Notes from a Cricket Match
I’ve watched only a handful of cricket matches, but of different kinds: Ranji Trophy, Duleep Trophy, county cricket, Test cricket, and my most favourite of them all — village cricket at Rottingdean (they had an electronic scoreboard!). I do not know much about cricket, but I enjoy being in the audience and overhearing impassioned conversations about the game and the science behind it. Having never been to a major tournament, I am finally in the right place at the right time — we are going to the Afghanistan vs New Zealand ODI at Chepauk.
We come in a little over halfway through the first innings, late enough to beat the heat but in time to catch some of Rashid Khan’s bowling. The crowd is delighted when he fields near our boundary — not so much at the number of dropped catches, though. Afghanistan consistently disappoints with its fielding, and shows little of the spark that must have contributed to its win against England in only the previous match. An upset does not look likely today. New Zealand wraps up its batting with some quick runs, and we head to the single water can that benevolently quenches the thirst of all the stadium-goers of humid Chennai. Even though water bottles are banned, one has mysteriously found its way on the field. There is also other mischief: when Naveen-ul-Haq appears at the boundary, the crowd starts chanting Kohli’s name.
Choosing to chase, Afghanistan settles into some somnolent batting, not helped by the dexterity of the New Zealand fielders. Mitchell Santner displays his athleticism in a stunning catch, Lockie Ferguson bowls lightning quick spells, and the crowd chants “CSK!” when Santner or Devon Conway fields near the boundary by our stand. A persistent group of autograph hunters lingers near the fence that separates the camerapersons and the ground from the audience; they call out to the players one after another, who give them a cursory wave and return to their task on the field. Will Young is the one most troubled by the ardour of the fans and looks back helplessly, even signing for them in the air. In the commentary box, Sunil Gavaskar and Michael Atherton wave at the fans who pose for selfies outside the enclosure. There is more action off the field than on it.
A cameraman walks into our stand to a huge buzz. His eye catches happy, dancing children, then lingers on a man sleeping in the row in front of ours, cap on face. He slumbers deeply, until shaken into wakefulness by the laughter of those around him. Embarrassed, he pulls his cap onto his head and stares straight ahead.
‘Very entertaining match, eh?’ laughs the cameraman.
Behind us is the press box. The crowd of journalists has thinned. Perhaps led on by the sight of so many empty seats, a young man behind us calls out to a journalist whose eye he catches: ‘Any vacancies?’ Another person is coordinating with their cook: ‘No rice today, please. You can make some rotis and leave them on the dining table.’
Between overs, the DJ plays mostly Tamil film music. A large number of the songs are from recent movies, composed by a music director who is not necessarily known for a wide repertoire, but for gauging what his audience wants. A song from a much-hyped movie releasing the next day erupts over the speakers and the crowd roars; this is the most action we have seen in a while. Lungi Dance is met with a fitting silence.
A horn sounds in the distance; the MRTS train stops at Chepauk station, perhaps a little longer than necessary on an empty platform, says S. It offers a splendid view of the stadium — something to keep in mind for next time. (I’ve ridden the MRTS only once, and this might be worth making a trip for.)
This ground has seen some strange rules. I am told that there was a time when black clothing was not allowed; now you cannot take anything in except your phone and wallet. I almost brought a book along, but was dissuaded by G. and S. You never know what they may think of books.
Food is available in plenty, but some of it is weirdly branded: like this “popcorn”. For us traditionalists, tubs of tamarind rice, lemon rice, and curd rice are readily available.
Afghanistan is lacklustre in its chase, and we just wait to watch Rashid Khan bat. Don’t turn away, I tell G., lest he should lose his wicket before you can watch him play. Khan lasts a few balls before falling to Ferguson, and then the stadium promptly begins to empty; within minutes, the tail has collapsed, and people wrapped in Afghanistan flags walk to the metro in front of us, sombre and quiet.
Today, however, is more promising.
***
One-day cricket is colourful and dazzling. It has clear highs. But it is also reminiscent of a 90s WWF kind of glamour. As Mike Marqusee writes in War Minus the Shooting (which G. reminds me of, when I try to pin down what is making me restless about the dazzle of it all):
Throughout the match, the Megavision scoreboard had flashed cues to the spectators: ‘Top shot!’, ‘What a catch!’, ‘Come on India!’ as if a Bombay crowd needed to be coached to do its part. In the United States, spectators at sports contests are spoonfed their entertainment, announcers read out statistics, recorded pop music sets the mood, appropriate chants are rehearsed on huge overhead monitors and professional cheerleaders act as mediators between the fans and the game. In other words, seeing sport live is made to seem as much as possible like seeing it on television. In the process the crowd is atomised and stripped of its collective creativity. It is a triumph for ‘official’ popular culture, at the expense of the spontaneity, irreverence, scepticism, and, yes, disorderliness of the ‘unofficial’ variety. Indian cricket has a long way to go before it reaches these depths, but the intrusion of the Megavision screen at Wankhede was a disturbing portent of things to come.
What Marqusee thought was far away in 1996 is here with us now. And I think I prefer quiet cricket in whites, MC-less, where contemplation is possible, and I can bring a book along. But I’d still take any sporting event over none at all.
