"To overcome the language barrier, we have appointed 7 coaches
for the Indian cricket team. Thank you Shri Sunil Gavaskar…"
sp+nc
Hunting Sidhu: The Alternative Cricket Movement
“Eh g**du! Have chor, yaar!”
This is what my dad would say to me, every time I watched cricket instead of studying.
I guess he won in the end. My parents crowbarred me into doing medicine, instead of my patented idea of sitting on my ass all day, and waiting for a million dollar idea to come into my head.
In fairness, it could have been worse – at least there was no family corner shop or pharmacy for me to be burdened with. And thank goodness that my parents weren't accountants.
As a kid in London, I couldn't get away from cricket. I was a die-hard, obsessive fan, constantly refreshing scorecards during my lunch breaks, and blessed with an uncanny ability to recall Sadagopan Ramesh's Test average and Indian opening combinations over the past decade.
Throughout my teens, I had idly mastered the art of shadow-batting in empty corridors, and right down to Harbhajan's 'stop-and-hope' follow-through, my shadow-bowling was coming along nicely.
Fast-forward a few years, and through several bizarre twists of fate, I find myself condemned to studying medicine for six years in a small town in the Czech Republic.
You will know the country formerly known as Czechoslovakia as famous for stunning architecture, The Velvet Revolution, and beer.
Expat students view it as infamous for mass-produced communist-era tower blocks, bone-chilling winters, gypsy-baiting and mullets.
Frankly, I would not have cherry-picked this location as a mind for young, curious minds to thrive. Yet, in practice, this relative adversity is what is needed to bring out the best in people. Many will go through our six-year course as relative zombies – gliding serenely through, as contented but as bored as they will ever be. There is an overwhelming feeling of 'meh' that engulfs our mini-community of 500-odd foreign students.
From watching the Kitply Cup on a shaky live stream, to playing Xbox through the night, to bingeing on four packets of instant noodles for dinner, my student life could not be deemed as 'enriching'. Frustrated, I eventually reached the stage of perennial ennui where enough was enough.
Combining my passion for cricket with my love for writing and growing social conscience, I decided to start the 'Alternative Cricket Movement'.
Thanks to Twitter and Facebook, I found 20 of the best bloggers going, and convinced them into submitting their finest work for a book: The Alternative Cricket Almanack 2011.
 |
| "So good, they made a cake out of it." |
Our book is self-published, a collection of the finest articles you would never have read otherwise. The overall quality of cricket writing is at an all-time low – perhaps the avalanche of matches does not allow writers to even pause for breath – but I was determined to take a stand and show the world that there are passionate, immensely talented underground writers who are chomping at the bit for an opportunity to have their voice heard.
The quality of our book is there for all to see – there is an eclectic mix of articles, with witty satire interwoven with deeply personal anecdotes. As well as this, our original turns of phrase make for a totally different experience. Throughout the book, we are unapologetic in our honesty, a quality I feel that cricket journalists and commentators are lacking in.
We often get the feeling that many cricket writers and commentators try to be 'in bed' with certain cricketers, as well as pandering to public opinion – woe betide the evil man who even contemplates criticising Dhoni's defensive field settings. It's a wonder that some writers even have the time to put pen to paper, when they seem to spend most of their time fellating the player du jour.
Furthermore, we don't just want to lead the way in terms of cricket writing, but encourage others to do their part for a good cause. Therefore, I decided that all proceeds from our book would go to a good cause – in this case, the Afghan Youth Cricket Support Organisation.
Afghanistan is a country in need of a role model, and we have seen through the likes of Tendulkar and Murali that cricket is potent in terms of transcending politics. If we can unearth just one Afghan cricketer from a small village, who plays in a World Cup – ICC elitist snobbery notwithstanding – then he could be talked about for years, if he dismisses a Dhoni or a Yuvraj with a magic delivery, or hits consecutive sixes off Steyn or Malinga.
Kids would emulate their hero, and perhaps they would have some semblance of hope. Essentially, we are looking to inspire any number of young people with this scholarship fund.
No need to point out the unlikelihood and naivety of it all, but who's to say what can and can't be achieved? All great ideas started out as being preposterously ambitious. With pure intentions and public support, the sky is our limit.
And of course, in 2024, when our Afghan warrior hero strides up to collect his Laureus Sportsman of the Year award and/or Nobel Prize, his first words will be: "I'd like to thank my parents and dear friends, but you should all know: I did it for Sachin."
Read our blogs at AlternativeCricket.com, where you can read about Ian Chappell ending up in hospital after eating humble pie, and the now infamous Ugly Oscars.
You can also follow us on Facebook and Twitter @AltCricket.
by Nishant Joshi
We are an ordinary team.
So are the Royal Challengers, how else did they take nearly 20 overs to beat us? I think we are just warming up, in the next few games our defeats will be more convincing – new players and combinations will be tried, and the regulars will lose whatever confidence they had in the beginning.
I have now been run out twice in six games. But getting run out without Gauti is not the same.
It’s very tough saying in English when you want to abuse in Hindi, but this Daredevils’ team is the worst IPL team ever. No player from this side has any chance to play for his national side – I can say that confidently for the Indian players at least. Maybe Warner plays T20 for Australia, but by the time he’s through with this season, he may not want to lift a bat again. He can become a fielding coach.
You may say that Morkel is already playing for South Africa, as I am for India, but then you don’t understand my argument.
I hope GMR will spend the money saved on buying this team wisely.
Your man,
Jatman
Obama and Akmal - Yes We Can
President Obama today announced that he will be releasing a revised edition of his best selling book "The Audacity of Hope". The revised edition will have a foreword by Kamran Akmal.
"I have always felt with the previous editions that something was missing. That I was never able to articulate and exemplify the audacity of hope", said President Obama
Then Kamran Akmal happened to him.
In a calculated attempt to reach out to the peoples of the subcontinent, President Obama had immersed himself in the recently concluded World Cup. He was advised by his cultural experts that understanding cricket is the quickest way to understanding the subcontinental culture. No one is sure whether that has helped him appreciate the subcontinent better but he was certainly taken in by the sheer incompetence of Kamran Akmal. Its something that has stayed with him for a long time.
