Babble Without a Pause

March 18, 2015

Chokers No More

Australia celebrate
Laugh at me. Call me a traitor. Call me a fool. Call me what you will. But with the knockout stage of this World Cup finally here, I, a perennial Indian cricket fan, have begun to realize which team I really feel like rallying behind. And it is not the country you would assume. For all the pomp of an undefeated run in the league stage, an unprecedented 6 consecutive bowl-outs, for the ripping victories, India has played some shitty cricket for a long while now. If we eventually win, it would be a result of a brief golden run, but one that is in stark contrast to a positively mediocre run for the 4 years that have gone before. No, I think the time has come for a country that has for so long played some of the most consistently top-notch cricket, and been a perennial member of the Top 3 year after year, yet has been brutally denied a single knockout match win at the World Cup, let alone the entire tournament. For a team so talented, so exciting to watch, that is a crime against sport.

So for the rest of this world cup, I will cheer South Africa on, and I will do so knowing that far less deserving countries have won it, and it is only fair that a country as talented as SA, one that endured being ostracized for decades as a proxy on behalf of a political system that wasn’t directly of their doing, one that came back from said international sport ostracism, to be screwed out of a place in the finals because of an asinine rain rule (that has since only got sillier in its new avatar as the Duckworth-Lewis rule). Once they shrug this voodoo off their back, they can, should, and will win this cup. Four years ago, India said they won it for Sachin. This year, some sixth sense tells me SA will win this for AB. And they will win it for Gibbs, who dropped the catch that kept them from greatness. And for White Lightning, who must even now be heartbroken for his role in that same loss. They will win it for Klusener, their champion who almost single-handedly won it for them 16 years ago. And lest we forget, they will win it for Cronje, who for all his failings as a sportsman and as a human, and in spite of all that he did to push them back 100 million miles in their evolution as a cricketing nation, still remains their finest captain ever. They will win it for Bob Woolmer, a coach who revolutionized the concept of technology in sport all those years ago, ushering in a new era for competitive sport. And they will win it for Boucher, for Kallis, for Kirsten, for Smith, for Ntini, for Pollock, for Cullinan, and for Jonty.

Watch South Africa play the game, and you realize why this team, more than ANY other, deserves to win, and win big this time. For a team as talented, if not more talented than Australia, South Africa really do play the game hard but fair. It’s a phrase so absolutely cliched and so triflingly used by Australia, that it has seemingly lost all meaning. When the spoilt brats of cricket have time and time again crossed the line with inappropriate behavior more suited for the WWE, their cricket achievements and all their wins have been used to defend their boorish, even juvenile ways. The ends supposedly justify the means.

But watch South Africa bat, bowl, and field, and you have in front of you a team that very rarely comes close to the line, let alone jump over it. This is a team that has, over the years, (clown characters like Andre Nel aside) maintained a very high level of class when playing the game. They don’t walk past the stumps and knock the bails off then appeal like it was out. They don’t appeal for a stumping when they know the ball isn’t even in their hands. They don’t bowl underarm to avoid losing. They don’t edge a ball to slip and stand rooted to the crease pretending nothing happened.

Don’t believe me yet? Try this for an exercise. Look up ‘South Africa cricket controversy’ on Youtube. Tell me what you see. I’ll tell you what I see in the search results: not one single controversy or video of them acting like spoiled rich kids. Hell, the top 15 search results include videos detailing a Kevin Pietersen controversy, a DRS fail, and a Shane Warne v. Marlon Samuels fiasco video. Scroll further down on the first page of results, you see the following:

  • Richard Levi Fastest T20 Century for South Africa
  • Top 10 Best Cricket Fielders Ever in Cricket History
  • Proteas Surprise Visit

    That’s right, a video of the fastest century, a clip of the top 10 best fielders, with the thumbnail appropriately enough being Jonty Rhodes flying horizontal to the earth, and finally, a clip of 6 of the team’s top players voluntarily taking time out of their busy schedules to visit a boy who idolizes them. All positive, endearing videos. If this isn’t a deserving team, I don’t know who is. This is a team that is cultured, a team that has so much talent they can afford to bench real stars, a team that respects the game, and doesn’t terrorize umpires every minute of the game. Why haven’t they won a World Cup? Your guess is as good as mine.So starting today, and until the end of this World Cup, I intend to cheer for South Africa for every fibre of my being. Because while the ‘Spirit of Cricket’ lecture is just that, a long-winded annual essay on why the spirit of sportsmanship is essential in theory, this team is one of the very few that lives it, and plays it, and believes it. Not just to win an annual ‘Spirit of Cricket’ award. But because it is the right thing.So come on, South Africa. It is your time now. Prove that nice guys can finish first. Fear not the choke. Just go for broke.

“No one is going to ask us if we played exceptional cricket when we win the World Cup, we’re just going to say that we won the Cup, so we’re just going to find a way to win the game tomorrow. All I can say is we’re not going to choke. We’re just going to play a good game of cricket tomorrow and come out on top. Simple.”


January 11, 2012

Where everything’s made up and the point don’t matter

This morning I awoke, like I always do on a sunny Monday morning, with a smile on my face. Several minutes of scratching and belching, a couple of looks in the bathroom mirror, more scratching, and a glass of juice later, I happened to sit down to read Cricinfo, as I always do, and happened to chance upon the following tribute written in the wake of India’s crushing loss to Australia, replete with gyaan from past and present intellectuals, cricket pundits, and miscellaneous afficionados, including such greats as Maninder Singh (a former cokehead whose worldwide prominence can be gauged from the absence of even a photo on his obligatory Wikipedia page), but mercifully devoid of  scholastic analysis from that extraordinarily articulate cricketing mind of our time, Cricinfo’s very own Sambit Bal.


Having made it through aforementioned piece, I was filled with this sickening feeling in my stomach. No, not gas. It was the familiar feeling of having just wasted 10 minutes of your time reading an article so replete with horse manure, that you start experiencing the all too familiar existential angst of why you are where you are today, what is the meaning of life, and how the 10 minutes you just spent has forever been lost, to the infinite universe around you.


For those of you too lazy to click the hyperlink above, let me put it to you in a nutshell. India sail to Australia to play cricket. Ok, US citizens and NRIs and general non-cricket-watcher-types, here is where you get off the train.


Where was I? Oh yes:

  1. India sail fly to Australia for 4 test matches.
  2. India lose first 2 test matches.
  3. Experts start calling for heads to roll.


