, given the poor light. Perhaps they could declare overnight? But I also thought, that at most, please at most, don't bat more than an hour. In the end, India batted on for some 90 minutes. I had a bad feeling then, given the clouds hovering around over the Basin Reserve and given the light situation. Just a reminder, once again: India was up by 231 runs with nine wickets in hand at the end of the second day.

2. What would you have said if New Zealand would have chased down the 500? My post above should give the game away. Those of North Indian origin will recognize the reference in the last line of the post I quoted above (for the benefit of others, I was saying something like "you should drown yourself in a thimble-full of water if you can't defend 500 in the fourth
   innings"). I would have said the Indian bowlers were pathetic, that the fielders needed catching practice, because almost certainly some dropped catches would have helped the NZ team, and quite possibly I would have lambasted Dhoni's field placings, because he might have contributed to the disaster by panicky field settings. I would have also have congratulated
   the Kiwis for pulling off the well-nigh impossible. I wouldn't have criticized the declaration, that's for sure. I like attacking declarations.

3. History is irrelevant to what will happen in the future, surely? In the strict sense, yes. However, there is a reason why teams don't make big scores chasing in the fourth innings. The pressure factor is qualitatively different.

4. Captains can only pay attention to impending rain not to rain forecast the next day or day-after. Actually, they can and they should. The former, because forecasts are better now. The latter, because cricketing strategy demands it. Captains should be aware of local conditions. Any captain that doesn't plan on rain in New Zealand is being a bit naive. Should a captain touring India in the later part of the season not account for the fact that the afternoons get scorching hot, when thinking about whether to enforce the follow-on? How is that not planning around the weather? But let us discard this point for a second. Let's forget about planning for the rain. Should Dhoni have waited till the lead was over 600? My answer to that would still have been a No.

5. Do you think Dhoni should be fired as captain? No. I think he is a very good captain. He is pretty canny; he clearly inspires the team. I do think he is a better T20 and ODI captain than a Test captain. Perhaps he will get better as he gets used to the idea of winning tests. But he needs to snap out of a conservative mind-set before it becomes too deeply ingrained in him.

6. Lastly, have you ever played cricket or captained a team in your life? Yes; I captained Mathematics in the Inter-Departmental Competition at Hindu College in 1987. We lost in the first round to Chemistry.

	The much-predicted rain came down soon after lunch on the final day in Wellington © Getty Images

Joy to the world, an Indian team has won a Test series in New Zealand! Let earth receive her kings. Congratulations to the Indian team. And a resounding well-played to the Black Caps. But reactions to the lack of a result in the third Test, forced upon us by bad light, and a forecast-well-in-advance-rain-shower on the fifth day, puzzle me. For, Dileep Premchandran says: "I don't think you can plan for rain" and Sambit Bal says "You can't really plan around weather". As do a few comments on my regular blog. I must be living in some alternate universe (entirely possible, given that I'm in Kings County, New York State), but for as long I've watched and followed cricket, the one thing Test captains have always done is planned around the weather. They have sent out instructions to batsmen, telling them to hurry up because rain clouds are threatening; they have sent out instructions to batsmen telling them to hang in there because the rain clouds are threatening; they have hustled to get wickets or overs completed for the same reason; and lastly, they have always, always, thought about how much time could be lost to rain (or light, or morning dew) when planning a declaration, or indeed, other tactical moves.

At tea time on the third day of the third Test, when Laxman and Gambhir were walking off the field to have a cup of Dilmah Masala Chai (and possibly some complimentary batata vadas and dhoklas sent over by the local Indian tea-shop), India were 448 runs ahead of New Zealand. Let's just stop for a second and examine these figures again. At tea-time on the third day of a Test, the world's No. 3 Test team, had a lead larger than any target successfully chased in the fourth innings of some 1918 tests played in 132 years. Over the world's No. 8 team, one they had bowled out for 197 runs in the first innings of the same Test. Two days later, when the Indian team trooped off the field, they were still looking for the last New Zealand two wickets.

