Roger Bate, in The American, came out with an interesting argument regarding the comparative similarities between baseball and cricket, and how the differences in the game signify differences in national character.
As the sub-title in the article says, says "Cricket and baseball are twin brothers, separated at birth." If so, they've long been twins of the Danny Devito / Arnold Schwarzenegger sort, as the nature of the games, though similar in some respects, were as different as Euchre and Bridge.
But, I'd argue, they've been re-united at long last, with age ironing out the differences. I'd also argue that Roger Bate was more than a bit off the mark about how differences in the game signified differences in national character.
For cricket purists, the one and only form of the game is test cricket, where matches can span up to five days, and where often little happens hour after hour as cautious batsmen meet cautious bowlers, both with little incentive to take a chance, act bravely but rashly, or heroically.
Test cricket was a game well suited to the nature of upper class British society, a group able to while away the hours and days in idle or not idle amusement. But for the vast majority of cricket lovers, kids, teens, and adults who played the game then and now, there was never any question of spending five days for a test match. No, they played limited overs cricket. 10 overs per side, fifteen, twenty, whatever. But there almost always would be a some sort of limitation. Very few people then and now had or have wide open schedules.
Which all means that Bate has it a bit wrong. Cricket players played cricket the way baseball players played baseball. The games were shorter, and then people got on to their business.
Cricket playing countries aren't like Canada, where during the winter a community will spend a week at a bonspiel simply because there is little else to do on account of the ice and snow. Most cricket playing countries have very verdant climates, and there is almost never a lack of the need for a pair of hands to help out at something or other.
So cricket, as it was played in the back lots and on the street, never really resembled the way the game was presented on the international level. The way the majority play a game is the way a game "is." Street hockey looks a lot like ice hockey, just as pick-up basketball looks a lot like your average NBA game (minus the size and skill). Out of all the professional sports, only cricket, in it's official form, differs so greatly from the actual sport the players know and love.
cricket, then, rather than representing the "true" or "pure" form of cricket, has always ever been a bastardized form of the game. The real game has only really started being played recently, internationally, and that game is known as 20/20 cricket. That is, limited overs, a game started and finished in a couple of hours, just like a baseball game. And the result of this change is stadiums filled with people, billions of dollars being pumped into the sport, and an unprecedented global growth in recognition.
Don't agree with me? Just take a look at the half empty stands during the Ashes, the most prestigious cricket event in the world, and compare that with the screaming throngs during a normal IPL match, or even during the recent 20/20 World Cup in England.
Showing posts with label cricket. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cricket. Show all posts
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
Go Lanka!
I was chuffed, I tell you, watching Sri Lanka absolutely emasculate the West Indies at the T20 World Cup tonight. I had cheered for the Windies throughout the tournament, wanting them to do well. But Sri Lanka, you see, them's my boys.
The destruction really started with Matthews destroying the Windies opening lineup in the first over, by bowling three wickets, ending the over at 2 for 3. Commentators have already gotten used to saying "The Three Ms" meaning Mendis, Malinga, and Muralitharan, in reference to Sri Lanka's powerful bowling lineup (by far the strongest set of bowlers in the world today), and as my wife commented during the match, they are going to have to change it to "The Four Ms."
Prior to Matthews destruction of three of the Windies best four batsmen, there was Tillakaratne Dilshan's incredible innings where he stood, not out, for the entire 20 overs, ending just shy of a century, with the highest single game run total of the tournament. But that's not all. He has the highest overall runs of the tournament, and by far and away the most boundaries. As the former Sri Lankan giants, like Jayasuria, and Jayawardene fell ignobly during the innings, Dilshan remained, both the unmovable object and the unstoppable force. Put it this way, Dilshan's total came close to doubling the output of the rest of his team - combined.
Now our household is getting set for the big showdown. The Pakistan vs. Sri Lanka match will be more than just a match, more than just a finals with a World Cup on the line. There is still a lot of bad blood between the two squads on account of the terrorist attack on the Sri Lankan squad a few months ago. Pakistan, finalists during the last T20 World Cup, will be itching to ring that bell, but this is Sri Lanka's first real encounter with Pakistan since the attack.
Watch for sparks to fly.
The destruction really started with Matthews destroying the Windies opening lineup in the first over, by bowling three wickets, ending the over at 2 for 3. Commentators have already gotten used to saying "The Three Ms" meaning Mendis, Malinga, and Muralitharan, in reference to Sri Lanka's powerful bowling lineup (by far the strongest set of bowlers in the world today), and as my wife commented during the match, they are going to have to change it to "The Four Ms."
Prior to Matthews destruction of three of the Windies best four batsmen, there was Tillakaratne Dilshan's incredible innings where he stood, not out, for the entire 20 overs, ending just shy of a century, with the highest single game run total of the tournament. But that's not all. He has the highest overall runs of the tournament, and by far and away the most boundaries. As the former Sri Lankan giants, like Jayasuria, and Jayawardene fell ignobly during the innings, Dilshan remained, both the unmovable object and the unstoppable force. Put it this way, Dilshan's total came close to doubling the output of the rest of his team - combined.
Now our household is getting set for the big showdown. The Pakistan vs. Sri Lanka match will be more than just a match, more than just a finals with a World Cup on the line. There is still a lot of bad blood between the two squads on account of the terrorist attack on the Sri Lankan squad a few months ago. Pakistan, finalists during the last T20 World Cup, will be itching to ring that bell, but this is Sri Lanka's first real encounter with Pakistan since the attack.
Watch for sparks to fly.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Deccan Rising
IPL 2 just finished with a bang, and a massive concert and spectacle that came darn near to rivaling the Beijing Olympics closing ceremony, especially considering the fact that pretty much nobody in South Africa has the wherewithal to fake all that stuff on live television.
I have to say that, while I was disappointed that my Rajasthan Royals flamed out in such an embarrassing manner in their last game, I was quite happy with how the playoffs turned out. The two teams in the finals, the Deccan Chargers, and the Bangalore Royal Challengers were the last place teams the year before, having won a combined total of six games out of 28 played. Yet here they were, this year, in the finals, attesting to a level of mobility almost unprecedented in major sports leagues.