Cricinfo, let me start with you. When you began, as a small, lowly startup, much the same as CricBuzz is today, you were good at what you did. You were the shooting star in the online cricket world, trying to bridge the divide left behind when cricket, like most sports (kabaddi being the exception) began crossing over from the print medium of brilliant magazines like SportStar to the online medium. Over the years, you began crossing over into the Reality TV channel of cricket, where every move, every quote, every statistic, and every match no matter how contrived, banal, irrelevant or pointless began to be analysed, overanalyzed, and hyperanalyzed to the point that Elton John began feeling left out. Rather than stay a pure medium of reporting on cricket for India and its cricket-hungry passionate crowd, you sellouts then, well, sold yourself out to ESPN, becoming in the process, ESPNCricinfo, a web portal that, for all intents and purposes, has a live scorecard that auto-refreshes at a pace slower than the plot of ‘How I met your mother’ moves. You have become the Bollywood Masala, the ZOOM of cricket websites, keen on filling up your pages with backtrack links, ‘expert’ opinions, reports, galleries, plays, bulletins, opinions on reports, comments on galleries, and that god-damned Facebook ‘Like’ button. It is sad to see you fall this far.


Sanjay Manjrekar, whose sole claim to fame is __________ (anybody who knows, please fill the blanks), is one of those diehard supporters of Thayndhulkar. I understand, Mumbaikar and all. Even so, to hear him say: “VVS averages 20 in last 12 overseas innings … Even if he gets a good score in next Test it will not serve India long…” was appalling  expected. Well, Mr. Manjrekar, by that erudite rationale, he should not have been selected in the first place. His spot should have been handed to Rohit Sharma from the get go. Would’ve saved Rohit the embarassment of being thrust into the furnace without adequate preparation. It would’ve spared Laxman the humiliation. And it sure as hell would have spared us from having to see your post-hangover-face, babbling babble into the Cricinfo webcam.


If you think I’m being overly harsh to Cricinfo and it’s ilk, let me eliminate all traces of perceived bias, and simply present the facts for you:

  • Dravid: 39 (by the time you read this).
  • Sachin: 39 (by the time Cricinfo begins re-runs of ‘Men in Blue are the awesomest‘ articles come April)
  • Laxman: 37 (Atleast till November).


I agree, the process of phasing out the seniors is of paramount importance, to ensure Team India is where it wants to be three, maybe four years from now. In the context of India’s ageing stars being replaced, the logical choice would be to bring the curtains down on Sachin Tendulkar. Or perhaps Rahul Dravid. I guess what’s confounding me is, in what context is Laxman the automatic first choice to be given the pink slip. He is the youngest of the three, has the best record against Australia of the three, and in all probability will be the last of the three middle-order stalwarts to retire. Yet he’s the one (surprise, surprise) in the crosshairs.


The point one erudite member of the Cricinfo bandwagon made was interesting. In his article, he says among other things, (and I paraphrase): ‘Laxman has averaged a shade over 40 in the past 12 months. That average is significantly bolstered by a 58* and 176* he made against a dispirited West Indies side at the Feroz Shah Kotla and Eden Gardens last year’. Ah yes, the doesn’t-matter-because-it-was-made-against-an-also-ran-side innings. Perhaps we should exclude innings of that kind from your career record, Sanzay Manjrekar. Or you, Ravi Shastri. It would be worth taking a gander at those stats then. It can be safely said that the same dime-a-dozen commentator would’ve been crawling out of the woodwork to criticize Laxman had he not performed against the same ‘lowly’ West Indies side. How does one win with you guys, I wonder.


The icing on the dung cake that is cricket punditry was this gem from Anshuman Gaekwad:

Sachin still has the class, Rahul is very hard-working but I am not sure how long Laxman will be able to continue.

I see. Rahul Dravid is hard-working, VVS is not. Sachin has the class, Laxman …. (I won’t dare repeat those words, for it is, in my opinion, blasphemy). For the record, it will be well nigh impossible to discover another batsman, in this generation, or the next or even TEN generations from now, that will have the class, the grace and the beauty of batsmanship that Vangipurupu Venkata Sai Laxman charmed the cricketing world with. The man made batting a thing of beauty, the wristy flick to leg an art form.


In case I haven’t already, let me make it clear. I’m not trying in the least to imply Laxman is a better batsman than either Dravid or Sachin. The three of them have, between them, more than 30,000 runs in tests. All three have their place in the pantheon of Indian greats assured, whether they retire today, or two years down the line. But to call out Laxman, a man who single-handedly won India matches in the 2nd innings chasing, for the past 2 years, is abominable, nay reprehensible. Where was Gautam Gambhir, for example. Or MS Dhoni. Where, even, was Virat Kohli. This isn’t to pin the blame on the proverbial donkey. All I’m saying (as I’m sure a lot of discerning Indian fans understand), is that it takes a team to win, just as it takes a team to lose. India did not lose the two test matches so far on account of one man’s failure. It has been an abject batting display for a while now, and, given Laxman’s golden run against Australia, it is a fool who would call for blooding Rohit Sharma at Perth, Australia’s famed paciest, bounciest wicket. Sure, Rohit deserves a chance, sure Laxman will retire one day. Given his contribution to the team’s growth and improvement of their overseas record over the last decade, the least we can do is give this Indian great his chance to walk out on his terms. It isn’t like young upstarts like young Virat Kohli or Rohit Sharma or Suresh Raina or even Yuvraj Singh (I know, young?, what was I thinking) have exactly burst through the ranks, scoring centuries at will, or standing up when needed, so to play the age card is a disingenuous excuse for the selectors and the aforementioned pundits.


Gentlemen of the on-field caliber and off-field class and upstanding spirit of Laxman, Dravid and Tendulkar have rarely been the type to sit around playing into their twilight years, for records, endorsements or money, that much is guaranteed. Neither are they likely to hop into the commentary box at the drop of a hundred dollar bill (I’m looking at you Shastri and Gavaskar). When they leave, it shall be on their terms, for they will know when they hear Father Time blow the whistle to call a stop to their careers. So, this one time, I address you, Harsha Bhogle, Ian Chappell, Sanjay Manjrekar, Ravi Shastri, Maninder Singh and you countless other corporate country clowns. I also address you ‘fans’ who were drooling all over Sachin when the man scored 200* a couple years ago and went on to win the World Cup last year, and have turned on him in a heartbeat with such status messages as: “Sachin kabhi to khelo jab India is in trouble……..”. I have but one thing to say to you:

Dayavittu nimma pie-hole annu shut maadiri.

Krupaya apna pie-hole band kar de.

Dei Rascala. Pie-hole shut panna da.

Krupa karun tuza pie-hole band thev.