When all the various defences about Dhoni's canny captaincy, India's dismal overseas records, the lack of a series win in 40 years in New Zealand, and the apparent incapacity of captains to plan for the weather are done with, something is still a bit rank in all of this. Something was rotten in the fair city Wellington on Tuesday.

Why did Dhoni need 600 plus runs on the board? To set attacking fields? Why were 500 runs not enough? Because New Zealand had scored 600 runs in the first innings of the last Test? And if he wanted to set attacking fields then why didn't he set them? I didn't see fields that were consistently the hyper-aggressive fields that a captain with 600 runs on the board could set. (If you want to see aggressive fields for spinners and pacers alike, go find a video of Imran Khan's field settings during the 1982 series against England, his first as captain). If the idea was to get 600 runs on the board and go on all-out attack, then why was the Indian team's demeanour in the post-tea session on the fourth day that of giggling schoolboys? They didn't look like meanies that had put 600 runs on the board and were in your face thereafter. This slackness affected their catching as well; three catches went down on the fifth day itself. (Dileep Premchandran notes that had those been held, India would have won anyway; perhaps; but perhaps the reason they weren't held was that the team's mind wasn't fully set on winning the game as opposed to the series).

Dhoni wanted to save the match first. A win was a bonus. He didn't get it and it didn't matter to him. A series win was more important. Fair enough. Those are his objectives. But if he is going to be a truly different Indian Test captain, he will need to snap out of a conservative mind-set that has been characteristic of most that have preceded him. And part of the way to do it is to back yourself and your team to win in lots of different settings. That might include thinking that 500 runs in a fourth-innings chase is enough for most teams in the world. It has been for every team in every Test played thus far in the history of the game. That might also include backing your bowlers to not get worried if someone does attack them a bit during their fourth-innings chase. Such expressions of confidence go beyond making your own team more secure; they also send out a message to your opponents. Doing it the first time might be hard but it can rapidly become a habit. Try it, MSD. I think you'll like it. You have the team for it.

[Editor's Note: Samir will be posting a follow-up article responding to the comments.]

I wonder if other cricket fans have had this experience: you read expert analysis of the game, you hear television commentators dissect a game finely, and you wonder, do all these fine-grained distinctions really exist, are all the things being talked about--reading the ball out of the hand, setting the batsman up with a sequence of short-pitched deliveries--real, or are they just stories, entertainments for the benefit of the fan? And then, one day, while playing the game, you realize, no, it's true, this thing really does happen out in the middle. When that happens, your appreciation of the game changes, and the next time you watch the game, you aren't watching remote, abstract, heroes any more, but rather, players just like yourself, albeit far more talented, skilled and diligent, that have conquered a challenge you faced as well.

In this post, I'd like to be self-indulgent, and talk about an experience of mine that led me to partially understand how the state of mind of a batsman could change in the course of an innings, from utter diffidence to one of supreme confidence. I focus on this experience because in my professional academic career, it became evident to me that what separates the men from the boys is not so much raw talent as a work ethic, a state of mind that permits diligence to take precedence over distraction. And thus I've wondered about the mental aspects of cricket, about how it is some batsmen can construct long innings while others seem congenitally incapable of doing so. In this experience, while I didn't solve the mystery of how a state of confidence could be maintained over a long period of time, I did come to understand what it felt like, and why staying in that zone can be a pleasurable experience in its own right, and by being an end in itself, lead to the construction and maintenance of a long innings.

Back in 2001, I played in the Northern Sydney Suburbs C-grade competition. We played both one-days and two-days, with outright wins in the latter format ensuring the most points. In one game, we gave up some 270 odds run to the opposing team, and when our turn came to bat, lost 7 wickets rather rapidly. There was plenty of time left on the second day, and we were facing an outright defeat if we got bowled out again after following-on. I went out to bat at #9. The opposition's quick bowlers were making the ball fly all over the place; the slips and gully cordon was chattering away, making perfect nuisances of themselves. I batted for a couple of overs, unable to get bat on ball, all the while fearing for my own physical safety. Two more wickets fell, and we were nine down. Number 11 came out to join me, and somehow we put on 50 or so runs, and more importantly, chewed up a huge amount of time, which resulted in us avoiding an outright defeat.

