The Indian Express, 7 Aug, 2004
Unlike most good things in life, cricket doesn’t need to conform to any prescribed dose in India. For a game that is the ecstasy (with apologies to Herr Marx, opium is too soporific to convey the frenzy of this religion) of the people, it is strange that cricketing merchants need to spice up the fare with dollops of distraction. We understand corporate interest and ‘Toss ka Boss’. But the ‘Shaz and Waz’ show only highlights the insecurity of the broadcasters.
We could act naive and try to explain Mandira Bedi as an ambitious attempt to discover our own Kass Naidoo (South African commentator, if memory fails you). But this time, the channelwallahs didn’t even feign justification. Their theory seemed simple: "Only cricket, when there is so much of cricket, may not be enough to keep eyeballs glued, unless PYTs (pretty young things, for the uninitiated) are introduced to sex up the show."
Nobody, mind you, is arguing the purist’s case. Nobody objected to BBC’s Christopher Martin-Jenkins and his inspired observation: "The bowler’s Holding, the batsman’s Willey." We loved vintage Richie Benaud _ "there was a slight interruption there for athletics" _ when he reflected on a female streaker running across the Lord’s pitch. We appreciated Henry Blofield’s gift of spotting earrings. Why, even Harsha ‘genteel’ Bhogle knocked out ABC’s Kerry ‘chatterbox’ O’Keefe, during the famous Boxing Day match, when the latter doubted Gillespie’s fitness _ "as stiff as three whiskies" _ and Harsha asked just how many stiffs his opposite enjoyed each night.
Cricket is a way of life and such splashes happily find their context in its grand canvas. Like Sydney seagulls, Kotla dogs or Sharjah starlets. Even Gautam Bhimani, so long as he limits himself to sponsored antics and has stunning land/seascapes for background. But not the ‘Shaz and Waz’ show. As Shastri the commentator, Ravi is measured gin and tonic _ equally in command reading Ganguly’s racing mind (or static feet) and complimenting the cameraman, as the lens zooms on a group of bubbly, young girls at Premadasa, for his ability to "spot talents". But as Shastri the Shaz, Ravi is a hopeless punch _ suddenly too distracted for cricketing analysis and too ripe for natural street-smartness. But maybe it’s not entirely his fault.
The very idea of importing femininity to cricket through Jills-in-the-box is as absurd as hiring toothpaste models to popularise Monalisa prints. For a game played among 22 men, cricket is as much feminine as it is masculine. Some of our poster boys and macho cricketers-turned-commentators may take offence. But they will unwittingly concede that, in their fetish for pursuing impressive statistics (vital stats, in case of Shaz and Waz), they have stripped the game of much of its beauty.
Close your eyes, and for every stream of shaggy, raw passion of a Thomo or a Shoaib, you have the alluring mystery of a Bishen or a Murali. For every Richards short arm pull from outside the off stump, no less rugged and nonchalant than a weather-unbeaten Clint Eastwood shooting from the hip, there is a Vishwanath late cut, so late and languid, almost an afterthought, an aside as elegantly subtle as Susan Sarandon wiping cigarette smoke in the air before suddenly looking up with that twinkle between her lashes.
Consider the stumpers. For all their flamboyance and acrobatics, the best keepers are matched in virtues of involvement and patience only by the best homemakers. The ones who are always there to weather it all and around whom great spells or families flourish.
Take speed _ from Formula One to boom-boom Becker, a male prerogative. But in the hand of Kapil or Hadlee, an outswinger, bowled at a lively pace, teases the batsman like a seductress endowed with a kiss of death. Without inhibition, she approaches you straight. As the proximity gets alarming and you are about to offer your straightest face forward, she sways away with a get-me-if-you-can tilt. Instantly, you are torn between the wisdom of letting her go and the desire to check her out. No opening batsman needs any script to play the hero _ or the villain, depending on the day _ in certain fifteenth century English plays. One moral slip and you don’t need to study any yellowed text to imagine why that umbrella of men next to the wicketkeeper was named the slip cordon.
Take an over. The bowler sends six propositions to you. Each comes with a promise of reward. You can’t keep dating without risking ever falling in love. As in life, you gain some to lose some. But if you decide that discretion is indeed the better part of amour, and stay unresponsive to all her six advances, she goes out of your life a maiden. Between you two, it’s over.
The butchery of swordsmanship has drastically reduced the frequency of maiden overs in one-day cricket. But that is hardly any excuse for the channelwalahs to compensate by picking up maidens _ even starlets _ from the stand. If they are feeling insecure about the cricketing overdose, they can always let the ICC go easy on the calendar. Otherwise, they must either correct the gender bias or, better still, junk the show altogether. Most viewers don’t miss those vanishing maiden overs. Trust me, they won’t miss those unsuspecting PYTs whose prime contribution to the break-time farce is to make their two awkward hosts make their silly points.