October 30, 2011

Trash Metal and the Indian Grand Pricks

Delhi. That land of political scams, that Indian-Italian lady, and anti-corruption protestors with varied names like Ramesh, James, Iqbal, Mona, Donna, Shoewalla, Rocketwalla and Jain, wearing placards and all holding banners saying “I am Anna”.  Identity crisis? Me thinks so. Their parents would be so sad. Yes, the same Delhi that last year played a clueless, ill-prepared host to the world’s athletes (and some local stray canine friends) at the Commonwealth Games, and came out with its head held high, by some stroke of blind luck.  Yes, that very Delhi was in the news for all the wrong reasons (shocker!) yesterday.

First, certain hardcore music fans took the term ‘Trash Metal’ a trifle too seriously. Word on the street is that some half-wit Delhi loons, upon hearing that Metallica and co. had expressed reservations about the security arrangements, took it upon themselves to express umbrage the way only Delhi waaley know how. By storming the stage for a theatrical re-enactment of St. Anger, followed by the customary mother/daughter/sister slogans, and general destruction. Metallica, you only have yourself to blame. The people of Delhi when asked, chanted in unison that you are hereby Unforgiven. To them it’s all about the music, and Nothing Else Matters.

The violence on Friday was a perfect advertisement for the Formula One race coming up on Sunday, where a dog almost ran onto the track during practice on Friday, almost causing an accident that would’ve added to the list of unfortunate casualties in auto racing in the past week around the world.

Speaking of unfortunate accidents, Lady Gaga is scheduled to perform at an exclusive after-party at some yuppie upscale watering hole in some ramshackle downscale suburb of Old Delhi. An after-party hosted by Arjun Rampal, a man I thought was possessed of some semblance of dignity and common sense. That is, until, when asked about the ₹40,000 price tag for a seat at the concert,  he opened his mouth to say : “One has to understand that the costs are very high. Maybe if we had a bigger venue with capacity for more people, we could have gone easy on the price. But with less people, it becomes difficult to lower the price. After all it’s business, and we have to break even.” Indeed, break even he has to, for he is a struggling businessman with no other source of income but to fleece India’s teenage monsters. The local media have been going gaga (I’m sorry, it really was too easy, I can’t believe I held that one in so long) with reports of the exclusive after-party and Rampal’s scarcely contained glee, as he giggled and blushed like a little 10-year-old girl waiting with bated breath for Miss Gaga to perform at his exclusive event.

Out on the streets, Delhi’s sex workers were heard expressing anguish and outrage that Miss Gaga was able to rake in upwards of ₹40,000 for crooning lyrics as profound and soulful as:

Let’s have some fun, this beat is sick
I wanna take a ride on your disco stick
Don’t think too much, just bust that kick
I wanna take a ride on your disco stick

while they are barely able to command ₹500 for offering the same (in roughly similar sounding words) to commuters and passers-by at red light areas.

Back to the Formula One race itself. A long-cherished dream of every Indian. Almost as cherished a dream as becoming an engineer, once upon a time. Cue an incessant stream of Facebook news feed updates with posts titled anything from “I’m so proud of India”, to “Vande Mataram”, to “Vijay Mallya for president”. Call me silly, but I’m willing to wager a not-too-small sum of money, that AR Rahman been booked well in advance, to be up on the starting line singing the National Anthem prior to, after and during the race. Why you ask? Because it is a matter of national pride, to host a global event of such delusions of grandeur and prestige. Remind me again, why Indians are not up in arms against this race, like we all were when the La Tomatina festival reared its rotten head in Bangalore, Delhi, Ahmedabad and other cities around the country a month ago. Back then the outrage was borne out of depriving farmers of their hard-earned living, paying them a pittance, and we all were suitably outraged, venting on MyFace, YourSpace, Tumblr, Grumblr and a million other social networks out there.

To be clear, I’m not against the sport itself. But let’s try and get this straight shall we, it’s JUST a race. And like any other race, it is a sporting spectacle, run as always, by politicians who got their cut of the government money that went into financing this exercise in phallus size comparison. It is no reflection of the power of a country, it is no statement of prowess or ambition. All the pundits will tell you it is GOLD to host an international event. It brings in tourism, it boosts revenues, and gives our economy a massive erection. But maybe we can put off the jhanda waving and the tricolour hats until we don’t have as many underage children getting sold as sex slaves in the capital. Until our bhai log in the capital can keep themselves civilized at public events, instead of  going apeshit crazy at the drop of a hat. Until, perhaps, the leader of our country grows a pair, and does something significant towards bringing to justice a hardened remorseless terrorist after 3 years of dawdling. Scratch that last one, it ain’t gonna happen.

Till then, perhaps we can put hosting global events on the back burner, focus on things that need focus, and go back to paying ₹1000 to watch Shahrukh Khan whoring himself out on any number of commercial ventures *cough* movies, and give our film fraternity a well-earned pat on the back for their achievements in the field of scarcely-credible-cinema-making.

April 8, 2011

Ind-glorious Basterds

2:30 am – It could be pre-match anxiety, the cold in my matchbox apartment, or the acid reflux in my throat from having wolfed down 3 parathas with paneer makhani barely an hour ago. Either way, I can’t seem to sleep. I take a walk outside my apartment in 40⁰F weather, thoughts all the while on what might transpire over the next 10 hours.

2:45 am – Back home. The walk definitely helped. Dilemma time now. Stay up for another 1 hour, then get ready. Or sleep for an hour, and risk oversleeping and missing the 1s (possibly Indian) innings. I fall asleep …  still weighing my options.

3:46 am – Hmm, so there is such a thing as a biological clock. The alarm I set for 4 am has yet to go off, yet here I am, wide eyed. Possibly the first time I’ve woken without hitting the snooze button 10 times or smashing the clock against the floor. Time to take a shower, methinks. Sri Lankan cricket team stinks, that doesn’t mean I should too. A quick shower, brush my teeth and I’m set. Meanwhile, in my apartment, 3 of my friends are snoring, having driven down from New Jersey to watch the match.

4:20 am – Frantic calls from fellow cricaholics,  enquiring my latitude and longitude, and how long it might take for me to walk/drive/fly the quarter mile to our rendezvous point, their apartment. I assure them I’m ready and leaving, but end up getting distracted and online, chatting for a few fleeting moments with the fiancée, who’s not yet fallen asleep.

4:35 am – Phone rings yet again. Friends yet again, wondering if I got mugged while walking down the road in ‘The Greatest City In America’. I assure them I’m not, and proceed to close said chat session, much to fiancée’s chagrin. Run blind from the apartment, jump into the trusty BatMobile Honda Civic. Fly at 70 mph (I think) in a residential area. I’m there. FINALLY.

4:35 am – Yes, it’s been exactly 0 seconds from leaving my apartment, to getting to the friends’ place. Impressive, yes. Why thank you. We leave, walking at a brisk pace, still faster than Munaf Patel can bowl. In between, we walk through the university campus, discussing the merits or lack thereof, of the theme song, “De Ghuma Ke”, in context of the 1999 anthem; “Come on India, dikha do”.