In the course of my innings, as bat increasingly made contact with the ball, my sense of my abilities grew and grew. I began to play more strokes, I ran harder between wickets, I even sledged back at the slips. I grew to believe I could not get out; I felt I would not even feel the ball if it crashed into my body; the fielding side's visible frustration fed into my confidence; and I wondered if there was any way in which I could possibly be dismissed. More to the point, I felt an intense pleasure at experiencing such total, utter, confidence. And like any good hedonist, I didn't want it to end. Playing cricket can often result in cruel blows to one's self-esteem: was I really that hopeless when I dropped that catch or bowled those full-tosses? This experience was uplifting and exhilarating, and I realized, as I was walking off the field after the No. 11 had been dismissed, that great batsmen, unlike the minnows, are much, much better at finding ways to guard this treasured emotion, this feeling of being at the top of one's game. Perhaps the mystery of how batsmen maintain their concentration in long spells is to be found in their deeper enjoyment of such moments of mastery of this very difficult game.

In Don DeLillo's White Noise, its central protagonist, Jack Gladney, in a meditation on the mixed blessings of the post-industrial age, notes sunsets are more spectacular than they used to be, a result of the increased particulate matter in the air causing increased scattering of the evening light. Thus truly, what the Lord taketh away with one hand, he giveth with the other. In the cricketing context, while one-day night cricket might have led to the pejorative term "pajama cricket" and to the purists eye, a gaudiness and razzle-dazzle unbecoming to the game's dignity, it has also provided a new set of spectacular backdrops to the cricketing action.

I was reminded of this the other day when watching the fourth ODI between India and New Zealand at Seddon Park in Hamilton on March 10th. Even as the rain came down again, disappointingly curtailing the match and introducing umpteen interruptions, the angry black-grey clouds, the gathering Stygian darkness, the bright, angular glare of the floodlights, and the crimson-orange sunset all collaborated to provide an appropriately apocalyptic setting to Virender Sehwag's 125 off 74 balls.

In an earlier post of mine, I noted how cricket photographs have a hold on the cricket fan. But there is more to cricket photographs than just noting players sporting skills. Part of the pleasure in looking at a photograph of the game lies in noting the unique tableau of the game: the cavernous MCG illuminated by the bright, skin-burning Australian sun, the depressing fences of Indian grounds that conjure up gladiatorial action, the English crowds pressed up to the tiny parapets of the boundary lines, the soaring hills behind Port of Spain and Kingston, and of course, Table Mountain at Newlands.

And I've never forgotten the first photograph I saw of the Sydney Cricket Ground (on the back cover of the now sadly defunct World Cricket Digest): a night game between Australia and New Zealand, the white ball and multi-colored cricket uniforms set off beautifully on a tableau of lush green outfields, soaring green roofs of the older stands improbably held up by what seemed like slender cast-iron pillars, and yes, a spectacular sunset in the background.

When the idea of night Tests was first mooted, my initial reaction was one of resistance. How could one imagine Test cricket being played at night? All of the imagery of Tests was bound up with green fields, white uniforms, bright sunlight, and red balls. But watching the spectacular setting of the India-New Zealand encounter, experiencing the sense of a larger drama being played out as the background of frenetic cricketing action, reminded me cricket is capable of taking new settings and making them its own, that the beauty of Test cricket at night may be worth exploring. Many dramatic one-day internationals have been played at night (my personal favorite, the India-Pakistan WC 96 quarterfinal was one such game). The drama of the close chase at night is now an iconic feature of the shorter version of the game. Who knows what intense crackling Test action would be played out in the setting of a night game? Who knows what spectacular light show might illuminate a late collapse, a gritty match-saving partnership (perhaps one involving Fidel Edwards), or a brilliant last-session century?

I might be a purist but this sort of experiment is likely to override my conservative leanings on purely aesthetic grounds.