Can you imagine the two last place teams in the English Premiere league, or the National Football League, or even the National Hockey League doing the same thing?
In the next four years, six more teams will come into the fold, with three in 2010, and three more in 2011. While this is nowhere near the size of other major sports leagues, unlike leagues such as the NFL, NBA, or the European Football Leagues, there is still incredible room for growth, not only within India, but internationally as well.
One ironic item of note is that like last year's champions, the winning team this year was also captained by an Aussie. Shane Warne led the Royals to the championship last year, and this year it was Adam Gilchrist's turn. One of the greatest spin bowlers on the world was succeeded by perhaps the greatest wicket keeper playing cricket today. A friend of mine noted that these IPL teams look a lot like companies in Dubai. Staffed by local talent, but run by expat from abroad.
For those who are fans of the 20/20 version of cricket, over and above ODI and test, this is the sort of thing that really tells the true story of how 20/20 has changed cricket and leveled the sport for all players. In test, primarily, though it is also notable in ODI, bowlers, fielders, and wicketkeepers really do take a backseat to batsmen. With time on their side, the batsmen never have to take any chances, and can afford to hit singles all day, ball by ball, playing it safe and cautious, always. But in 20/20, time is not on the batsman's side, forcing those at the stumps to take some chances, swing for the bleachers, find gaps in the field, and look for as many runs as possible. By forcing the batsmen out of their safe little cage, and forcing them to take chances, they are far more prone to make mistakes, and its the rest of the field that reaps the benefit.
You take any ten test matches, cut out all the highlights, and what you often won't find are the diving catches, the cleanly bowled wickets, the dramatic run outs, and the over eager batmsen stepping past the line and getting taken out by a lightening quick wicketkeeper. You may find the leg by wicket, or heavenward lob easily caught by a bloke in the midfield, but that's about it. In test and ODI, it's a battle of batsmen, of their patience and stamina, but little else. In 20/20, it's about cricket, about every player on the pitch suddenly becoming important, being forced to try and catch anything in the air, to sprint at full tilt to prevent boundaries, to sprint between the stumps and try to squeeze out an extra run at every opportunity. In 20/20, every action counts, and every error could be the deciding factor in games that, more often than not, end up coming down to the very last over, and almost as often, to the very last ball.
I have to say that, while I was disappointed that my Rajasthan Royals flamed out in such an embarrassing manner in their last game, I was quite happy with how the playoffs turned out. The two teams in the finals, the Deccan Chargers, and the Bangalore Royal Challengers were the last place teams the year before, having won a combined total of six games out of 28 played. Yet here they were, this year, in the finals, attesting to a level of mobility almost unprecedented in major sports leagues.
Can you imagine the two last place teams in the English Premiere league, or the National Football League, or even the National Hockey League doing the same thing?
In the next four years, six more teams will come into the fold, with three in 2010, and three more in 2011. While this is nowhere near the size of other major sports leagues, unlike leagues such as the NFL, NBA, or the European Football Leagues, there is still incredible room for growth, not only within India, but internationally as well.
One ironic item of note is that like last year's champions, the winning team this year was also captained by an Aussie. Shane Warne led the Royals to the championship last year, and this year it was Adam Gilchrist's turn. One of the greatest spin bowlers on the world was succeeded by perhaps the greatest wicket keeper playing cricket today. A friend of mine noted that these IPL teams look a lot like companies in Dubai. Staffed by local talent, but run by expat from abroad.
For those who are fans of the 20/20 version of cricket, over and above ODI and test, this is the sort of thing that really tells the true story of how 20/20 has changed cricket and leveled the sport for all players. In test, primarily, though it is also notable in ODI, bowlers, fielders, and wicketkeepers really do take a backseat to batsmen. With time on their side, the batsmen never have to take any chances, and can afford to hit singles all day, ball by ball, playing it safe and cautious, always. But in 20/20, time is not on the batsman's side, forcing those at the stumps to take some chances, swing for the bleachers, find gaps in the field, and look for as many runs as possible. By forcing the batsmen out of their safe little cage, and forcing them to take chances, they are far more prone to make mistakes, and its the rest of the field that reaps the benefit.
You take any ten test matches, cut out all the highlights, and what you often won't find are the diving catches, the cleanly bowled wickets, the dramatic run outs, and the over eager batmsen stepping past the line and getting taken out by a lightening quick wicketkeeper. You may find the leg by wicket, or heavenward lob easily caught by a bloke in the midfield, but that's about it. In test and ODI, it's a battle of batsmen, of their patience and stamina, but little else. In 20/20, it's about cricket, about every player on the pitch suddenly becoming important, being forced to try and catch anything in the air, to sprint at full tilt to prevent boundaries, to sprint between the stumps and try to squeeze out an extra run at every opportunity. In 20/20, every action counts, and every error could be the deciding factor in games that, more often than not, end up coming down to the very last over, and almost as often, to the very last ball.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
A Model Model
A few weeks back I was bemoaning the spectacular ineptness of my beloved Rajasthan Royals, whose inaugural Cinderella season last year, culminating in winning the first IPL championship, seemed as if it was being followed up by season long clinic of how not to play cricket. Dead last after three matches, the Royals are now sitting in second, within a hair of the number one Delhi Daredevils. They've now had a streak of four straight wins, a turnaround which stands as a real testament to the leadership of team captain Shane Warne.
That and the Howitzer-like batting arm of Yousuf Pathan.
As I was leaving work today, my wife made sure to call me up and let me know just what I was missing. The Royals were 211 for 4 at the end of their innings, a result standing in stark contrast with the 58 with all out from the first match of the season. From the bit I caught at the end of the match, after getting home, it really seemed as if Priety Zinta's Kings XI had lost their shine, again in stark contrast with their last ball win over the Mumbai Indians barely a week ago.
As it was last year, this IPL is wildly unpredictable, and that makes for great entertainment.
That said, something I've noticed while watching the IPL matches this year has really stuck with me. It's something beyond the matches and the teams. Due to security concerns in India during the month long election, it was decided that the IPL, the Indian Premiere League, could not actually operate in India this year. Imagine that same scenario played out in a different sport. Say the NHL's Canadian teams were shipped off to Slovakia for a season. How would that fare with the home audience?