He said, "I have never been able to forget that Kamran guy. I know a lot of incompetent men. My field of work often exposes me to such kind. But what stood out about Kamran was the way he conducted himself through the countless dropped catches. He showed me how if one is not good at his / her job, the least he / she could do is learn to enjoy doing it poorly"
Through his daily briefings with his Chief of Staff, President Obama had asked that he be kept abreast about the career of Kamran Akmal.
Yesterday morning when President Obama was informed about Kamran Akmal's statement that he would be open to play purely as a batsman if Pakistan can find a better keeper than him, he is reported to have jumped out of his chair and shout ..... "Yes, we can".
"I mean, here is a wicketkeeper who is so pathetic in his job and yet he is willing to entertain the possibility that there might, just might not be anyone better than him. This is hope and audacity at its most basic level. There is absolutely no one who can take my message on Audacity of Hope, better than Kamran Akmal.
The Valthaty Effect
"If Valthaty can comeback and score an IPL 100
the least we can do is play in my driveway baba!"
How bad is Agarkar?
Today, after a long time I saw Agarkar bowl. I missed most of his foolish first over, as I was on Bored Duty, dropping Aditya (@forwardshortleg) to the metro station. I returned to sharp abuse directed at him, both at home and on twitter.
Even though the Daredevils had the cushion of 231 runs, could Agarkar lose it for them? As it turned out, he continued to be an expensive yet wicket taking bowler.
Why Agrakar, after all these years, has such a capacity to bowl the worst deliveries on the planet is beyond me. Why he still takes wickets is simple, who wouldn’t want to smash every ball he bowls, but you can’t – and in his bait of high grade crap is the trap. If that rhymes, let me tell you, like Agarkar, there is no reason to it.
I must admit here, that I have always been a great believer in the misplaced potential of Ajit Agarkar. When he runs in to bowl, there’s a breeze about him, even on a still day. That is the setup, more so, for the gullible fool, who thinks he will deliver.
And how we get sucked in, I know, I always do. And I welcome it too. Today, it was inevitable that Ajit (oh, first name basis, wah!) would play, I was happy in a confident yet misplaced way.
I had no memory of his last bad spell, because that would amount to all his last bad spells.
But well…here I go again on my own, like a drifter I was born to walk alone – a snappy Whitesnake song, but never quite the Deep Purple classic; the song will come back to you at the oddest of times, because there are strange memories there, and you have indulged, oh my, how you’ve indulged. That is Ajit Agarkar. Not quite pop, not rock either, wtf is he – and so you will revisit, to scramble your head, and then you’ll see him bowl, high grade filth, and then the wickets, and you’ll give him this much – that’s his first game in a loooooong time.
Today, old friend Ajit, was the costliest Daredevil who bowled all 4 @11.75 rpo. And only Harris (for the Kings), who had a meltdown in his last over, went for more @12. But Ajit he just went about his merry ways, one wide here, another short one there, good old trauma centre bowling at its best.
But he took those two wickets, and ran in, like he was on a cycle, or even a bike, with born to be wild playing on mute.
If I was the Daredevils selector, I’d pick Ajit every game. There are some moments of undiluted madness that have a cricketing quirk in them, this fellah, he is all there, and not at all there. What he can or will do is beyond him. If mankind wants to go all nuclear and blow up, it should not happen without Agarkar being given a shot to make the fastest T20 50 by an Indian.
And to answer an earlier question, Agrakar is not bad, he’s rotten to the core. But we can’t be sure, can we? Let’s give him another shot.
Even though the Daredevils had the cushion of 231 runs, could Agarkar lose it for them? As it turned out, he continued to be an expensive yet wicket taking bowler.
Why Agrakar, after all these years, has such a capacity to bowl the worst deliveries on the planet is beyond me. Why he still takes wickets is simple, who wouldn’t want to smash every ball he bowls, but you can’t – and in his bait of high grade crap is the trap. If that rhymes, let me tell you, like Agarkar, there is no reason to it.
I must admit here, that I have always been a great believer in the misplaced potential of Ajit Agarkar. When he runs in to bowl, there’s a breeze about him, even on a still day. That is the setup, more so, for the gullible fool, who thinks he will deliver.
And how we get sucked in, I know, I always do. And I welcome it too. Today, it was inevitable that Ajit (oh, first name basis, wah!) would play, I was happy in a confident yet misplaced way.
I had no memory of his last bad spell, because that would amount to all his last bad spells.
But well…here I go again on my own, like a drifter I was born to walk alone – a snappy Whitesnake song, but never quite the Deep Purple classic; the song will come back to you at the oddest of times, because there are strange memories there, and you have indulged, oh my, how you’ve indulged. That is Ajit Agarkar. Not quite pop, not rock either, wtf is he – and so you will revisit, to scramble your head, and then you’ll see him bowl, high grade filth, and then the wickets, and you’ll give him this much – that’s his first game in a loooooong time.
Today, old friend Ajit, was the costliest Daredevil who bowled all 4 @11.75 rpo. And only Harris (for the Kings), who had a meltdown in his last over, went for more @12. But Ajit he just went about his merry ways, one wide here, another short one there, good old trauma centre bowling at its best.
But he took those two wickets, and ran in, like he was on a cycle, or even a bike, with born to be wild playing on mute.
If I was the Daredevils selector, I’d pick Ajit every game. There are some moments of undiluted madness that have a cricketing quirk in them, this fellah, he is all there, and not at all there. What he can or will do is beyond him. If mankind wants to go all nuclear and blow up, it should not happen without Agarkar being given a shot to make the fastest T20 50 by an Indian.
And to answer an earlier question, Agrakar is not bad, he’s rotten to the core. But we can’t be sure, can we? Let’s give him another shot.
Sri Lankan players to "Work From Home" for England tour
Sri Lankan players are awaiting a response from the Sri Lankan Cricket Board on their proposal to allow them to "Work from Home". The proposal; which the Lankan cricketers claim has the backing of the PCA; is viewed by many in the World of Sport as a breakthrough that will spark innovation and productivity of sportsmen the world over.
Telecommuting is not an entirely new concept. For example in the US 40% of the workforce has telecommuted at least portions of their jobs as software programmers, call center operators and political campaign workers. Believers of telecommuting often site this as the only viable "going green" option with immediate, quantifiable, near term benefits to costs and the environment.
How exactly this model will work for the Sri Lankan cricketers on their upcoming tour of England has left many experts and fans perplexed, if not mildly amused.