4:45 am – We’ve walked a ¾ mile in 10 minutes. We’re HERE. We walk up the 2 flights of stairs to where the room at Nolan’s should be set up and ready for action. A BIG queue outside the entrance seems to indicate it is already house-full. Apparently, not. The undergrad student in possession of the keys seems to have a malfunctioning biological clock and is nowhere to be seen. The faithful stand intently in front of a laptop showing the live stream, and stand at attention as the national anthem is played. Goosebumps. Some sing it loud, others whisper the words, still others with eyes closed When it’s over, the WOOOs, YEAAAHHHs and whistles pierce the early morning silence.


5:00 am – Ok, so we’re in the room. Front row chairs immediately grabbed, and apparently, we still don’t have the keys to the inner control room which has the remote controls for the projector and the ceiling mounted big screen. In the sea of 50-odd Indian fans in the room, we now spot 3 Sri Lankan fans, dressed in their team uniforms, and draped in the SL flag. It shows you what this game should be about; bringing people together. Folks pull out two laptops, mount them on strategically placed tables on left and right sides of rooms. Connection to WillowTV established, we are just in time to see Tharanga and Dilshan take guard, to our man, Zak.

5:04 am – It’s slowly become apparent that there’s a delay between the two laptops. Left-side-of-room Lenovo is 5-6 seconds ahead of right-side-of-room Dell. We figure this out after entire left side of room erupts in joy. We wonder why, and then erupt again, as as Tharanga falls on our screens too, to a stunning catch from Veeru. Jai Ho, and all that good stuff. 1 down. 9 more Lankans to go.

5:05 am – Funny status update from friend on Facebook. “Pehle goron ko haraaya. Phir haram khoron ko haraaya. Ab Sita ke choron ko haraaya” [Roughly translates to –  “First we beat the whites (Australia). Then we beat the (insert expletive here) Pakistanis. Now to beat the kidnappers of Sita”] On a side note, projector room keys have now arrived, and thanks to some nifty work by the IGSA guys, we are all set now, and watching the action on the proverbial big-screen.

5:25 am – A large crowd seems to be heading to the back of the room. Come on, it can’t be over that quick, I think to myself. Turns out, a certain Donuts company of the Dunkin’ kind, has very graciously offered to sponsor a light breakfast for the 100-odd people assembled. Mmm, bagels, chocolate donut and potato chips, topped off with coffee.

5:30 am to 9:10 am – I’m not sure what happened. Woozy on the details here, but I’m woken from my blissful sleep by a friend who tells me SL have wrapped up their innings. About time. Boy, that was some good boredom-plus-food-induced coma. It’s true what they say. If Kumara Sangakkara won’t put you to sleep, then Kulasekara Mudiyanselage Dinesh Nuwan Kulasekara (yes, that’s one person) will.


9:23 am – Sachin and Sehwag stride out to the square.  I’ve always wondered why it’s called that, especially since from where I’m sitting, it almost certainly appears to be rectangular. Oh well. Note to self. Go to an optician and have your eyes checked. Watching them take guard for the innings that could shape the fate of this cup, I am itching to yell ‘THIS IS SPARTAAA!!” but somehow manage to temper my excitement.

9:25 am – Gone. Out. LBW. To baal-ki-dukan. Whattaball. Stunned, we sit. Sehwag has immediately referred it, so surely there must be an inside-edge. He must know something we don’t. The side-on view – not a no-ball. Pitching? In line. Hitting? In line. Surely it hit bat before pad? Turns out it hit more air than bat before the pad. 3rd umpire verdict. OUT. Goddammit.

9:32 am – Ok, Sachin is in pristine touch. The ball seems to be rocketing off his bat, but for whatever reason, doesn’t make its way to the boundary the 1st couple of times.  The outfield surely doesn’t seem lightning fast as it did in the 1st half. Conspiracy theorist time. I’m betting they took out the outfield during the dinner break, and put in a heavy, sodden turf when no one was looking.

9:32:54.5 am – Sachin. Ramesh. Tendulkar. Bat – Straight. Power – Immense. Punch – Short. Ball – Flies. GOD. IS IN THE HOUSE.

9:40 am – Sri Lanka’s side-arm chucker bowler Lasith Malinga runs in. Bowls a perfect outswinger to the man. Who reaches for it, and a significant outside edge is gobbled by the keeper.

Malinga to Tendulkar, OUT, The ball that silenced a billion. Most of Wankhede is silent. Some of it is very noisy, and has Sri Lankan flags waving away in a frenzy. Sachin’s World Cup is over. No 100th 100 today. Malinga gets another over, another go at a wicket, and he responds with a wicket. It’s that patent back of a length ball outside off and as always, Malinga got it to go away. Sachin tried the same shot, last ball of the previous Malinga over, trotting across and looking for the steer through the off side. This time he edged it, and though it was dying on Sanga, he wasn’t going to put it down. He dives to the right and comes up with the biggest wicket of the World Cup

SR Tendulkar c †Sangakkara b Malinga 18 (21m 14b 2×4 0x6)

Hushed silence. So quiet, it’s almost as if as a nation, we’ve died 1.2 billion collective deaths. Some reach for their cellphones, to update foreboding I-told-you-so status messages on Facebook. Others ooh, aah and swear under their breaths. A friend looks at me and goes: “Ok, Macys’ chalna hai?”. Pat comes the reply. “Not a chance. Let’s sit and watch this pan out.”


9:45 am – It still hasn’t sunk in, that century no. 100 will have to wait another day. The poet, the romantic, the diehard fan in us all still thinks Sachin will walk back out of the dressing room, call for UDRS to review the decision, and that infernal heart-beat sound on the slow motion stump microphone will fail to detect the edge, thereby giving him another life.

9:50 am – Ok. Fine. Sachin didn’t do it. Gautam and Virat start off circumspect, knowing another wicket at this stage will cause irreparable damage. A couple quiet overs. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t. The expert commentator in each of us kicks in. There’s about a 100 of us in the room right now. Every run, every single, every forward defence, every leave is applauded as I have never heard before.

10:13 am – Gambhir steps out to Randiv. He lofts. It goes miles in the air (really Sunny Gavaskar? Miles? Where’d you learn measurement? Your physics teacher would be so ashamed of you right now, if, you know, you hadn’t scored those 10,000 test runs). Kulasekara gets under it, and …… drops it.  Gambhir, now on 30. “You just dropped the world cup, son”.