I'm betting not well.
Yet somehow, being shipped off to South Africa has not seemed to have hurt the league at all. The matches are still packing in the stadiums, and the broadcasters are raking in the ad revenues. Ratings are massive. Fully half the teams in the league have earned back their initial investment from only two years ago, and the rest will be in the black by the end of the season. In the annals of professional sports leagues, the IPL has been a spectacular success, a success that I think may provide a model for other sports.
You see, fans of cricket won't admit this, but even though the game is fanatically followed by far, far more people than are fans of the NFL, NHL, or MLB, cricket has long been a sport for poor men, played for honor and little else besides. Sure you made a decent wage on a national club, and earned a little better than a teacher would if you made it on a county cricket squad in England, but other than that, money itself seemed allergic to the game. All the money in international cricket combined probably wouldn't have covered the salaries of Manchester United.
Then along comes 20/20, and suddenly cricket is not just a growth sport, but an incredibly lucrative one at that. The trend was already there with the "renegade" Indian Cricket League (Renegade because they didn't pay due respect to the Wallahs in charge of the BCCI - Board for Control of Cricket in India - terrible name, isn't it?), but it really solidified with the first IPL last year, and continued this year as guys like Kevin Pietersen were offered salaries that stars of many US network dramas would blink at.
That said, it's not the money itself which makes the IPL stand out for me. The NFL, NBA, and English Premiere League all feature grossly inflated salaries and wildly overcompensated athletes. But the way the IPL is leveraging its financial success to build bridges with new markets is something that really stands out.
At first there was a question as to whether South Africans would support the IPL at all. Would people even come to the matches? At first attendance did not shatter records. The first week of the new season saw half empty stadiums. So what did the IPL Wallahs do? They stepped up the incentives.
At each match, an announcer finds a few very beautiful, young women, and enters them into a "Miss Bollywood" contest, where they have the chance to end up in a Bollywood film. These announcers also dig up people to award 50,000 ZAR (Rand) scholarships to, and each game one or two schools is featured, where students and faculty appear in full uniforms, all neatly groomed and ready to receive 100,000 ZAR cheques for their schools. Suddenly the matches were not just matches, but lotteries, contests, and community building charity events.
The first time I saw one of these giveaways, I didn't think much of it. 50,000? 100,000? How much is the rand worth? Isn't it like rupees these days? What's 100,000 rand in American? 10 bucks?
I laughed at first, but after watching giveaway after giveaway, I got curious. I wondered just how much 100,000 rand was worth in South Africa. So I looked into it a bit.
Google Finance has the ZAR being pegged at 8.43 per US dollar. And according to The Economist's Big Mac Index, which is not at all a scientific gauge of purchasing power parity, but does serve to crudely illustrate the issue, it costs about $1.66 USD for a Big Mac in South Africa, versus $3.54 USD in the US. This means that stuff in South Africa costs a little less than half what it would in the US. So that 100,000 ZAR? The purchasing power is equivalent to $200,000 USD, or about a quarter of a million in my own home and native land.
A quarter of a million ain't nothing to sneeze at. In fact, where I am from, most school administrators would trample each other in steel tipped stilettos to grasp a cheque like that. A quarter of a million funds an entire suite of after-school programs, fills a library with newspapers and magazines, and has enough left over to equip a full computer lab with new computers, software, and even a projector or two thrown in for good measure. A quarter of a million means a world of opportunity for a whole lot of children, and in a country like South Africa, it means a lot more opportunity than it would in Barrie, Ontario.
Those IPL Wallahs are clever. These charity giveaways, funded by money that probably came through TV revenues anyways, or new sponsorship deals, not only buys a whole lot of goodwill, but it establishes the league brand in the next generation of fans, in an entirely new market.
From a marketing standpoint, it's a stroke of genius. 100,000 ZAR? It wouldn't be enough to buy a Ford Fiesta with. It might pay for a little over 1 second of air time during an episode of Heroes, but barely over 1/10th of one second of air time during the Super Bowl. In terms of ad rates, 100,000 ZAR is laughable. But the impact on the IPL's image, reputation, and their target market is not.
I hope the IPL does not go back to India next year. I hope it goes to Bangladesh, or Sri Lanka. Perhaps Australia and New Zealand, or even England. If the IPL makes a circuit of cricket loving countries, and keeps on working the same marketing magic, the league could very well make it into the top tier of professional sports leagues.
As a newly converted fan of cricket, that's something I'd like to see.
That and the Howitzer-like batting arm of Yousuf Pathan.
As I was leaving work today, my wife made sure to call me up and let me know just what I was missing. The Royals were 211 for 4 at the end of their innings, a result standing in stark contrast with the 58 with all out from the first match of the season. From the bit I caught at the end of the match, after getting home, it really seemed as if Priety Zinta's Kings XI had lost their shine, again in stark contrast with their last ball win over the Mumbai Indians barely a week ago.
As it was last year, this IPL is wildly unpredictable, and that makes for great entertainment.
That said, something I've noticed while watching the IPL matches this year has really stuck with me. It's something beyond the matches and the teams. Due to security concerns in India during the month long election, it was decided that the IPL, the Indian Premiere League, could not actually operate in India this year. Imagine that same scenario played out in a different sport. Say the NHL's Canadian teams were shipped off to Slovakia for a season. How would that fare with the home audience?
I'm betting not well.
Yet somehow, being shipped off to South Africa has not seemed to have hurt the league at all. The matches are still packing in the stadiums, and the broadcasters are raking in the ad revenues. Ratings are massive. Fully half the teams in the league have earned back their initial investment from only two years ago, and the rest will be in the black by the end of the season. In the annals of professional sports leagues, the IPL has been a spectacular success, a success that I think may provide a model for other sports.
You see, fans of cricket won't admit this, but even though the game is fanatically followed by far, far more people than are fans of the NFL, NHL, or MLB, cricket has long been a sport for poor men, played for honor and little else besides. Sure you made a decent wage on a national club, and earned a little better than a teacher would if you made it on a county cricket squad in England, but other than that, money itself seemed allergic to the game. All the money in international cricket combined probably wouldn't have covered the salaries of Manchester United.