Lasith Malinga, who is nursing an injury by playing for the IPL franchise, the Mumbai Indians, is the architect behind the proposal. Asked how he can play for a privately owned franchise while asking to be rested from Tests that Sri Lanka is scheduled to play in England, Malinga said, "Its part of the rehabilitation"
Lasith Malinga, chose to focus on the benefits of telecommuting to cricketers, especially in the age of IPL. "Look with telecommuting you can play in the IPL and play for your country. You won't have situations like Chris Gayle, where the poor guy is forced to play in the IPL instead of his country. You won't have to embarrass the BCCI by calling your players before the IPL finals to play side games on the England tour"
But isn't telecommuting for people who work from home? he was asked...
"Well IPL is our home". He added quickly.
"Look doctors can operate on their patients remotely, choirs are sung virtually over the Internet, software gets developed by people working from home. So why can't cricketers get to play remotely. This way we can play the IPL finals and show up for the first Test in Cardiff on Day 4 and play the rest of the game in person; after telecommuting for the first 3 days"
But where is the technology to support this?
"Look at the DRS...." he added
"Don't we have a DRS with no hot spot, snick-o-meter, reliable ball tracking technology and common sense in Billy Bowden? Why should lack of technology be a roadblock for my proposal? If we can implement the DRS using basically just "slow motion" - a technology invented in the 1930s, surely we can allow cricketers to telecommute using Video Conferences"
By Golandaaz
You can read Gol's opinions at his blog, Opinions On Cricket and on twitter, http://twitter.com/oponcr
Telecommuting is not an entirely new concept. For example in the US 40% of the workforce has telecommuted at least portions of their jobs as software programmers, call center operators and political campaign workers. Believers of telecommuting often site this as the only viable "going green" option with immediate, quantifiable, near term benefits to costs and the environment.
How exactly this model will work for the Sri Lankan cricketers on their upcoming tour of England has left many experts and fans perplexed, if not mildly amused.
Lasith Malinga, who is nursing an injury by playing for the IPL franchise, the Mumbai Indians, is the architect behind the proposal. Asked how he can play for a privately owned franchise while asking to be rested from Tests that Sri Lanka is scheduled to play in England, Malinga said, "Its part of the rehabilitation"
Lasith Malinga, chose to focus on the benefits of telecommuting to cricketers, especially in the age of IPL. "Look with telecommuting you can play in the IPL and play for your country. You won't have situations like Chris Gayle, where the poor guy is forced to play in the IPL instead of his country. You won't have to embarrass the BCCI by calling your players before the IPL finals to play side games on the England tour"
But isn't telecommuting for people who work from home? he was asked...
"Well IPL is our home". He added quickly.
"Look doctors can operate on their patients remotely, choirs are sung virtually over the Internet, software gets developed by people working from home. So why can't cricketers get to play remotely. This way we can play the IPL finals and show up for the first Test in Cardiff on Day 4 and play the rest of the game in person; after telecommuting for the first 3 days"
But where is the technology to support this?
"Look at the DRS...." he added
"Don't we have a DRS with no hot spot, snick-o-meter, reliable ball tracking technology and common sense in Billy Bowden? Why should lack of technology be a roadblock for my proposal? If we can implement the DRS using basically just "slow motion" - a technology invented in the 1930s, surely we can allow cricketers to telecommute using Video Conferences"
By Golandaaz
You can read Gol's opinions at his blog, Opinions On Cricket and on twitter, http://twitter.com/oponcr
you know you are an ipl fan...
if you greet your friend with a 'what a karbon kamaal catch' at his wedding reception...
if you celebrate the birth of your child as a 'city moment of success'...
if you call your boss a 'dlf maximum'...
if you explain power naps at office as 'strategic breaks'...
if you start counting the reducing numbers at the red light loudly... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1...
if you celebrate the birth of your child as a 'city moment of success'...
if you call your boss a 'dlf maximum'...
if you explain power naps at office as 'strategic breaks'...
if you start counting the reducing numbers at the red light loudly... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1...
if you believe Paul Valthaty is the next big thing!
(via Govind)
Can West Indies cricket rejoice ?
Is this is renaissance they were waiting for ?
Have their faith in Stanford, which failed them then provided dividends now ?
Is this young little bunch the answer to the collective prayers of a million rum sipping mouths ?
Can all the middle fingers of the islands collectively raise towards the direction of NBA, NFL and other sports including promiscuity, and say “up yours” we’re gonna go upwards ?
I would say it isn’t time yet…
Wait for the next game
You’ve seen the Mr Hyde’s this game
They have a mouth that is known for loose motion, their mind works slow motion
This loss would make them comeback with a vengeance, only till the next match
Yes, they might have a friendly fire in their camp the day after the next match
An invocation of “Mother” and “Sister” and then you see them down the abyss, for a couple of matches of course
And then they have these many jobless ex cricketers in line, waiting for the TV camera. They would either blame the establishment or the establishment on the other side of their fence.
They can’t ever think of scrubbing their back or mending fences, for they only know stroke play
This is one good team which doesn’t be itself, for it is never let to…
They want to be nice because the international media is watching them and play for the twitter trends, then hop fences and play for the fringe press and the popular elements
You don’t get on to the cricket field to make a statement, you get there to enjoy yourself, play your game
And of course return winners
Well played West Indies, you are on the right track
The Indian, sorry, Chennai, captain!
I noticed an interesting phenomenon during the World Cup. On more than one occasion, players were asked, during the post-match ceremonies, questions relating to their IPL teams. The one that stands out the most visibly for me was Shastri asking Dhoni about how it felt to be playing in front of his 'home crowd' in Chennai, after India had beaten the West Indies in the pool game. Does anyone else remember other similar incidents?
I found Shastri's question by far the most interesting because an Indian captain was being interviewed after an international game; the invocation of his professional franchise at that moment stood out.
So, two questions:
Who else was asked questions about the IPL? And who did the asking? Was it an IPL-related commentator in each case?
I found Shastri's question by far the most interesting because an Indian captain was being interviewed after an international game; the invocation of his professional franchise at that moment stood out.
So, two questions:
Who else was asked questions about the IPL? And who did the asking? Was it an IPL-related commentator in each case?
Analysis of Malinga's stiff knee
On closer observation it was obvious that
Lasith Malinga’s stiff knee had nothing to do with cricket.
drawn on recycled paper
A Cricket Folktale...Circa 4500 A.D.