10:38 am – Gambhir tickles Murali around the corner. Murali doesn’t seem amused at being tickled in public. Maybe Gauti should try under the soles of his feet next time. Turns around for the second, runs in, desperately short, flings himself in to the crease. Thankfully Sangakkara hasn’t collected it cleanly, so our little man is in. The dive that inspired an entire Cricinfo article.


10:53 am –As Ravi Shastri might say, “against the run of play”, a STUNNING catch from Dilshan, whose name, like his famous Dilscoop, is suffixed with a TM. Seemingly innocuous ball. Attempt to whip to leg. Flies to the right of Dilshan. Who plucks it like a chicken’s feathers at a poultry store (Sorry, couldn’t think of anything more appropriate that could be plucked). Kohli is pretty damn pissed as he walks off. Well played Virat. No shame there.

10:53 am – WHAT? Mahendra Singh WHO is in? Are you effing kidding me? The guy whose top score all tournament has been 34. To face Slinga’ Malinga? Damnit. “If this guy likes living on the edge so much, perhaps we should just push him off it the next time” I think to myself as Malinga runs in to bowl to the Indian captain. Calls for his head ring out across the room. As the wise zenmaster Sidhu says: “IF if’s and and’s were pots and pans …..” something something


Let’s be honest. When was the last time you sat through an ENTIRE 50 over innings. Never, I presume. Me neither. Yet here I am, sitting in the front row seat, surrounded by about 100 fellow maniacs, applauding every single, every forward defence, every box(cup) adjustment, and every drinks break. Dhoni reaches out, pats it down the ground to long-on? No worries. Applause rings out across the room. Gauti steps out and gently coaxes the ball into the gap? Even louder, we go “Gambhiiiir ….. Gambhir <CLAP CLAP CLAP>“. Inbetween, chants of “Jinkalaka naka-naka ooh aah, ooh aah” start up. The target is being whittled down with such assuredness, that us old-timers, followers of cricket from the mustachioed days of Kumble, Srinath, Ganguly and Azhar instinctively sense something ominous about to happen. Can you blame us?

11: 23 am – Gambhir and Dhoni, continue ticking precious runs off the target. The required rate goes above 6 barely a couple of times, and everytime it does, Dhoni steps back to a customary short ball from Muttaih Muralitharan, whacks it through covers, with deceptively ferocious power, and watches it rocket to the fence. Russell Arnold, he of the annoying nasal voice, says something about “destiny” and an Indian win, which seems totally arbitrary at the time, but as minutes tick on, he seems to be on to something.

12:20 pm – OUT! Gambhir has, as is his wont, tried to give the opposition a chance. As a country, we’re renowned the world-over for (apart from call-centers), being a hospitable people. As if trying to exemplify that fact, as he did thrice against Australia in the quarters, he runs down the pitch, and half-cuts, half-slaps the ball, which doesn’t bounce as anticipated, and the resulting edge cannons into the stumps. WHY the f*ck Gauti?!!! Anyway, once the choice abuses directed at female relatives are done with, we stand up as one to applaud an innings, scarcely believable not so much in its production, but in its timing and context. Generous applause continues for a whole minute.

12:30 pm – Powerplay time. 30 balls. 30 to get. 5 overs. 3 from Malinga. 2 from Murali. It’s come down to this. The atmosphere is still tense, as is the knot in my stomach. By this point, I’ve had so much coffee, I might soon Bleed Bru. Walking around the room trying to scavenge the last donut from the table in the back, it gives you goosebumps, looking at the crowd that has gathered. Apparently word has gotten round, so it’ s heart-warming to see an old gentleman and his wife, probably 70 years of age, sitting at the back of the room, holding hands, looking intently, squinting to catch a glimpse of the far away screen. They can tell you how it felt when we last won one of these. Glory days of Indian cricket, they will tell you. If that doesn’t give you goosebumps, nothing ever will.

12:34 pm – Malinga has just bowled the last over for 3 runs. 27 required from 24 balls. For the first time in a while, the required rate is more than run-a-ball, with Murali due to come on next. Palpable tension in the room. And THEN. Sangakkara turns away from Murali. Apparently he doesn’t have enough faith in his trump card tonight. 800-wickets in tests. 534 in ODIs. But today, he’s been rendered toothless Just like his smile. It’s Kulasekara to bowl the 47th over. As one, each of us quietly says a thank-you to our brother-from-another-mother, Sangakkara. Just like that, its down to 16 from 18 balls. Surely, we have it now.

12:38 pm – Malinga, for the 48th over. Ok, lets just see him off. Thrash Kula again. Dhoni has other ideas. Consecutive whips to the leg-side, fly away to the boundary. We’re up on our feet now. Everyone. Every known mother, father, brother- and sister-related chant rings out from literally every mouth in the room. I’m hugging strangers, back-slapping people I don’t even know, screaming choice abuses and high-fiving friends so hard that my hands are ringing from the impact.

12:42 pm (Probably) – 4 runs to get. 11 balls. Kulasekara runs in to bowl, lands it on a length, curving into Dhoni, who swings. Bat traces a beautiful arc, straight through the ball. Shastri is mumbling some tripe (as always), but stops talking, and changes mid-sentence. “….. absolutely magnificent ….  DHONNIIII ….. finishes it off in style!!!”. Side-on camera from square leg takes over. Dhoni stays still in his follow-through. Frozen in time. He takes a forward step, bat upright in left hand, twirls it a la Rajnikant in slo-mo, and holds it upright once more. Captain COOL indeed. What style. What a sexy. What an effing innings. Whatay match. I can’t even hear myself think, as pandemonium descends on Nolan’s.  Screeching, yelling abusing, shouting, hugging, fist-bumping. High-fiving.

We’ve beaten them. We’ve beaten them all. INDIA. CHAMPIONS. ONCE MORE.


February 4, 2011


Life’s too short, we are told. With a world gone digital, and everyone online, it appears our vocabulary has shrunk to a handful of ridiculous acronyms to meet the need of the times. It seems like, almost overnight, we’ve been transported into an alternate universe when kids rattle off the exact specifications on a Wii or PS3 before they’ve even learned the ABC. Elementary school kids, barely out of diapers, are busy circulating the latest forwarded SMS, while their more illustrious seniors are busy doing the naughty on MMS (LOL!) A 6-year old who’s just graduated from potty training could put you to shame with his ability to rattle off the names of every character in every video game, from CoD to WoWAoE to GTA, GP4 to GT4. Every teen, tween, and pre-pubescent is going OMG at the latest Justin Bieber video. We’re obsessed with celebrities and their lives, who they did LSD with, or how many partners they’ve had SEX with (TMI!). In an always online world, everyone’s status line is habitually set to DND, and even if they do find the time to talk, they’ll always BRB because they’ve GTG. We all have varying degrees of ADD, switching between Facebook, Hulu, Youtube and ESPN while attempting to finish work due the next day, from within the confines of the same four mind-numbing walls of the same office cubicle. Every yuppie BSC and MBA aspirant is awake late at night, trying to ace one or all of the CETSATACTGRE, CAT, just so he can secure his ticket into the IIT or IIM of choice, ensuring his place as the newest FOB to fly BLR -> LHR -> JFK to take over as the CEO or CFO of a massive corporate empire like UPS or UBS, in a swank office overlooking NYC.

