You and I and the rest of us
have many love/hate relationships. With the West, with our parents, with news
anchors on TV, with food, with ourselves.
But none quite as strong as
the one with cricket. It’s not our national sport. That would be hockey, a
sport neglected and forgotten even though it is untainted by bad press and has
brought home the only Olympic medals apart from boxing. Then there is squash,
also the bringer of many honours but relegated to the sidelines.
What is it about cricket that
inspires such deep and conflicting emotions? Is it the entertainment value of
the newly minted T20s? Or the glamour associated with the sport. Why do we get
into a frenzy at the start of every tournament, scrambling to get that
personalized official jersey, revise personal (and professional) schedules
around matches, follow each fixture religiously then just like that the minute
the minute the team crashes out we vacillate to the other extreme, turning into
digjihadis spewing vitriol at the disowned players, burning their effigies,
vowing never to watch another cricket match ever again. Until of course the
next tournament.
Is it because somewhere
buried in our subconscious is the undeniable fact that the cricket team is in
fact, us. And we are them.
Perhaps we went to school
with a Salman Butt who despite his suave demeanour and sophisticated manners
was crooked to the core, the one had us shaking our heads in disbelief. Or
lived in the neighbourhood with a Muhammad Amir who was just as crooked but
without the veneer of respectability, the one who we gave a second chance to.
Then there is the Misbah in our family, stoic and resolute, the cousin deemed
too boring to hang out with but always came through in emergencies. The
Sarfaraz we work with, the one with the easy-going manner, who keeps his nose
out of office gossip, steadily delivers day in day out. Then there is the old
friend, the Shahid Afridi, the popular one, who won the trophies and had the
teachers up in arms with cheeky pranks.
If we have the winning
determination of Javed and Imran, we are also the dishonoured Asif and Salman. If
we have the grace and integrity of Hanif and Fazal, we are also the mercurial
Shoaibs and Afridis. The raw energy and talent we so admire in them? It’s in
the sporadic rags to riches stories that float on social media.
We readily accuse Afridi of
misogyny when a comment is taken out of context but fail to show the same
outrage at the blatant misogyny on our television screens everyday. Or when educated
young men jeer at women playing cricket. We accuse the PCB of corruption and
mismanagement but elect corrupt and incompetent people to Parliament every
year. We deride the politics and manipulation within the team and blame it for
the disappointing outcomes and then become party to the same within our
families and with our colleagues. Perhaps we just like to complain.
The next time we’re
conflicted by this love and loathing, take a look at yourself in the mirror and
listen to these words written by an anonymous cricket fan in 2012. Liberties have been taken for a 2016
update.
I am the Final at Melbourne.
I am the last ball at Sharjah. I am the inventor of the Doosra and the Reverse
Swing. When they wouldn’t let me play at home I drifted where I could. I am the
Cornered Tiger. I am the fastest hundred. I am Boom Boom and the Little Master.
I am also undisciplined, stubborn, occasionally arrogant, unsure and insecure. I am gifted but need an army
bootcamp to get myself back on track. I may be languishing at the bottom of the
One Day ratings but I can conquer the most traditional of formats, the Test
Match. I have talent that no one understands.
I am unpredictable. I am you.
In the meantime, let’s watch
some cricket. And raise a glass to Team
Green.
Or do a pushup or two?