Once upton a time, there was a tiny country called Sa-china, inhabited by people called Sa-chinese. A neighbouring Vinod-erland was initially more prosperous before its economy nosedived.
In Sa-china, kids had curly hair, while grown up men practised with harmonium to develop sing-song voice. And they made it a point to marry older girls.
There, anyone taller than 5'5" was sneered at and people opted for euthanasia at 99 since a century often augured disaster for the country.
Most boys went by the names of Himesh, Pritam, Bappi, Annu, Shankar, Ehsan, Loy, Ismail etc because it was manadatory to name kids after music directors.
There, people dialled to say "Aila" and not "Hello". Even the neighbourhood fishmongers accepted a certain credit card and if a customer offered cash, s/he would be admonished: "Visa power, go get it."
There were some schools but no college or university in the country because people were convinced of education's futility.
In fact parents used to garland their kid the day they dropped out of schools, which was generally believed to mark the beginning of their journey to glory.
The country had only mud houses because stones were not available. Whenever they saw a stone, they turned it into a milestone, as their Father of the Nation had once advised them.
There, people used to eat out at Mainland Sa-china, where Sa-chinese dishes were served.
Aged people suffered mainly from tennis elbow and they worked as long as they wished. Retirement talks were not encouraged at all...
P.S. This post first appeared in Doosra.
In Sa-china, kids had curly hair, while grown up men practised with harmonium to develop sing-song voice. And they made it a point to marry older girls.
There, anyone taller than 5'5" was sneered at and people opted for euthanasia at 99 since a century often augured disaster for the country.
Most boys went by the names of Himesh, Pritam, Bappi, Annu, Shankar, Ehsan, Loy, Ismail etc because it was manadatory to name kids after music directors.
There, people dialled to say "Aila" and not "Hello". Even the neighbourhood fishmongers accepted a certain credit card and if a customer offered cash, s/he would be admonished: "Visa power, go get it."
There were some schools but no college or university in the country because people were convinced of education's futility.
In fact parents used to garland their kid the day they dropped out of schools, which was generally believed to mark the beginning of their journey to glory.
The country had only mud houses because stones were not available. Whenever they saw a stone, they turned it into a milestone, as their Father of the Nation had once advised them.
There, people used to eat out at Mainland Sa-china, where Sa-chinese dishes were served.
Aged people suffered mainly from tennis elbow and they worked as long as they wished. Retirement talks were not encouraged at all...
P.S. This post first appeared in Doosra.
What is Paul Valthaty
This is an open thread, let's get some closure on P Valthaty
And while yr at it here is BoredCricket on twitter on Paul Valthaty
Valthaty to get half of the orange cap
girl fan of Valthaty - Nahiiin, mein teri bachche ki maa nahin ban sakti #HitThere #ipl
Valthaty - the next small thing from the ipl
Valthaty mein Gilli ka khoon hai
20 years later - "On April 16th, I was sure I could play like bc mc shots" -paul valthaty
Valthaty has the luck of the...Valthaty.
Valthaty having trouble putting bad balls away. Hallmark of a class cricketer
His cricket aside, the name Valthaty -Val-tha-ty sits well on even the most annoying commentators - say it -Val-tha-ty
Valthaty comes 2 the party. Where's the fucking booze n babes. Hit me!
Valthaty is just like Sehwag, no feet #ShastriRemix
Valthaty 20 years later - it was the summer of 2011, felt like I was playing cricket for the first time
And while yr at it here is BoredCricket on twitter on Paul Valthaty
Valthaty to get half of the orange cap
girl fan of Valthaty - Nahiiin, mein teri bachche ki maa nahin ban sakti #HitThere #ipl
Valthaty - the next small thing from the ipl
Valthaty mein Gilli ka khoon hai
20 years later - "On April 16th, I was sure I could play like bc mc shots" -paul valthaty
Valthaty has the luck of the...Valthaty.
Valthaty having trouble putting bad balls away. Hallmark of a class cricketer
His cricket aside, the name Valthaty -Val-tha-ty sits well on even the most annoying commentators - say it -Val-tha-ty
Valthaty comes 2 the party. Where's the fucking booze n babes. Hit me!
Valthaty is just like Sehwag, no feet #ShastriRemix
Valthaty 20 years later - it was the summer of 2011, felt like I was playing cricket for the first time
You got a cartoon idea for Paul Valthaty? Will he play for Mumbai? Will he ever play with Sachin? Should he play for India in T20? Should he captain the West Indies? This is still an open thread, shoot
“The slower one got the slower one.”
That was the Dravid dismissal @BoredCricket on twitter.
It was 6.45 pm, 9th April, and Rahul was batting for the Royals for the first time. Looking at him bat, you’d think he was batting for the first time. 28(35) looks a lot better than the run fast Dravid put us through. It took Steyn’s slower one to knock him over. The irony was not lost on Dravid.
Follow us on twitter for more irony such as this -
Forget Watson's 185, even Ponting got 37. #BadBangladesh
Because you were not watching, it is our responsibility 2 inform you, Bangladesh just lost its 6th wicket.
KKR take on themselves later today.
Happy Bored Day Ian Bell. Ghanta.
The most eagerly awaited IPL game - Delhi Daredevils vs Kings XI Punjab.
Has everyone following the IPL on twitter added a blond babe 2 their dp
If India could, they'd call Ishant mid way thru this spell
Do the KKR fans have an extra baggage allowance for ipl4
Kallis 50, what will he play for now
One day, MSD will make Morkel play for India #Ripleys
How Styris is still playing, only Scott knows.
According to SMG, MSD's bottom has a hand #StrongBottomHand #IPL
MSD in early, chasing 274 again #ipl
It was 6.45 pm, 9th April, and Rahul was batting for the Royals for the first time. Looking at him bat, you’d think he was batting for the first time. 28(35) looks a lot better than the run fast Dravid put us through. It took Steyn’s slower one to knock him over. The irony was not lost on Dravid.
Follow us on twitter for more irony such as this -
Forget Watson's 185, even Ponting got 37. #BadBangladesh
Because you were not watching, it is our responsibility 2 inform you, Bangladesh just lost its 6th wicket.
KKR take on themselves later today.
Happy Bored Day Ian Bell. Ghanta.
The most eagerly awaited IPL game - Delhi Daredevils vs Kings XI Punjab.