With IPL season 4 due to begin soon, it can only mean one thing; more ADD at the office, and even more OCD at home, characterized by family feuds for control of the TV remote, between equally passionate fans of the rival EPL and NBA leagues. When cricket isn’t on the tube, RAW is WAR. When neither of these is on, CSI rules primetime TV, I don’t know WTF for (SMH). If all else fails, it’s time to switch between CNNIBNABCBBCNBC and the slew of trusty 24-hour news channels that recycle and repackage the same combination of non-news ad naueseumIDK about you, but IMO the standard of television programming has plummeted depths heretofore unknown to the human civilization.

As a PPL, we have disturbingly low patience levels today. Every website has an FAQ page; every bank has an ATM, because everyone wants to get things done ASAP. We don’t have enough time to procreate the natural way, so we go in for IVF. We demand instant gratification, without any of the hassle or effort. Unable to cook at home, and unwilling to even try tossing a relatively healthy BLT on the BBQ, we buy dangerously toxic sludge ‘food’ (AKA ‘Happy’ meals, McNuggets, and Whoppers) from KFC and McD, and watch in surprise as we pack on the LBS. Too tired from the weight gain and premature onset of obesity, we barely have enough energy to WFH. Mechanics and garages are no longer open, because every Tom, Dick and Sally has a DIY kit from the ACE hardware store; but if you are unable to get past step 1 on the installation manual, good luck since the only thing you’ll reach if you call customer support is an IVR machine, or if you’re really lucky, an employee in a call center in BLR, who, even if he does an adequate job of helping with what you need, will get no more than a cursory grunt of acknowledgement. Lets face it, we’re in such a hurry, who has time to say things like THX, leave alone PLZ, SRY and ILU?

For a gadget to catch our attention, it has got to be flashy, sleek, fast, or all of the above. Your neighbour down the road just purchased the latest and greatest IBM, with the hottest RAM and superfast CPU, which means it’s definitely time for you to upgrade from your 20 year old computer running DOS so you can download pirated music from the best P2P service online. Your USP might be ESP, but today, nobody will even notice, since they’re busy on their PSP. Technology has empowered the common man beyond what anyone ever imagined. It’s fairly simple today to purchase a full-fledged SLR and all the snazzy equipment that comes with it, and begin snapping away as many JPGs as your gigantic memory card can hold, and JLT you’re a star photographer.In a digital world obsessed with computers, FUD is the order of the day. Y2K came and went at the turn of the millennium, yet none of us died. The CIAFBI and NSA would have you believe everyone who reads a koran is a terrorist, and do a fine job of trying to make you fear for your life everytime you walk down the street. Online, everyday is a never-ending saga of OWN or PWN, with some hacker breaking into and accessing unauthorized data. Any and every achievement, big or small, is trumped online as being FTW. Yes, seriously. WTF is FTW? Technology moves along at breakneck pace, best exemplified by antiques like STDISDFAX and PCO which have died a slow and painful death, leaving clueless phone booth operators in their wake, as every second techno-savvy teen whips out their shiny new HTC which claims to do everything short of actually substituting for toilet paper.

The economy today has been in a steady downward spiral for longer than we can remember. PSUs sink each day, and companies announce very public and very profitable IPOs to make hay while the sun shines. NGOs have mushroomed all over the place, almost like a rodent infestation. Each day the USD, the INR and the GBP wage a largely pointless battle for currency superiority. No matter what you purchase, big or small, whether it be a top-of-the-line DVD or VCD player, or a spanking new ZENKIAGMC, or a DIO, you have to think long and hard ABT your how much you’re willing to shell out on your EMI at the end of the month.

FYI, contrary to what you think, politics is no different in India than it is in the USA. There you have the INC fighting the BJP. Here you have the DEMs fighting the GOP. The same scumbag politicians are in it to win it; benefactors of kickbacks offered by powerful corporate lobby houses, from the NRA to AIG, LIC to ING. In 2001 Saddam was suspected to be hiding WMDs, the US government has long been suspected to be hiding UFOs,  and Chinese restaurants have long been blatantly loading MSG in their food. Sure, it tastes GR8, but apparently it’s bad for you (FML!).  At the EOD, maybe its time to sit down and face the harsh reality. Let’s say a quiet RIP for a world possessed of some sanity, which we lost ages ago. Maybe it’s time to send an SOS to our last hope for a solution, Santa Claus. NVM actually. Maybe some things aren’t meant to be fixed.

Hold on JAM. I gotta take this call.

“Hello …”

“Yes, speaking. Who’s this.”

“Jimmy who? Sorry? Jimmy Wales? ”

“Sincere thanks from the folks at Wikipedia for all the link-backs to your home page? Why, you’re most welcome. What’s that you say, 1000 unique hits in an hour? ”

GTG for now. BRB.


This post is an obviously amateur, slightly comical take on the pervasiveness of acronyms and shorthand in the lexicon of present-day English usage all over the world. It is a humble tribute to the late legend, George Carlin, (inspired largely by THIS performance entitled ‘Modern Man’). Watching it, you can’t help but simultaneously be left in awe at the genius of this man, as well as be let down by the intellectually inferior fare you just read.

September 23, 2010

The Scum-n-Wealth Games



Welcome to India. The land of open sewers, stray dogs, dengue fever, and lower standards of hygiene. Or atleast that’s what the clowns (read: politicians) running this circus (read: country) would have you believe. A land of plenty (excuses, that is) and poverty (the entire sporting infrastructure, recently broken overhead bridge included, was built using silly putty and superglue, because, you see, we simply cannot afford cement to build actual bridges in the midst of this recession).  Lalit Bhanot, secretary general of the Commonwealth Games organising committee, was heard saying at a news conference recently that the athletes’ accommodation needed a “deep cleaning”, but everything would be ready on time. “According to us the room may be clean, but the foreign officials may require a certain standard of cleanliness and hygiene which may differ from our standards,” he said. Welcome to India, indeed. Swalpa adjust maadi.