Last night, as I watched the India-New Zealand one-day international, Simon O'Doull and Ravi Shastri broke the news of the attack on the Sri Lankan team. I checked the headlines to make sure I'd heard them correctly, looked for updates, and then, still stunned, posted a brief note on my blog, which ended, "What a tragic way to refute the stupidest argument ever made in favor of playing cricket in Pakistan: 'the terrorists won't attack cricketers'". I never found that argument convincing (an attitude implicit in my post last year on why the Australian team was justified in not touring Pakistan), and it clearly doesn't have much mileage now.

Besides attempting to read the minds of unhinged killers, that argument committed the singular fallacy of imagining the terrorists had some stake in winning the hearts and minds of the Pakistani populace. They don't. They were, and are, interested in destabilizing the Pakistani polity, damaging its economy, and showing the Pakistani state is incapable of protecting the lives of its citizens. Why anyone would imagine that a mere cricket team would get in the way of their fascist ideology is beyond me. These folks were killing hundreds of innocent Pakistani men, women and children every year. That wasn't alienating the Pakistani populace? These killers were going to somehow spare international cricketers because they thought that would affect their public relations profile? That somehow the attack on a cricket team was going to be more damaging for their public profile than the much-repeated shots of women and children grieving for their dead?

Imran Khan, who for all his cricketing genius, always struck me as a political and intellectual lightweight, was fond of making the "the militants won't attack the cricketers" claim. Imran had in mind the idea that the violence in Pakistan was part of some massive expression of post-9/11 anti-American sentiment. But far more perspicuous analysis, by Pervez Hoodbhoy the distinguished Pakistani physicist, after the Lal Masjid events of 2007, always suggested the designs of the terror groups were more straightforward and ideological: destroy the Pakistani state from within.

The idea that these killers are cricket fans who in their spare time fire off a few AK-47s was always ludicrous. Indeed, one could make a very convincing argument that given all the focus on the international cricket scene and its security hassles, the terrorists, who do not lack a certain kind of deadly single-minded nous, would step up their efforts to attack a cricket team to completely discredit the Pakistani government. That they have done. In doing so, besides killing innocents, they have set back international cricket in Pakistan by a very long way. I assure you: they do not give a damn what cricket fans think about them.

In all of this, let us not forget that somewhere in Pakistan the families of the slain policemen are grieving. That is the true tragedy of today. The Sri Lankans are safe; one should be grateful for small mercies. And the Pakistani team will find other venues to play in. But the toll in human lives in Pakistan exacted by this insane violence shows no sign of diminishing.

My gut reaction to India's losing the two T20s against New Zealand was disappointment. Not because a couple T20 internationals had been lost. In the larger scheme of things, these still rank third behind Tests and ODIs. But because, these days, every time India loses a match overseas, I instinctively sense a lost opportunity to give the "boys overseas" - the large, vocal, Indian diaspora--something to cheer about. It's yet another burden for the Indian team to bear but it is one they should be familiar with.

When the Indian team first played in the West Indies in 1953, they provided plenty of joy for the Indo-Caribbean spectators that came out in throngs to see them play (the best description of this reaction can be found in Mihir Bose's A History of Indian Cricket. And when India won the World Cup in 1983, an Indian expat living in London on a visit to India, said to an uncle of mine, "World Cup jeetne ke baad hum mahinon tak chati nikaal ke chalte te London mein". [For months after India won the World Cup, we walked around with our chests stuck out in London]. Like it or not, when the Indian team plays overseas, they do duty of a sort very different from that when they play at home.

When they play at home, they provide entertainment, razzle-dazzle, and a display of sporting skills. When they play overseas, they provide ammunition for bragging rights, comeback lines and a cushion of respect (which might help, for instance, in making sure you get picked up early in a pickup game).