Has everyone following the IPL on twitter added a blond babe 2 their dp
If India could, they'd call Ishant mid way thru this spell
Do the KKR fans have an extra baggage allowance for ipl4
Kallis 50, what will he play for now
One day, MSD will make Morkel play for India #Ripleys
How Styris is still playing, only Scott knows.
According to SMG, MSD's bottom has a hand #StrongBottomHand #IPL
MSD in early, chasing 274 again #ipl
Oh right, you can follow us @BoredCricket on twitter
Make no mistake, this is the IPL contest...a biggie!
Memories of watching cricket in India circa 1983
Watching the finals on June 25 1983 on an incipient Indian TV network is one of the most defining moments in the history of my generation in India. For a few months, we Indians were on top of the world. That euphoria, however, did not last long. The West Indians came to India immediately after the World Cup finals and inflicted the most gut wrenching sequence of losses in a series of matches on Indian soil. Both the highs and lows of that year were televised.
Things were much different back then. Cricket was not as commercial as it is today and the biggest checks the cricketers got were from endorsing assorted shaving products, clothing lines and an occasional mail order English teaching course and looked to steady government jobs to support them during the off-season. The billions of dollars for broadcast rights were unheard of and the only source for watching cricket was the government's public broadcasting channel called Door-Darshan. It was the dawn of television in India and the color broadcast had been introduced only the year before in 1982 to showcase the Asian games held in Delhi. The TV craze had finally reached a stage where the first TV showroom (an entire store selling TVs!) opened in our little town. Being from a lower middle class family with little disposable income and no particular interest in early technology adaption, we relied on accommodating neighbors to watch TV.
We lived in a typical middle class Hindu locality with a few pockets of wealth clearly marked by freshly installed antenna on the roofs. Arrival of the TV upended the social hierarchy in the neighborhood. The earlier caste based superiority inherent in our society now seemed secondary to the social cache that came with owning TVs. Previously, the stereotypes based on caste and sub-caste were taken for granted as matters of fact than prejudice and never allowed to interfere with daily life in the neighborhood. The Brahmins felt superior to their merchant class neighbors but were not about to stop borrowing sugar from them. The merchant family who considered their Brahmin Math teacher neighbor to be uncouth for treating his wife as an untouchable for a few days a month nevertheless sent their daughters to him for Math coaching classes. All that changed with TV. People who would drop everything and babysit us, would now demand that we be picked back before the 7:30 PM Hindi soap opera started. The TV owners started displaying caste based favoritism reflected in who was invited to watch the weekly Hindi movie on Sunday evenings. My parents associated arrival of TV with the decline of society and refused anything to do with it.
As children we never let these differences deter us from gaining access to a home with TV. We barged into any home that allowed us in. Over time, we mapped out the TV landscape in the neighborhood and rated the homes on hospitality index. We never crossed out the neighborhood grinches from the list as they served as essential back-ups in case of electricity failure. We had a thorough understanding of the local electrical grid system and mastered the pattern of rolling blackouts imposed by the city's electricity department to predict with utter certainty the best house to watch TV at any given time. We also became privy to critical information such as the fact that although Sheshadris and the Joshis shared a wall, their electrical supply was controlled by two separate transformers, which meant that they were never in danger of being out of power at the same time. For us gaining entry into one house, though it did not guaranty automatic entry to the other in case of a black-out, improved statistically, our ability to watch uninterrupted cricket. An ability to climb roofs and fix intransigent antennae become indispensable during windy days and gained us entry into a grateful home.
Among a few houses with TVs in the immediate neighborhood, there was only one home with a brand new color TV and obviously the best ticket in town. A cement merchant, Mr Builda had imported a Sony TV just in time to watch the world cup cricket. Although the Buildas were neighbors, intimidating differences in wealth, social status and his spoiled children prevented us from seeking routine entrance into their home. His oldest son Gopal had pioneered a metered entry system which he gleefully implemented during cricket games. At any given moment, he would allow two people from the teeming masses waiting outside the compound walls into his house to sit by the shoe stand and watch TV. A sociopath in making, Gopal, would then arbitrarily decide that the chosen pair was no longer suitable for that day's TV viewing and boot them out. He would then walk back to the compound wall and pick another pair of equally eager and sniveling youth ready to sit by the door and enjoy a few minutes of pure cricketing joy in color. The humiliation was not worth the excitement but the lure of color was irresistible.
The alternatives were less exciting but less humiliating as well. There was Mr Deshpande and his 21" TV with a gritty screen which had a serious issue with the vertical hold control (which steadied the picture in the vertical direction), making it appear as if we were watching the game on panels drawn on an ancient scroll. The V-hold knob had to be finely positioned and held by hand to ensure image stability. Unfortunately for few of us, that meant taking turns standing behind the TV during the game. The geniuses who had designed the TV had thought the best place for the knob was in the panel behind the cathode ray tube.
A few streets down, Mr Sathkhed owned one of the earliest indigenous TVs made by the government owned EC TV company. The 21" TV came ensconced in fine wood panelling. Mr Sathkhed, a physics professor at the local college, had covered the screen with a blue transluscent plastic shield. According to his deep understanding of physics, this shield was supposed to protect us from the harmful rays of the TV. We were not sure it worked but it definitely made the game appear as if it was played on Pandora.
Then there was the tiny 15" TV at Rao's. The Raos were nice folks and our immediate neighbors always allowing any number of people into their living room to watch the game. The only problem was getting through Mr Rao's aging mother who always sat by the door in her wooden chair chewing paan and positioned herself as the official gatekeeper of the household. Her criterion for allowing children into her son's home was simple. She would cast a scrutinizing eye on the salivating horde at the door and inquire the last names of the assembled; Joshis, Deshpandes, Kulkarnis and other assorted Brahmin last names were met with polite approval and ushered inside. The rest of us, whose last names gave away our lowly pedigree, swallowed our pride and waited patiently trying to catch the attention of Mr Rao and circumvent the old dragon at the gates of hell.
The final option was the 21" TV at Mr Patil's home. Here the stars aligned perfectly for me. We were of the same caste, and Mr Patil was the nicest person known to man and his house had a sprawling living room able to seat 15 people comfortably. But the demands of the cricket season ensured there were at least three times as many people at any given time. Watching cricket at Mr Patil's house was not for those with weak bladders. The concept of re-entry did not exist in that house. A seat relinquished to attend the nature's call was quickly filled by someone else who had prepared well for the 8 hour stretch.