Then along comes 20/20, and suddenly cricket is not just a growth sport, but an incredibly lucrative one at that. The trend was already there with the "renegade" Indian Cricket League (Renegade because they didn't pay due respect to the Wallahs in charge of the BCCI - Board for Control of Cricket in India - terrible name, isn't it?), but it really solidified with the first IPL last year, and continued this year as guys like Kevin Pietersen were offered salaries that stars of many US network dramas would blink at.
That said, it's not the money itself which makes the IPL stand out for me. The NFL, NBA, and English Premiere League all feature grossly inflated salaries and wildly overcompensated athletes. But the way the IPL is leveraging its financial success to build bridges with new markets is something that really stands out.
At first there was a question as to whether South Africans would support the IPL at all. Would people even come to the matches? At first attendance did not shatter records. The first week of the new season saw half empty stadiums. So what did the IPL Wallahs do? They stepped up the incentives.
At each match, an announcer finds a few very beautiful, young women, and enters them into a "Miss Bollywood" contest, where they have the chance to end up in a Bollywood film. These announcers also dig up people to award 50,000 ZAR (Rand) scholarships to, and each game one or two schools is featured, where students and faculty appear in full uniforms, all neatly groomed and ready to receive 100,000 ZAR cheques for their schools. Suddenly the matches were not just matches, but lotteries, contests, and community building charity events.
The first time I saw one of these giveaways, I didn't think much of it. 50,000? 100,000? How much is the rand worth? Isn't it like rupees these days? What's 100,000 rand in American? 10 bucks?
I laughed at first, but after watching giveaway after giveaway, I got curious. I wondered just how much 100,000 rand was worth in South Africa. So I looked into it a bit.
Google Finance has the ZAR being pegged at 8.43 per US dollar. And according to The Economist's Big Mac Index, which is not at all a scientific gauge of purchasing power parity, but does serve to crudely illustrate the issue, it costs about $1.66 USD for a Big Mac in South Africa, versus $3.54 USD in the US. This means that stuff in South Africa costs a little less than half what it would in the US. So that 100,000 ZAR? The purchasing power is equivalent to $200,000 USD, or about a quarter of a million in my own home and native land.
A quarter of a million ain't nothing to sneeze at. In fact, where I am from, most school administrators would trample each other in steel tipped stilettos to grasp a cheque like that. A quarter of a million funds an entire suite of after-school programs, fills a library with newspapers and magazines, and has enough left over to equip a full computer lab with new computers, software, and even a projector or two thrown in for good measure. A quarter of a million means a world of opportunity for a whole lot of children, and in a country like South Africa, it means a lot more opportunity than it would in Barrie, Ontario.
Those IPL Wallahs are clever. These charity giveaways, funded by money that probably came through TV revenues anyways, or new sponsorship deals, not only buys a whole lot of goodwill, but it establishes the league brand in the next generation of fans, in an entirely new market.
From a marketing standpoint, it's a stroke of genius. 100,000 ZAR? It wouldn't be enough to buy a Ford Fiesta with. It might pay for a little over 1 second of air time during an episode of Heroes, but barely over 1/10th of one second of air time during the Super Bowl. In terms of ad rates, 100,000 ZAR is laughable. But the impact on the IPL's image, reputation, and their target market is not.
I hope the IPL does not go back to India next year. I hope it goes to Bangladesh, or Sri Lanka. Perhaps Australia and New Zealand, or even England. If the IPL makes a circuit of cricket loving countries, and keeps on working the same marketing magic, the league could very well make it into the top tier of professional sports leagues.
As a newly converted fan of cricket, that's something I'd like to see.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
A Royal Disaster
Over the past three nights I've tried to examine, as objectively as possible, how the state of laborers in Dubai, or at least the popular perception of the state of those laborers, had come about. There is one more installment in that series on the way, but I wanted to touch on a few other matters for the next few nights before I get to that.
A Royal Disaster
Since the end of last year's IPL, with the absolutely stunning finale where Shane Warne and Sohail Tanvir eked out a single run victory on the very last bowl of the very last over, I have been jonesing for it all to start again. As a guy raised on a diet of NHL Hockey, CFL Football, NBA Basketball, and MLB Baseball, I've never had to worry about not having something to get excited about. But since moving to the other side of the globe, and being entirely removed from my native sports culture, and immersed in South Asian culture since, I've had no choice but to succumb to the siren song that is cricket.
Sure football, or what I call soccer, is the big game in town in these parts, but as a red blooded hockey fan, I generally have little patience for the low scoring ballerina antics of a bunch of European prima donnas. If play on the field can qualify you for an Oscar, then it just ain't a sport is all. And that's the gospel according to Don Cherry. So when it comes to European Football, I am a hater...well, maybe that's to strong a word...I am a disliker...ntach also...let's just say I'm an ambivalencer, if that's a even a word, which I don't think it is, but it'll do for now. I'm sure you get my meaning.
Come to think of it, though...strangely enough I do enjoy Euro and the World Cup, and play football/soccer every chance I get, so perhaps there is some hope for me yet? Who knows! But what I do know, however, is that I got to loving cricket, and I don't think there is any going back.
While I have not yet gotten around to reading C L R James' great book "Beyond a Boundary", I do intend to read it when I feel I have the lingo more fully mastered. Until then, a daily diet of cricinfo.com will have to suffice. Nonetheless, as a quick study, I've gotten my head around the game sufficiently that I now no longer embarrass myself quite so much when talking cricket in public. Or at least people are waiting until I leave to snicker, which also works for me. On to the tirade.
I waited all year for the IPL to start again. During the inaugural season, I was one of those benighted fools who actually cheered for Rajasthan from the very first game. Seeing as how I tend to root for the destruction and failure of most of the deities of Indian cricket (Down with Tendulkar! To heck with Dravid!), with Sri Lanka being my favorite international team, I decided to choose a team that had picked not one overpaid BCCI endorsed blowhard (Though I do respect MS Dhoni), and instead chose an alcoholic washed up has-been for a captain, and a motley assortment rag-tag crew from the bargain basement of the cricket world. This was a team that the gurus of the cricket world declared would not win a game, a team that came so far under the salary cap they were fined for not paying enough, and a team that had the lowest overall franchise sticker price. This team was the plot of the movie Major League, starring Charlie Sheen. And I am an avowed lover of the under-est of underdogs.