STUPID phoren people with their hygiene and precious sanitation. The nerve of those spoilt brats! Yes sir, our Indian athletes would much rather sleep on a surface that was earlier defecated on by a stray animal, than on a clean, plush mattress made from a thousand goose feathers.  They most certainly prefer to perform their morning ablutions in toilets that won’t flush, and bathtubs that won’t drain. I assure you, our beloved Indian sportsmen wouldn’t mind taking communal showers, and sleeping on bamboo floor mats. Speaking of standards, we DEFINITELY have extremely low ones, and those are best typified in the hordes of uneducated illiterate buffoons we elect to take charge of the highest offices in the country.

My sympathies go out to our esteemed IOA chairman, and head of the Commonwealth Games committee Mr. Suresh Kalmadi; how, in his infinite wisdom could he have predicted in 2003 upon leading a successful Indian bid for the 2010 games, that 7 years of notice would not suffice to build a stadium and sporting facilities atleast upto national standards, leave alone international standards. How dare the CWG committee thrust such impractical, unreasonable expectations on his fragile shoulders ? Reached for comment, Suresh Kalmadi had this to say. Wait, whats that ? He’s nowhere to be found ? Manmohan Singh has relieved him of his duties ? Oh.

Speaking of imbeciles, somewhere on a yacht in the middle of the Indian Ocean, with a proximity-sensing CBI-issued ankle bracelet strapped to his weary legs, a certain Mr. Lalit Modi is quietly exulting in the fact that he isn’t the biggest scamster in Indian sport. That honour now goes to the Indian government, the CWG committee and the thousands of greasy yes-men involved in this fiasco, who now stand head and shoulders above the rest, in terms of sheer incompetence. Given how this is going, the sadist in me is definitely looking forward to the 1st ever Indian Formula-1 race scheduled to be held in Delhi next year. Chances are, we could have potholes instead of hairpin bends, stray dogs patrolling the track instead of race stewards, makeshift tarpaulins to make up for the lack of a roof, and plastic chairs in lieu of grandstands lined with Tifosi.

Of course, none of this fiasco would be possible without the wilful support and encouragement of all species that constitute the government food chain, from the bottom (the office babu with paan stains on his white shirt white pant and white shoes), through the mid-level contractor(s) building the stadiums, all the way to the top (sports minister who doesn’t know what a Commonwealth IS), and ending with the (dis)honourable chief minister Ms. Sheila Dixit. Upon being questioned about the quality (or lack thereof) of the games facilities, Ms. Dixit appeared peeved, before nonchalantly replying “The games are not collapsing”. Umm, I’m sorry to interrupt you madam, but the makeshift roof at the weightlifting arena just did.

The “We are like this wonly” attitude is what has carried our beloved country thus far, and God forbid we let it go now. Which probably explains our elation upon getting a silver Olympic medal after 50 years, instead of dejection on missing out on the gold. We are a nation of average (hygiene and standards, apparently). Or our ability to summon the gall needed to tell the world this is our idea of an international sporting event. It’s why we decide to spend millions of Rupees to stage a bid for the 2010 Commonwealth Games, then decide to do a half-ass job of it. We are like that wonly.

At the time of going to press, word around town is that the nearly 200-strong England national athletic contingent have been asked to share a 8-bed 1-bath apartment in the Sri. Sri. Rajiv Gandhi Memorial Residential block (you seem surprised by that name) of the aforementioned athletes village. Also crammed into the 8 bedrooms – a herd of cows that wandered in from nearby pastures, who now refuse to leave. The Brits seem to have hammered out a sleeping arrangement with the cows, the terms of which dictate that the athletes themselves will abdicate their beds to the cows, so long as the bovines don’t leave cow dung lying around on the floor. The poor Poms have also been requested to share toothpaste, soap and towels for the duration of the games with the Australian team sleeping on the balcony, a request that was met with an emphatic “Sod off, MATE ! by the Aussie team.

Let the shames, I mean Games, begin.

April 30, 2010

Of Blimps, Pimps and Corporate Chimps

The IPL circus has come to a close. Time to shut off the lights on that BLEDDY blimp, and go home. Except for Lalit Modi. The poster boy of IPL’s fall from grace will be twiddling his thumbs behind bars for a long time to come, thats for sure.

In surmising the events of the last 50 days, nothing quite typifies the pomposity, the vulgar show of banality and mind-numbing annoyance like the MRF blimp. That’s right, A BLIMP !! A fascinating manifestation of just how far science and technology have brought the human civilization. An oversized helium baloon, suspended miles in the sky, for no apparent purpose, save for flashing red neon lights that might have reminded MS Dhoni of certain parts of the city where people would come up to him and speak in Tamil. Thats right, a BLIMP. Not just ANY blimp, NOT one of those sophisticated blimps employed in stadia and sports arenas across the world, to provide the couch potato at home  a unique vantage point to look at the action down there. This blimp, has no such appendages, no apparent reason. Just the MRF logo, emblazoned on it. A comatose blimp, in a vegetative state. Someone pull the plug, please.

Which brings me to the MRF blimp’s BIGGEST  fans. Laxman Sivaramakrishnan, and Danny Morrison. Someone, have mercy and tie these two by the ankles to the MRF blimp, and untie the harness, letting it soar away. Good riddance to, as Geoff Boycott would say, Roobish. These insufferable fools would have you wishing someone instead put a steel drum over your head, and slammed against it with heavy metal rods until your aural senses went numb. Dumb and Dumber here are proud owners of a combined IQ less than a baby chipmunk, have a fine-tuned penchant to combine the words Karbon Kamaal Katch, DLF Maximum, AND Citi Moment of Success in increasingly bizarre and inane sentences, and have that elusive ability to induce mass projectile vomiting. Factor in the ability to make even the most devoted cricket fan want to throw a brick through his new 3D HDTV screen, and voila, you’ve got two chimps who make Shastri and Gavaskar appear less intolerable. Next season’s sponsor ? Karbon Kamaal Kowdung. “I use it to maintain the fine balance of  OIL and DANDRUFF in my hair, says Laxman whatshisface, and Danny chimes in with, “Oh you LITTLE beauty …..”, “Gotta love those Double D’s”, “This one’s outta here” and other derived tripe.