On the day of the World Cup final, 25th June 1983, I walked by Mr Builda's house and saw Gopal in his element trying to lord over the sea of people assembled by his house. I quickly headed to Mr Patil's house where I spent rest of the afternoon till my bladder-control failed me and ended up at Mr Deshpande's which left me with severe headache. By the Innings break, India had put up a paltry 183 runs in the sixty overs making the game a foregone conclusion even in the minds of hardcore Indian fans. The West Indies innings started with a quick wicket but the arrival of King Richards changed the game. A gloom settled on the crowd at Deshpande’s as Richards dismantled the Indian attack and I shuffled out dejected, heading home to get dinner and sleep, hoping to wake up to a miracle. On my way home I passed by Mr Rao’s house. As I turned the corner, I saw his mother sitting by the door in her usual position. Something in me snapped that day, the days of humiliation suffered at her hands bubbled up and with nothing to lose, I decided to act. It was time to confront the bigoted old woman and tell her that in this modern era, cricket was more than religion and caste and that all men were created equal and cricket did not care whether you were a Brahmin or an Untouchable. I wanted to drag her in and show her the example of the Indian team made of Hindus, Muslims and Christians all playing side by side.
I stood in front of her in anticipation of her question and she did not disappoint, squinting her eyes to inquire if my pedigree was suitable enough to be allowed inside. As I prepared to confront her, I heard a loud noise from the living room with the three words an Indian cricket fan had been waiting to hear “Richards is out!” This was the catch that changed the game, the Indian captain running a long distance while looking back to catch the arcing mishit from Richards. This was the miracle everyone was hoping for and I had missed it. Time was short and I needed to act quickly before the replays ended. I puffed up my chest drew in my breath and blurted that I was son of Mr Joshi, the Brahmin priest, from the next street over. The revolution could wait for another day.
Her failing eyesight and the noises around me worked in my favor. I was allowed in with a gentle pat on my back. I went in ashamed at myself for being a turncoat for a couple of hours of entertainment. But the guilt was soon forgotten as the last West Indies wicket fell and the jubilant Indian team ran back to the pavilion. We all cried tears of joy and hugged each other that night, Joshis and Jogikalmaths, Patils and Raos, setting aside our petty differences. On that night there was only one set of gods to worship, the eleven men in pajamas.
by Gangadhar Jogikalmath
Things were much different back then. Cricket was not as commercial as it is today and the biggest checks the cricketers got were from endorsing assorted shaving products, clothing lines and an occasional mail order English teaching course and looked to steady government jobs to support them during the off-season. The billions of dollars for broadcast rights were unheard of and the only source for watching cricket was the government's public broadcasting channel called Door-Darshan. It was the dawn of television in India and the color broadcast had been introduced only the year before in 1982 to showcase the Asian games held in Delhi. The TV craze had finally reached a stage where the first TV showroom (an entire store selling TVs!) opened in our little town. Being from a lower middle class family with little disposable income and no particular interest in early technology adaption, we relied on accommodating neighbors to watch TV.
We lived in a typical middle class Hindu locality with a few pockets of wealth clearly marked by freshly installed antenna on the roofs. Arrival of the TV upended the social hierarchy in the neighborhood. The earlier caste based superiority inherent in our society now seemed secondary to the social cache that came with owning TVs. Previously, the stereotypes based on caste and sub-caste were taken for granted as matters of fact than prejudice and never allowed to interfere with daily life in the neighborhood. The Brahmins felt superior to their merchant class neighbors but were not about to stop borrowing sugar from them. The merchant family who considered their Brahmin Math teacher neighbor to be uncouth for treating his wife as an untouchable for a few days a month nevertheless sent their daughters to him for Math coaching classes. All that changed with TV. People who would drop everything and babysit us, would now demand that we be picked back before the 7:30 PM Hindi soap opera started. The TV owners started displaying caste based favoritism reflected in who was invited to watch the weekly Hindi movie on Sunday evenings. My parents associated arrival of TV with the decline of society and refused anything to do with it.
As children we never let these differences deter us from gaining access to a home with TV. We barged into any home that allowed us in. Over time, we mapped out the TV landscape in the neighborhood and rated the homes on hospitality index. We never crossed out the neighborhood grinches from the list as they served as essential back-ups in case of electricity failure. We had a thorough understanding of the local electrical grid system and mastered the pattern of rolling blackouts imposed by the city's electricity department to predict with utter certainty the best house to watch TV at any given time. We also became privy to critical information such as the fact that although Sheshadris and the Joshis shared a wall, their electrical supply was controlled by two separate transformers, which meant that they were never in danger of being out of power at the same time. For us gaining entry into one house, though it did not guaranty automatic entry to the other in case of a black-out, improved statistically, our ability to watch uninterrupted cricket. An ability to climb roofs and fix intransigent antennae become indispensable during windy days and gained us entry into a grateful home.
Among a few houses with TVs in the immediate neighborhood, there was only one home with a brand new color TV and obviously the best ticket in town. A cement merchant, Mr Builda had imported a Sony TV just in time to watch the world cup cricket. Although the Buildas were neighbors, intimidating differences in wealth, social status and his spoiled children prevented us from seeking routine entrance into their home. His oldest son Gopal had pioneered a metered entry system which he gleefully implemented during cricket games. At any given moment, he would allow two people from the teeming masses waiting outside the compound walls into his house to sit by the shoe stand and watch TV. A sociopath in making, Gopal, would then arbitrarily decide that the chosen pair was no longer suitable for that day's TV viewing and boot them out. He would then walk back to the compound wall and pick another pair of equally eager and sniveling youth ready to sit by the door and enjoy a few minutes of pure cricketing joy in color. The humiliation was not worth the excitement but the lure of color was irresistible.
The alternatives were less exciting but less humiliating as well. There was Mr Deshpande and his 21" TV with a gritty screen which had a serious issue with the vertical hold control (which steadied the picture in the vertical direction), making it appear as if we were watching the game on panels drawn on an ancient scroll. The V-hold knob had to be finely positioned and held by hand to ensure image stability. Unfortunately for few of us, that meant taking turns standing behind the TV during the game. The geniuses who had designed the TV had thought the best place for the knob was in the panel behind the cathode ray tube.