It was love at first sight.
That first season was magic. Shane Warne delivered a masterclass on leadership that you could copy ans paste straight into the textbooks. His players, especailly the youngsters who saw Warne not as a man but as a legend stepping forth from the mists of history into their midst, responded to his leadership to the Nth degree. Rajasthan became a juggernaut, and while Rajasthan did not cruise through,they ended up in first place at the end of the round robin, consistently played some of the most thrilling games I have ever witnessed in any sport. Almost night after night they were staging come from behind victories that were so close to the line, so uncertain and improbable, and so utterly thrilling and captivating, that watching it on TV from a living room a thousand kilometers away, you could feel the bated breath of the tens of thousands of people packed into the stadiums watching the match live. This wasn't sport, it was televised narcotic of a potency heretofore unknown to man.
It was awesome.
The season ended, Rajasthan capped a magical run, and off the players went to their home countries to be swallowed up by the ODI, Test, and County Cricket machines. I had a year to wait, and it was a hard wait indeed.
And then the wait ended.
So last night, after my little one's first birthday party, and after Malinga had lead the Indians with three wickets as they dismissed Chennai in a surprise victory (The overpaid blowhards were earning their keep for once, and proving beyond the shadow of a doubt why they got the big bucks), I sat down for a treat. My victorious Royals were back for round two.
They should have stayed home.
It was hard to describe. The end score, all out for 58 in 15.1 overs speaks volumes in and of itself. But it doesn't state the issue poetically enough. not for a loss like this. Bangalore had not really racked up the runs, and had posted an entirely beatable score by the end of 20 overs, but it was like Rajasthan wasn't satisfied with beating Bangalore. No, they wanted a bigger challenge, beating themselves.
I tried to think of analogies that could explain what I was watching. It was like watching Canada take on Australia. It was like an watching elderly Alzheimers victim stand on a corner half naked, soiling himself because he's scared of the traffic racing by. It was like watching an alcoholic washed up has-been, and a motley assortment rag-tag crew pretend to play cricket.
Sorry, did I say "It was like?" My apologies. I meant to say "It was."
I can only hope that this whole bit was an anomaly, a joke on us die-hards. A little tease before they pull out the big stick and start banging it home. But I fear that may not be the case. Minus Shane Watson, the only really decent batsman on the squad, and absent the Pakistanis, especially Sohail Tanvir who absolutely dominated the pitch last year, I think what's left of that magic potion has fizzled into paste.
I'm always prepared to stand corrected, but something tells me that the most entertainment I'll get out of them this year won't be on the pitch, it'll be off the pitch whenever Shane Warne steps up to the mic with something to say.
Still, one does hope.
A Royal Disaster
Since the end of last year's IPL, with the absolutely stunning finale where Shane Warne and Sohail Tanvir eked out a single run victory on the very last bowl of the very last over, I have been jonesing for it all to start again. As a guy raised on a diet of NHL Hockey, CFL Football, NBA Basketball, and MLB Baseball, I've never had to worry about not having something to get excited about. But since moving to the other side of the globe, and being entirely removed from my native sports culture, and immersed in South Asian culture since, I've had no choice but to succumb to the siren song that is cricket.
Sure football, or what I call soccer, is the big game in town in these parts, but as a red blooded hockey fan, I generally have little patience for the low scoring ballerina antics of a bunch of European prima donnas. If play on the field can qualify you for an Oscar, then it just ain't a sport is all. And that's the gospel according to Don Cherry. So when it comes to European Football, I am a hater...well, maybe that's to strong a word...I am a disliker...ntach also...let's just say I'm an ambivalencer, if that's a even a word, which I don't think it is, but it'll do for now. I'm sure you get my meaning.
Come to think of it, though...strangely enough I do enjoy Euro and the World Cup, and play football/soccer every chance I get, so perhaps there is some hope for me yet? Who knows! But what I do know, however, is that I got to loving cricket, and I don't think there is any going back.
While I have not yet gotten around to reading C L R James' great book "Beyond a Boundary", I do intend to read it when I feel I have the lingo more fully mastered. Until then, a daily diet of cricinfo.com will have to suffice. Nonetheless, as a quick study, I've gotten my head around the game sufficiently that I now no longer embarrass myself quite so much when talking cricket in public. Or at least people are waiting until I leave to snicker, which also works for me. On to the tirade.
I waited all year for the IPL to start again. During the inaugural season, I was one of those benighted fools who actually cheered for Rajasthan from the very first game. Seeing as how I tend to root for the destruction and failure of most of the deities of Indian cricket (Down with Tendulkar! To heck with Dravid!), with Sri Lanka being my favorite international team, I decided to choose a team that had picked not one overpaid BCCI endorsed blowhard (Though I do respect MS Dhoni), and instead chose an alcoholic washed up has-been for a captain, and a motley assortment rag-tag crew from the bargain basement of the cricket world. This was a team that the gurus of the cricket world declared would not win a game, a team that came so far under the salary cap they were fined for not paying enough, and a team that had the lowest overall franchise sticker price. This team was the plot of the movie Major League, starring Charlie Sheen. And I am an avowed lover of the under-est of underdogs.
It was love at first sight.
That first season was magic. Shane Warne delivered a masterclass on leadership that you could copy ans paste straight into the textbooks. His players, especailly the youngsters who saw Warne not as a man but as a legend stepping forth from the mists of history into their midst, responded to his leadership to the Nth degree. Rajasthan became a juggernaut, and while Rajasthan did not cruise through,they ended up in first place at the end of the round robin, consistently played some of the most thrilling games I have ever witnessed in any sport. Almost night after night they were staging come from behind victories that were so close to the line, so uncertain and improbable, and so utterly thrilling and captivating, that watching it on TV from a living room a thousand kilometers away, you could feel the bated breath of the tens of thousands of people packed into the stadiums watching the match live. This wasn't sport, it was televised narcotic of a potency heretofore unknown to man.
It was awesome.