Back in 2004, shortly after Amit Varma had started his now-defunct blog 23 Yards, and had written a post wondering why Indian fans treated their teams so harshly, I wrote to him, offering a tongue-in-cheek explanation:

Lots of Indian fans that write to you are writing from the great diaspora, and part of the frustration expressed in those emails comes from the team's perceived failure at backing them up in those edgy conversations they seem to be perpetually having with other expats about cricket...by far the most vocal is the Indian expat who gets to work and has to listen to his English, Aussie, South African or Kiwi office-mate ask him, "Say, Vijay, what about your boys last night?" The Indian, used to endless jokes about his accent, his country's poverty, the weird movies with the actors that run around trees in saris singing songs, seethes internally and curses himself for having been born in a country whose cricket players do not provide him sufficient rhetorical ammunition for these encounters. When he gets home, he fires off his emails.

But speaking more seriously and from a broader perspective than just jousting with the locals, Indians overseas are aware they are slowly settling into societies not fully adjusted to all the differences between their respective cultures. The Indian cricket team gives them a point of contact with the local culture. They want that point of contract to be one they can take pride in, one that is not to be hidden away or disowned, but to be highlighted and bragged about. Like it or not, their expectations, even more heightened than when they lived back in India, add to the Indian team's already heavy baggage.

From personal experience I can tell you that after Kolkata 2001, the best place in the world to be an Indian fan was Australia. Nothing will quite match the feeling of walking out on Cleveland Street in Sydney's Surry Hills, hearing the hooping and hollering of all the "locals" that had turned out at the Crown Hotel to watch the dramatic final moments of that game. And nothing will quite match the pleasure I took in all the conversations over morning coffee the next day at work.

This is the day after the Oscars so it's only natural that I would write about Slumdog Millionaire. My central critique of the movie has already been made, much more eloquently than I ever could, by Mukul Kesavan in the Telegraph. I have, however, as a fan of cricket and the Indian fan, another complaint about the movie, which centers on roughly the same complaint that Kesavan made: the movie does not make the suspension of disbelief easy.

For a crucial question in the movie, the one which catapults Jamal into the realm of the big bucks involves a question about cricket. Right off the bat (pun intended), this is a mistake. Why would a question about cricket, and cricket statistics at that, be placed in such a crucial moneyed category of the quiz? Especially when that quiz is taking place in India, home to obsessive statisticians and numerologists, trained for years by the brutal alphabet soup of school exams like the ICSE, CBSE, NTSE, ISC, IIT-JEE, AFMC, and all of the rest, to be the world's best crammers and memorizers?

But that's not the worst part. The true indicator that the film-makers thought so poorly of Indian fans and their cricketing knowledge is that the question asked is (no, not how many centuries Don Bradman made - that's printed on each Indian child's janampatri), wait for it, "Who made the most centuries in first-class cricket?" I was watching this movie at a large suburban movieplex, and I'm afraid my loud guffaws and chortles at this point might have made me a bit unpopular. It certainly earned me a dig in the ribs from my wife.

Oh, sure, I'll acknowledge the film-makers were clever enough to make this question one that Jamal struggles with. See, they seem to be saying, this is one question that every Indian would know, and that precisely is the question that our Slumdog seems to be ignorant about. Doesn't this show his disconnection from the mainstream? Yes, but what the heck is it doing as the 10-lakh rupee question? In the pantheon of cricket statistics questions, this one is not even a minor deity. Rather than the police torturing Jamal, they should have hauled the show's question-devisers off to the brig for a well-deserved thrashing.

However, Slumdog has done well with regards to cricket in another regard. It dutifully includes a scene in which cricket is being shown on the television, as a vital encounter between the movie's central protagonists takes place. And that little bit of cricket captures a painful moment for Indian fans. Not as painful as say, losing to Pakistan in the 1999 Chennai Test, but reasonably heart-ache inducing. The frustration it induces in Javed the Ganglord is palpable and quite likely to evoke sympathetic reactions in those viewers who watched the incident in question.

So, perhaps Slumdog's best contribution to the role of cricket in future editions of Kaun Banega Crorepati (er, sorry, Who Wants to be a Millionaire) will be two questions.

Question 1: In the movie Slumdog Millionaire, which ridiculously easy question about cricket was masqueraded as a challenging one?