A few streets down, Mr Sathkhed owned one of the earliest indigenous TVs made by the government owned EC TV company. The 21" TV came ensconced in fine wood panelling. Mr Sathkhed, a physics professor at the local college, had covered the screen with a blue transluscent plastic shield. According to his deep understanding of physics, this shield was supposed to protect us from the harmful rays of the TV. We were not sure it worked but it definitely made the game appear as if it was played on Pandora.
Then there was the tiny 15" TV at Rao's. The Raos were nice folks and our immediate neighbors always allowing any number of people into their living room to watch the game. The only problem was getting through Mr Rao's aging mother who always sat by the door in her wooden chair chewing paan and positioned herself as the official gatekeeper of the household. Her criterion for allowing children into her son's home was simple. She would cast a scrutinizing eye on the salivating horde at the door and inquire the last names of the assembled; Joshis, Deshpandes, Kulkarnis and other assorted Brahmin last names were met with polite approval and ushered inside. The rest of us, whose last names gave away our lowly pedigree, swallowed our pride and waited patiently trying to catch the attention of Mr Rao and circumvent the old dragon at the gates of hell.
The final option was the 21" TV at Mr Patil's home. Here the stars aligned perfectly for me. We were of the same caste, and Mr Patil was the nicest person known to man and his house had a sprawling living room able to seat 15 people comfortably. But the demands of the cricket season ensured there were at least three times as many people at any given time. Watching cricket at Mr Patil's house was not for those with weak bladders. The concept of re-entry did not exist in that house. A seat relinquished to attend the nature's call was quickly filled by someone else who had prepared well for the 8 hour stretch.
On the day of the World Cup final, 25th June 1983, I walked by Mr Builda's house and saw Gopal in his element trying to lord over the sea of people assembled by his house. I quickly headed to Mr Patil's house where I spent rest of the afternoon till my bladder-control failed me and ended up at Mr Deshpande's which left me with severe headache. By the Innings break, India had put up a paltry 183 runs in the sixty overs making the game a foregone conclusion even in the minds of hardcore Indian fans. The West Indies innings started with a quick wicket but the arrival of King Richards changed the game. A gloom settled on the crowd at Deshpande’s as Richards dismantled the Indian attack and I shuffled out dejected, heading home to get dinner and sleep, hoping to wake up to a miracle. On my way home I passed by Mr Rao’s house. As I turned the corner, I saw his mother sitting by the door in her usual position. Something in me snapped that day, the days of humiliation suffered at her hands bubbled up and with nothing to lose, I decided to act. It was time to confront the bigoted old woman and tell her that in this modern era, cricket was more than religion and caste and that all men were created equal and cricket did not care whether you were a Brahmin or an Untouchable. I wanted to drag her in and show her the example of the Indian team made of Hindus, Muslims and Christians all playing side by side.
I stood in front of her in anticipation of her question and she did not disappoint, squinting her eyes to inquire if my pedigree was suitable enough to be allowed inside. As I prepared to confront her, I heard a loud noise from the living room with the three words an Indian cricket fan had been waiting to hear “Richards is out!” This was the catch that changed the game, the Indian captain running a long distance while looking back to catch the arcing mishit from Richards. This was the miracle everyone was hoping for and I had missed it. Time was short and I needed to act quickly before the replays ended. I puffed up my chest drew in my breath and blurted that I was son of Mr Joshi, the Brahmin priest, from the next street over. The revolution could wait for another day.
Her failing eyesight and the noises around me worked in my favor. I was allowed in with a gentle pat on my back. I went in ashamed at myself for being a turncoat for a couple of hours of entertainment. But the guilt was soon forgotten as the last West Indies wicket fell and the jubilant Indian team ran back to the pavilion. We all cried tears of joy and hugged each other that night, Joshis and Jogikalmaths, Patils and Raos, setting aside our petty differences. On that night there was only one set of gods to worship, the eleven men in pajamas.
by Gangadhar Jogikalmath
Winners have a responsibility
As they say, “With power comes responsibility”
The winners are looked up to as role models more than the ones who didn’t. In a cricket crazy country like us, it is not only the responsibility of the 15 cricketers, 7 support staff and a board of a few hundred to act as the spokespeople of the winners. We, the people of India have that responsibility too.
I’m sure it was the responsibility or what we famously called the collective prayers that made our team win. Of course it was a team of great players but our prayers added to the cause. We were happy we won, some went to places of worship, many took residence in bars & pubs celebrating. Some even patriotically puked maps when they couldn’t handle the juice of victory.
It is all fine and good till we don’t revert to the traditional Indian past time, the art of the rhetoric. Alas, we have lost our minds to victory and this is precisely what we have been doing for the last couple of days. We have seen some irresponsible mails that are being circulated, posted on the social media websites etc.
The mails where the finals has been branded the revenge match, India’s response to the abduction of Sita. As the mails famously call it “Hamne Sita ki choron ko haradiya” (we have beat the thieves who abducted Sita, the wife of Lord Ram). Guys get some sense of history, Rama had already done that. He defeated Ravana, the original and actual “Sita ki chor” (The thief who abducted Sita). What we are doing now is what exactly our politicians have been doing for ages, “Conquering or spoiling minds using some romantic rhetoric”.
How would anyone of us feel if someone calls us “Dhuryodhan ki aulat” (Son of Duryodhana, an evil character in Hindu mythology) or even in a contemporary sense “A Raja ki bachhe ne paisa khilake jeetliya” (son of A Raja, the telecom minister who famously cheated the Indian exchequer of millions, who used money to win the cup)? Hurts right ?
So why the hell are we spoiling a great win with some stupid morphed pictures and insane rhetoric ? What do we get doing this ? 24 likes on the social networking sites and 4 comments ? So what does that achieve for us ?
I’m sure at some point in time someone is going to say, “Go take lessons from Afridi, if he could be graceful in defeat why can’t we be in victory ?”. Well someone has already said it (It is me !!)…
Let’s enjoy our victory, savor the moment, tell the world we are the champions and the best in business … But let’s avoid these unsavory, naïve, stupid jokes and cheap photoshop tricks that makes us project an image of a moron to the world at large.
Bharat Mata Ki Jai !!
The winners are looked up to as role models more than the ones who didn’t. In a cricket crazy country like us, it is not only the responsibility of the 15 cricketers, 7 support staff and a board of a few hundred to act as the spokespeople of the winners. We, the people of India have that responsibility too.