Unlike most good things in life, cricket doesn’t need to conform to any prescribed dose in India. For a game that is the ecstasy (with apologies to Herr Marx, opium is too soporific to convey the frenzy of this religion) of the people, it is strange that cricketing merchants need to spice up the fare with dollops of distraction. We understand corporate interest and ‘Toss ka Boss’. But the ‘Shaz and Waz’ show only highlights the insecurity of the broadcasters.
We could act naive and try to explain Mandira Bedi as an ambitious attempt to discover our own Kass Naidoo (South African commentator, if memory fails you). But this time, the channelwallahs didn’t even feign justification. Their theory seemed simple: "Only cricket, when there is so much of cricket, may not be enough to keep eyeballs glued, unless PYTs (pretty young things, for the uninitiated) are introduced to sex up the show."
Nobody, mind you, is arguing the purist’s case. Nobody objected to BBC’s Christopher Martin-Jenkins and his inspired observation: "The bowler’s Holding, the batsman’s Willey." We loved vintage Richie Benaud _ "there was a slight interruption there for athletics" _ when he reflected on a female streaker running across the Lord’s pitch. We appreciated Henry Blofield’s gift of spotting earrings. Why, even Harsha ‘genteel’ Bhogle knocked out ABC’s Kerry ‘chatterbox’ O’Keefe, during the famous Boxing Day match, when the latter doubted Gillespie’s fitness _ "as stiff as three whiskies" _ and Harsha asked just how many stiffs his opposite enjoyed each night.
Cricket is a way of life and such splashes happily find their context in its grand canvas. Like Sydney seagulls, Kotla dogs or Sharjah starlets. Even Gautam Bhimani, so long as he limits himself to sponsored antics and has stunning land/seascapes for background. But not the ‘Shaz and Waz’ show. As Shastri the commentator, Ravi is measured gin and tonic _ equally in command reading Ganguly’s racing mind (or static feet) and complimenting the cameraman, as the lens zooms on a group of bubbly, young girls at Premadasa, for his ability to "spot talents". But as Shastri the Shaz, Ravi is a hopeless punch _ suddenly too distracted for cricketing analysis and too ripe for natural street-smartness. But maybe it’s not entirely his fault.
The very idea of importing femininity to cricket through Jills-in-the-box is as absurd as hiring toothpaste models to popularise Monalisa prints. For a game played among 22 men, cricket is as much feminine as it is masculine. Some of our poster boys and macho cricketers-turned-commentators may take offence. But they will unwittingly concede that, in their fetish for pursuing impressive statistics (vital stats, in case of Shaz and Waz), they have stripped the game of much of its beauty.
Close your eyes, and for every stream of shaggy, raw passion of a Thomo or a Shoaib, you have the alluring mystery of a Bishen or a Murali. For every Richards short arm pull from outside the off stump, no less rugged and nonchalant than a weather-unbeaten Clint Eastwood shooting from the hip, there is a Vishwanath late cut, so late and languid, almost an afterthought, an aside as elegantly subtle as Susan Sarandon wiping cigarette smoke in the air before suddenly looking up with that twinkle between her lashes.
Consider the stumpers. For all their flamboyance and acrobatics, the best keepers are matched in virtues of involvement and patience only by the best homemakers. The ones who are always there to weather it all and around whom great spells or families flourish.
Take speed _ from Formula One to boom-boom Becker, a male prerogative. But in the hand of Kapil or Hadlee, an outswinger, bowled at a lively pace, teases the batsman like a seductress endowed with a kiss of death. Without inhibition, she approaches you straight. As the proximity gets alarming and you are about to offer your straightest face forward, she sways away with a get-me-if-you-can tilt. Instantly, you are torn between the wisdom of letting her go and the desire to check her out. No opening batsman needs any script to play the hero _ or the villain, depending on the day _ in certain fifteenth century English plays. One moral slip and you don’t need to study any yellowed text to imagine why that umbrella of men next to the wicketkeeper was named the slip cordon.
Take an over. The bowler sends six propositions to you. Each comes with a promise of reward. You can’t keep dating without risking ever falling in love. As in life, you gain some to lose some. But if you decide that discretion is indeed the better part of amour, and stay unresponsive to all her six advances, she goes out of your life a maiden. Between you two, it’s over.
The butchery of swordsmanship has drastically reduced the frequency of maiden overs in one-day cricket. But that is hardly any excuse for the channelwalahs to compensate by picking up maidens _ even starlets _ from the stand. If they are feeling insecure about the cricketing overdose, they can always let the ICC go easy on the calendar. Otherwise, they must either correct the gender bias or, better still, junk the show altogether. Most viewers don’t miss those vanishing maiden overs. Trust me, they won’t miss those unsuspecting PYTs whose prime contribution to the break-time farce is to make their two awkward hosts make their silly points.
1 comment:
Lovely piece, Jay... lovely one
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