The season ended, Rajasthan capped a magical run, and off the players went to their home countries to be swallowed up by the ODI, Test, and County Cricket machines. I had a year to wait, and it was a hard wait indeed.
And then the wait ended.
So last night, after my little one's first birthday party, and after Malinga had lead the Indians with three wickets as they dismissed Chennai in a surprise victory (The overpaid blowhards were earning their keep for once, and proving beyond the shadow of a doubt why they got the big bucks), I sat down for a treat. My victorious Royals were back for round two.
They should have stayed home.
It was hard to describe. The end score, all out for 58 in 15.1 overs speaks volumes in and of itself. But it doesn't state the issue poetically enough. not for a loss like this. Bangalore had not really racked up the runs, and had posted an entirely beatable score by the end of 20 overs, but it was like Rajasthan wasn't satisfied with beating Bangalore. No, they wanted a bigger challenge, beating themselves.
I tried to think of analogies that could explain what I was watching. It was like watching Canada take on Australia. It was like an watching elderly Alzheimers victim stand on a corner half naked, soiling himself because he's scared of the traffic racing by. It was like watching an alcoholic washed up has-been, and a motley assortment rag-tag crew pretend to play cricket.
Sorry, did I say "It was like?" My apologies. I meant to say "It was."
I can only hope that this whole bit was an anomaly, a joke on us die-hards. A little tease before they pull out the big stick and start banging it home. But I fear that may not be the case. Minus Shane Watson, the only really decent batsman on the squad, and absent the Pakistanis, especially Sohail Tanvir who absolutely dominated the pitch last year, I think what's left of that magic potion has fizzled into paste.
I'm always prepared to stand corrected, but something tells me that the most entertainment I'll get out of them this year won't be on the pitch, it'll be off the pitch whenever Shane Warne steps up to the mic with something to say.
Still, one does hope.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
The Pitch Awaits
As a Canadian, there are certain sports allegiances that are not only expected, but required as a condition of continued citizenship. Even if you're not a fan of the CFL, if you're asked whether you're a fan, the minimum response required is a firm, approving nod followed by a "you bet." If the question is "do you like hockey?," it's proper form to respond by asking the questioner if the feel okay, or need to lie down for a but. I mean, we're talking hockey, okay? Do you like hockey?" Pfft. What kind of question is that?
But when it comes to other sports, Canadian associations and allegiances fade into the background, and old ethnic remembrances move to the fore. Are we talking soccer? Rugby? Kabaddi? Baseball? Each major sport can call upon a dedicated and fervent subset of society, displaying a passion for their game that you may not have realized they felt. Encountering that passion in its raw, undiluted form can be a real eye opener. In 2006 this happened to me. I had moved to Dubai, just in time to catch the Cricket World Cup taking place in the West Indies.
In the past when I had thought of cricket, if I had thought about it at all, it was as part of a punchline involving words like 'eternity' or how a 'century' didn't refer to runs, but to the length of the average match. In university I knew cricket in two forms, test cricket, which is the three to five day affair where two teams finish "a" game or match. The other is annoyance cricket, usually played by South Asian students at my old university, in large open foyers almost always inconveniently packed with people. After more than a few close calls, where a "ball" (felt more like a rock to me, then) would nearly take off my head, I decided to take the matter up with higher authorities.
At that time I was heading up my college's athletics council, and was part of the campus wide intra-mural sports body. I began advocating that cricket be added to the intramural sports list, even if only because a third or more of our students seemed to hail from India or Pakistan. Absolutely sure that I had a winner, it was a surprise to me when that suggestion went over like a dirt pancake. A few of the football players on the council acted like I'd asked everyone to apply for Chinese citizenship. That nearly two billion people are nuts about cricket didn't seem to register, for as they said "That's a stupid idea. Nobody likes cricket."
And so the matter dropped, and I forgot about the whole thing, except when a near miss/death experience would act as a subtle reminder. But in 2006, when I moved to Dubai where 90% of the expat community lives, eats, and breathes cricket, it was hard not to get sucked in. It was the ICC World Cup of Cricket, and a host of nations around the world were there, including Canada, who managed to embarrass in ways I never thought imaginable in sports. Watching them play cured me of nationalist favoritism, and so I became a fan of Sri Lanka. I'd have chosen India, but since I lived with Indians and was always surrounded by them, I needed something to set me apart, and cheering for Pakistan in a room full of Indians was, is, and probably always will be the surest path to a broken nose there is. So that's why I chose Sri Lanka, that and the fact that the Sri Lankan team was actually exciting, in a way I had never seen a baseball team be exciting.
Still, for all the enthusiasm I started to show, my overall love of the game was lukewarm at best. The ICC World Cup plays a form of cricket called "ODI" which stands for "one day international." The games don't actually take a whole day to play, just six or seven hours. Which is actually an improvement over the days long test matches. But three days, or even six hours, is far too long to sustain a real feeling of excitement and engagement. I had gotten a taste of cricket, and I liked it when the game flowed, but more often than not watching was an awful drudge.
But then something happened. The first 20/20 World Cup aired, and my eyes were opened. There, in front of me, I beheld a form of the game that had it all. Passion, skill, ferocity, and most importantly, brevity. Each team had a very limited chance to stack up some runs, so every little mistake counted. Games took as little as two hours to play, just like a baseball game. When India won that first cup, I was right there cheering Ms Dhoni, the captain of the Indian team. I didn't care, because I was having so much fun.
Not long afterwards the IPL, Indian Premiere League, started, and brought cricket to an entirely new level. One of the biggest problems with cricket is the nationalist aspect of the game. Teams represent countries, and matches come often resemble war by proxy depending on who is playing. But this IPL deal, they went all out and splashed money around like nobody's business, snapping up the best players from around the world, and mixing them together on different teams.
That first IPL was incredible. With the exception of a few NHL playoff seasons, one in particular in the 90's when the Maple Leafs played the most epic seven game series against St. Louis that had ever been played (where they were screwed by Cujo for the first, but not the last time), I had never felt this level of engagement or involvement in any season or tournament. But I couldn't help it with the IPL thing. Every game was a barn burner, the rich and powerful were humbled beyond compare, the dismissed and humble stepped about like giants, crushing everything in their wake. That first tournament was epic, the memory of which will probably remain with me for a long, long time.