I’m sure it was the responsibility or what we famously called the collective prayers that made our team win. Of course it was a team of great players but our prayers added to the cause. We were happy we won, some went to places of worship, many took residence in bars & pubs celebrating. Some even patriotically puked maps when they couldn’t handle the juice of victory.
It is all fine and good till we don’t revert to the traditional Indian past time, the art of the rhetoric. Alas, we have lost our minds to victory and this is precisely what we have been doing for the last couple of days. We have seen some irresponsible mails that are being circulated, posted on the social media websites etc.
The mails where the finals has been branded the revenge match, India’s response to the abduction of Sita. As the mails famously call it “Hamne Sita ki choron ko haradiya” (we have beat the thieves who abducted Sita, the wife of Lord Ram). Guys get some sense of history, Rama had already done that. He defeated Ravana, the original and actual “Sita ki chor” (The thief who abducted Sita). What we are doing now is what exactly our politicians have been doing for ages, “Conquering or spoiling minds using some romantic rhetoric”.
How would anyone of us feel if someone calls us “Dhuryodhan ki aulat” (Son of Duryodhana, an evil character in Hindu mythology) or even in a contemporary sense “A Raja ki bachhe ne paisa khilake jeetliya” (son of A Raja, the telecom minister who famously cheated the Indian exchequer of millions, who used money to win the cup)? Hurts right ?
So why the hell are we spoiling a great win with some stupid morphed pictures and insane rhetoric ? What do we get doing this ? 24 likes on the social networking sites and 4 comments ? So what does that achieve for us ?
I’m sure at some point in time someone is going to say, “Go take lessons from Afridi, if he could be graceful in defeat why can’t we be in victory ?”. Well someone has already said it (It is me !!)…
Let’s enjoy our victory, savor the moment, tell the world we are the champions and the best in business … But let’s avoid these unsavory, naïve, stupid jokes and cheap photoshop tricks that makes us project an image of a moron to the world at large.
Bharat Mata Ki Jai !!
Leave letter
From
A dazed fan
In Dubai
To
Whomsoever concerned
In the Middle East
Dear Sir / Madam,
As I am suffering from a victory, something we’ve been waiting for since 1983, And hence I am unwell and I wouldn't be able to attend office tomorrow.
In fact I am well, well enough that I shouted my way around Meena Baazar and a good half of Bur Dubai. All I remember was cars, jammed all over the place. People trying to get a good click of what was happening around.
Victory is sweet, but has a very distinct aftertaste. It is so personal that I can only describe it as a rum flavor, a very heady woody taste, one of those Australian rums. Normally I would want to go to sleep with that little too much of a aftertaste in the back of my tongue, this time around I can’t call this an aftertaste nor could I even get some time to recount.
It was a flash… I never wanted to go overboard, do something that would spoil my day tomorrow at office. But my friends wouldn’t let me do that, they made me go mad, in fact Gambhir helped them do that. So did Sachin, Kohli and even Dhoni. Of all people I never expected Dhoni to go crazy,
I mean do things right. The way they messed up things, I can’t even recollect what I did, and how things happened. All I know now is that I’m feeling heady, feel like many rounds down. God knows how many, may be my friend I don’t know who. But whoever was there with me yesterday knows.
I don’t think I would be able to justice to work tomorrow if I did manage to report. Like Ravi Shastri’s tracer bullet, I might be short sighted. Or it could be one of those lose motioned rectums like Sanjay Manjrekar, which would only see one side of the pot. And personally I wouldn’t want to be someone like Rameez Raja, not knowing the difference between betting and batting.
So I would want to sleep tomorrow off, dream that Sachin would win his final match and worldcup next time around also. I’m sure I have said too much, like always. I’m very tired so please give holiday, tomorrow only and I would only come and work double time day after.
I promise you I would make things work like I have been for the past years I have been working with you. In fact I will try more than that, to work things even better.
The parade in Meena Bazaar was spectacular today, I wish we don’t have things like this everyday. It takes time to reach my regular Malayalee food joint if it is this crowded and Unni doesn’t mind me when I reach the place.
I’m sure by now you have made your mind up to give me leave. Leave me sir please.
Yours faithfully,
A drunk lord
A dazed fan
In Dubai
To
Whomsoever concerned
In the Middle East
Dear Sir / Madam,
As I am suffering from a victory, something we’ve been waiting for since 1983, And hence I am unwell and I wouldn't be able to attend office tomorrow.
In fact I am well, well enough that I shouted my way around Meena Baazar and a good half of Bur Dubai. All I remember was cars, jammed all over the place. People trying to get a good click of what was happening around.
Victory is sweet, but has a very distinct aftertaste. It is so personal that I can only describe it as a rum flavor, a very heady woody taste, one of those Australian rums. Normally I would want to go to sleep with that little too much of a aftertaste in the back of my tongue, this time around I can’t call this an aftertaste nor could I even get some time to recount.
It was a flash… I never wanted to go overboard, do something that would spoil my day tomorrow at office. But my friends wouldn’t let me do that, they made me go mad, in fact Gambhir helped them do that. So did Sachin, Kohli and even Dhoni. Of all people I never expected Dhoni to go crazy,
I mean do things right. The way they messed up things, I can’t even recollect what I did, and how things happened. All I know now is that I’m feeling heady, feel like many rounds down. God knows how many, may be my friend I don’t know who. But whoever was there with me yesterday knows.
I don’t think I would be able to justice to work tomorrow if I did manage to report. Like Ravi Shastri’s tracer bullet, I might be short sighted. Or it could be one of those lose motioned rectums like Sanjay Manjrekar, which would only see one side of the pot. And personally I wouldn’t want to be someone like Rameez Raja, not knowing the difference between betting and batting.
So I would want to sleep tomorrow off, dream that Sachin would win his final match and worldcup next time around also. I’m sure I have said too much, like always. I’m very tired so please give holiday, tomorrow only and I would only come and work double time day after.
I promise you I would make things work like I have been for the past years I have been working with you. In fact I will try more than that, to work things even better.
The parade in Meena Bazaar was spectacular today, I wish we don’t have things like this everyday. It takes time to reach my regular Malayalee food joint if it is this crowded and Unni doesn’t mind me when I reach the place.
I’m sure by now you have made your mind up to give me leave. Leave me sir please.
Yours faithfully,
A drunk lord
India vs Sri Lanka again, World Cup Finals (Live with the Bored Members)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