Now, in a couple days, the second IPL will begin. My expectations are high, too high, which will probably guarantee disappointment, but I'm not worried about that. I prefer to hold out hope that the magic will come again.
But when it comes to other sports, Canadian associations and allegiances fade into the background, and old ethnic remembrances move to the fore. Are we talking soccer? Rugby? Kabaddi? Baseball? Each major sport can call upon a dedicated and fervent subset of society, displaying a passion for their game that you may not have realized they felt. Encountering that passion in its raw, undiluted form can be a real eye opener. In 2006 this happened to me. I had moved to Dubai, just in time to catch the Cricket World Cup taking place in the West Indies.
In the past when I had thought of cricket, if I had thought about it at all, it was as part of a punchline involving words like 'eternity' or how a 'century' didn't refer to runs, but to the length of the average match. In university I knew cricket in two forms, test cricket, which is the three to five day affair where two teams finish "a" game or match. The other is annoyance cricket, usually played by South Asian students at my old university, in large open foyers almost always inconveniently packed with people. After more than a few close calls, where a "ball" (felt more like a rock to me, then) would nearly take off my head, I decided to take the matter up with higher authorities.
At that time I was heading up my college's athletics council, and was part of the campus wide intra-mural sports body. I began advocating that cricket be added to the intramural sports list, even if only because a third or more of our students seemed to hail from India or Pakistan. Absolutely sure that I had a winner, it was a surprise to me when that suggestion went over like a dirt pancake. A few of the football players on the council acted like I'd asked everyone to apply for Chinese citizenship. That nearly two billion people are nuts about cricket didn't seem to register, for as they said "That's a stupid idea. Nobody likes cricket."
And so the matter dropped, and I forgot about the whole thing, except when a near miss/death experience would act as a subtle reminder. But in 2006, when I moved to Dubai where 90% of the expat community lives, eats, and breathes cricket, it was hard not to get sucked in. It was the ICC World Cup of Cricket, and a host of nations around the world were there, including Canada, who managed to embarrass in ways I never thought imaginable in sports. Watching them play cured me of nationalist favoritism, and so I became a fan of Sri Lanka. I'd have chosen India, but since I lived with Indians and was always surrounded by them, I needed something to set me apart, and cheering for Pakistan in a room full of Indians was, is, and probably always will be the surest path to a broken nose there is. So that's why I chose Sri Lanka, that and the fact that the Sri Lankan team was actually exciting, in a way I had never seen a baseball team be exciting.
Still, for all the enthusiasm I started to show, my overall love of the game was lukewarm at best. The ICC World Cup plays a form of cricket called "ODI" which stands for "one day international." The games don't actually take a whole day to play, just six or seven hours. Which is actually an improvement over the days long test matches. But three days, or even six hours, is far too long to sustain a real feeling of excitement and engagement. I had gotten a taste of cricket, and I liked it when the game flowed, but more often than not watching was an awful drudge.
But then something happened. The first 20/20 World Cup aired, and my eyes were opened. There, in front of me, I beheld a form of the game that had it all. Passion, skill, ferocity, and most importantly, brevity. Each team had a very limited chance to stack up some runs, so every little mistake counted. Games took as little as two hours to play, just like a baseball game. When India won that first cup, I was right there cheering Ms Dhoni, the captain of the Indian team. I didn't care, because I was having so much fun.
Not long afterwards the IPL, Indian Premiere League, started, and brought cricket to an entirely new level. One of the biggest problems with cricket is the nationalist aspect of the game. Teams represent countries, and matches come often resemble war by proxy depending on who is playing. But this IPL deal, they went all out and splashed money around like nobody's business, snapping up the best players from around the world, and mixing them together on different teams.
That first IPL was incredible. With the exception of a few NHL playoff seasons, one in particular in the 90's when the Maple Leafs played the most epic seven game series against St. Louis that had ever been played (where they were screwed by Cujo for the first, but not the last time), I had never felt this level of engagement or involvement in any season or tournament. But I couldn't help it with the IPL thing. Every game was a barn burner, the rich and powerful were humbled beyond compare, the dismissed and humble stepped about like giants, crushing everything in their wake. That first tournament was epic, the memory of which will probably remain with me for a long, long time.
Now, in a couple days, the second IPL will begin. My expectations are high, too high, which will probably guarantee disappointment, but I'm not worried about that. I prefer to hold out hope that the magic will come again.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
In Defense of Cricket
I fully understand that sense of confusion upon first encountering the world of cricket. While I lived in North America, and even in Japan, cricket seemed no more than a quaint, laughable neurosis of the few Australians, New Zealanders, and South Asians that I knew. But then I moved to the Middle East.
Though the Middle East in and of itself is not a hotbed for cricket, the place is overflowing with South Asians, Australians, South Africans, and Brits. Because of this, cricket has a prominent place on television. When the WCC was on, it actually was televised…around the world, sans-North America, to over two billion people, on Fox Sports no less. During the WCC, in which a semi-truncated form of the game, ODI, was played, I found myself inexplicably, yet inexorably pulled into a love of and admiration for the game. Then, a few months later, when the latest form of cricket debuted, Twenty20, in which a game lasts for just about as long as the average baseball game, I was hooked. Utterly and absolutely.
I know and love baseball, and have all my life. I started young, playing t-ball, graduating to pee-wee, through to hardball and softball in high school, and then shifting to slo-pitch during my decadent years at university. I have played the game in one form or another all my life. In every sense, baseball is the sport that for me is not only infused in memory, but becomes memory itself for those brief hours when I am out on the diamond.
When I lived in Japan, their love of baseball, even though at the time it was being threatened by a new found passion for soccer, was exhilarating. Indeed, the way the sport was played, and the way in which the fans went about watching a game had something about it that my experiences watching professional baseball in North America never had - the sense of being at home. What do I mean by this? Well, if you have ever seem the film Mr. Baseball, with Tom Selleck, cliche ridden as it is, it still evokes, in small moments, they way the average fan acts and behaves at a game. From slurping down ramen and having a beir-u (beer) or some sho-chu (think Vodka for Koreans), there is little sense that they are in an alien environment, removed from everyday life. In many ways sitting down to watch the Yomiuri Giants take apart the Hiroshima Carp (Lovely name for a team), is like sitting down on a lawn chair watching your buddy’s team play in the local beer league. There is a sense of relaxation, an absence of overt commercialization, and a lack of distance between the fans and the players that so marks professional baseball in North America. Seriously…when the New York Yankees paid more for one baseball player than it would cost to fund five thousand full four year scholarships to Ivy League schools, you can hardly picture yourself standing beside the average multi-millionaire MLB player, talking about the weather.
Cricket, like Japanese baseball and the local beer league, offers the fan that same sense of being at home. Whether you are watching a test match, which can take days, an ODI match, which takes about six to eight hours, or a Twenty20 match, which might last from two to three hours, there is a greater sense of connection between the fans and the players. The players themselves cannot help but be more human, frail and fallible in the eyes of cricket fans than ever a professional MLB player could be. The same goes for the local beer league. As good as Jim or Bob is at the game, you still remember that he picks up your garbage every Tuesday morning. In Japan, the nature of the society itself precludes the possibility that even the best baseball players would hold themselves above and dissociated from the common man. Yet that same sense of commonality, of being on the same level, just doesn’t exist in Major League Baseball. Part of reason for this, from what I have seen, comes about from the structure of the game itself
In baseball, if the best, highest paid, most dominating player steps up to the plate at the beginning of the game, and messes up, it really is no big deal. What if Barry Bonds strikes out in the first inning? So what? No problem. He’s potentially got eight more chances to launch something into orbit. But in cricket, when that Barry Bonds-esque, team carrying, win-loss deciding player steps up to the wicket, and he messes up, that’s it. It’s over. For him, and sometimes for his team. And when these Bonds-esque players do stand up, for every time they rise to the occasion and crush out a hundred runs straight, there are five times to that one when they go down in ignominy. If you were to analyze the greatest baseball players in history, and eliminate every statistic after their first out in every game they played, I am quite sure that the results would be more than startling.
The mind has the tendency to obfuscate failure, to fuzz out inconvenient truths, and focus on that one home run in the sixth inning that decided the game one time, when it really counted. What if that run in the sixth inning never had a chance to happen? How would we regard our best baseball players then? What would have happened to all those baseball movies where the hero fails and fails again, but in the last moment, in the bottom of the ninth, finds redemption in the form of a fastball making a swift exit over the fence? Indeed that Conradian, redemptive narrative can be found in every corner of the sport, from the player’s thought that no matter what happens, in the next inning they can turn things around, to the fan’s sure knowledge that when their team is at bat again, the tables will be turned. It is the narrative that has defined the rise, fall, and rise of the American republic, and the advance of American power and hegemony.
When the nation was torn asunder through civil war, it yet rose again, the same as before, but stronger. When the economy was ravaged by the great depression, the nation pulled itself up by virtue of the greatest do-over in history. Redemption is an absolutely intrinsic part of the American story. Few, if any, countries have done this or have had the chance to. Most are lost, or suffer irreversible change when catastrophe strikes. How many republics has France had by now? In the past hundred years and a bit, Germany has had a Reich or three, a divorce, a reunification, and an irrevocable scouring of their national history and narrative. Japan, once the proudest, most warlike nation on earth, sure of its path to power by virtue of divine providence, became a nation of craven pacifists, simultaneously beholden to tradition and modernity, and an overwhelming powerlessness to step up and become a presence on the international stage. Unlike the United States, these nations never had a do-over, they were told to play a new game, by new rules. For these nations, and for those who play cricket, there is no next chance. But not for the United States, and not for baseball. For them, there is always a next chance. It’s the essence of American exceptionalism. But if there was no next chance, what would happen then?
If there were no second chances in baseball, would the top ten players in the country still collectively be worth more than $1.5 billion dollars? Would they seem as superhuman, as ethereally distant and different from everyday mortals as to almost seem to be a different form of life in and of themselves? Or would they be more human, frail and fallible? Would they seem to be more like us? Would they be mere humans?
Though I seem to be disparaging baseball, do remember that I love the game, have played it all my life, and will continue to play until I have to be pushed around the bases in a wheelchair. Yet, as Joseph O’Neil points out in his lovely paean to C.L.R. James, a sport can also represent a discourse about politics and society. Baseball truly does represent the American discourse, from the head on nature of the game, which is like the straightforward attack and defense of chess to cricket’s more subtly strategic Go-like nature. In that vein you can also find American football, and basketball, with a constant give and take, and switching of sides. In baseball there is usually a chance to try again, and again, and again. In cricket, by contrast, there is not.
In cricket, when your team is up to bat, you have that one chance. And while the going may seem good for a while, just like the British Empire, things can change when it’s the other team’s turn. From then on you are not trying to win, so much as trying to not lose. And with every setback, and every ball past the boundary, you see the eternal glory of the afternoon slipping away into the distance. And it is not coming back. There is no next chance. There is no do-over; just fate, the crushing weight of history, and the chance for a new narrative. This was the case when dark horse India defeated England in the 1983 world cup. Or, more recently, when MS Dhoni, a second rate nobody who, in the wake of India’s crushing failure at the 2007 World Cup of Cricket, was sent to captain the Indian squad at the first Twenty20 World Cup. He was sent almost as an afterthought, but this second rate nobody pulled off one of the greatest modern feats of sports leadership. He led India to victory, overcoming an Australian team who, in the world of cricket, were dominating in a way the New York Yankees could only dream of. On that day a new cricket narrative was born, and a billion Indians embraced a new national hero. Not because he or the team had a lucky break or did one thing right, but because they did everything right. Not because they stepped up to the wicket one last time, but because they stepped up to the wicket and did it right, the first time. Baseball, like the American consciousness, is forgiving. And the fame, while bright, is short lived ephemeral. But in cricket, when you are made immortal by virtue of your efforts on the field, your fame lives on.
Oh, and there are also some wicked fast bowlers. Forget Randy Johnson, because when you see Lasith Malinga fly across the pitch like an insane banshee, there just ain’t no going back.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)