Lest we forget, the BCCI, that everlasting beacon of transparency, honesty and all thats good and pure, was involved in the match-fixing brouhaha all along. Those of you baying for Lalit Modi’s blood, here’s the deal. Guys like Modi have been in business as long as there are sweaty government palms ready and waiting to be greased. These imbeciles have hung on to the goose laying the golden egg, and today they expect us to believe that Pimpmaster Pimpy was acting alone. To those that are standing up for Shashi Tharoor, STOP. NOW. He isn’t innocent. Not by a long stretch. He may not be in as deep as Modi, but the sh*t has well and truly hit the fan. To those of you still creating Facebook petitions, fan pages and groups for Tharoor, as also the twits that are tweeting protests requesting Manmohan Singh to take him back, a word of advice: Delete that precious Facebook petition, and go get a life ! As someone said in the wake of the scandal recently (ironically enough, on Facebook) :

Daal me kala zaroor hai, aur kitne Tharoor hain

That this steaming pile of putrid compost (and NO, I’m not referring to Lalit Modi or Shilpa Shetty) emerged because of the recklessness of one overconfident IPL commissioner on Twitter reveals how easy it could have been to expose this fiasco all along. All the information was out there, although, we the gullible customers were sold, hook line and sinker, with the hoopla, the dancing and bright lights. Quite expectedly, the major players (read, Priety Zinta, Vijay Mallya et al) have come out in support of their beleaguered puppet-master, saying aspersions should not be cast on Mr. Modi, and that the law should take its due course.  Surprise surprise!  Of course you would want him to be exonerated, wouldn’t you. Cause that would legitimize the seedy underbelly (again, NOT talking about Shilpa Shetty’s love handles, or Mr. Modi’s generous curves) of the IPL. Thankfully, this week has brought the welcome news that Lalit Modi has been suspended by the BCCI. I welcome this decision, although with mixed emotions. Without a scapegoat to write about anymore, is there any point in watching or writing about the Pimpin’ League anymore ?

Controversy and jokes aside, could someone please reveal to me the identity of the IPL’s misguided chief marketing strategist. Because, whoever this guru is, he definitely should be stripped of the correspondence MBA he was awarded for the tons of half-baked management gyaan he learnt taking evening classes at the MRF Blimp Business School down the road. How, and I mean HOW, could someone convince leading brands like LG, MRF, DLF, Videocon, Samsung (ok, so they’re not EXACTLY leading brands), to destroy the infinitesimal brand value they carried, by labelling every inch of the player uniforms, player underwear (possibly), the outfield, and stadium urinals with their logos, together with strategically placed corporate chimps (read commentators) simultaneously assaulting all sensory organs, by yelling out irrelevant brand names ad nauseum at not-too-infrequent-intervals. How exactly is a brand like DLF supposed to be attracting enough positive attention to its gargantuan construction ventures if  the selfsame consumer’s sensory organs have been so relentlessly and horrifically abused over a 60-day period to the point that he now wants to pick up a knife and throw it at the next guy who yells DLF Maximum ! Or, the makers of Karbon Kamaal cellphones. What sort of reassurance are we, as potential customers of the Karbon Kamaal phones, supposed to be filled with, when we see these brilliant geniuses spell Katch with a K.

Between equal doses of corruption and scandal, the IPL also witnessed its first dose of  live unscripted entertainment. And entertainment it sure was. Cue, Harbhajan Singh hoisting a clearly piss-drunk Neeta Ambani into his broad arms.  Or Shah Rukh Khan’s coming out party. It’s evident Mr. Chesty McForesty (read Karan Johar) is in some corner, burning with rage at the sight, but thats a topic for another day. Hey, atleast its no longer a secret. Also witnessed, was Harbhajan-grope-any-girl-like-there’s-no-tomorrow Singh and Shanthakumaran-I’m-begging-to-be-slapped-again Sreesanth, discovering a Maa tatoo on their forearms, and discovering they were brothers separated at birth, upon which realization, they proceeded to give bromance a bad name with the usual rehearsed hug and tears routine.

The Pimping League will return next year, right on schedule, more pimped out, laden with more hyperbole, and overstuffed with an equally cringe-inducing lineup of greasy stars and corporate buffoons. Here’s a picture. Its the IPL. 2011. Bangalore squeak through to a narrow 255-run win over the Cochin Coconuts in the grand finale. Vijay Mallya runs out of the dugout, at breakneck speed, headed towards Virat Kohli,. The camera pans in on both of them. The lights dim. The video plays in slow-mo. They approach each other. Mallya jumps in to Virat’s outstretched arms. Both do a twirl, hold the pose for the flashing lightbulbs. Kohli is subsequently ruled out of playing for the next 5 years, due to, among other things, a herniated 20th vertebra. Not so pretty when it isn’t a dainty middle-aged woman jumping into a young turbanator’s arms is it ?

Well, for now, I’m just glad the lights have been turned off on this miserable charade. I can go home and rest in …… Wait, whats that red light up in the sky? It looks like, M ….. R ….. What the F ?!?!?!?

March 13, 2010

Indian Pimping League

Ah, the IPL ! That great pimp of us all. Makes whores of that illustrious breed of fine human beings called commentators and desperate customers of us, the breed of ever-willing rabid cricket lovers. Add to that some fantastic TV producers who cut away from the on-field action every 30 seconds so we can look at strategically placed ground-level cameras focussing on upskirt angles of cheerleaders gyrating with an almost obscene vulgarity that seems more like a borderline advertisement for Victoria’s Secret. Voyeurs around the world seem to be having a field day with this, and might  eventually become cricket fans, almost as an afterthought.  Throw into the mix the players, paid obscene amounts of money for 3 weeks of work, and VOILA !what you have is the closest thing society has come, or will ever come to approving a public brothel or legalized prostitution.

And lest I forget, the sponsors. Agreed, they pay filthy sums of money to have their name shouted from the rooftops at every conceivable moment, but have we REALLY come to this ? A six is now a DLF’er (or a DLF Maximum). A wicket is now called a Citi moment of success, obviously in reference to that oh-so-obvious paragon of SUCCESS, Citibank ! The hyperbole and the forced excitement in the voices of these overpaid, undereducated, pompous, vocabulary-deprived unsuccessful ex-players would be laughable, if it wasn’t so jarring and loud. Ravi Shastri, for example seems to forget that he has a microphone fitted into and held in place by the nose hair in his bellowing nostrils, (a microphone, Mr. Shastri, is a device that can, amplify your voice so you don’t have to blare it out like a foghorn). Mr. Laxman Sivaramakrishnan, that symbol of talent and longevity (who, by the way played all of 9 tests and 14 ODIs), rambles on and on, incoherently about Sachin’s batting stance, and technique, while pointing to the way JP Duminy’s front foot is coming “back and across”. Sunil Gavaskar can’t get enough of the Dilscoop, even though that last shot was an on-drive straight down the ground.

Which reminds me, its Time for the Hindustan Lever Super Stat – Batting Averages

  • L Sivarama-watshisface – 2.50
  • JP Duminy – 34.94
  • Sachin Tendulkar – 45.12

Lalit Modi has gone on record, saying

I see the IPL becoming bigger than the NFL, the NBA, the English Premier League. 

Sure. Why Not. I think so too. Can’t you just see Kobe Bryant making the game winning Burger King buzzer beater. Or Tim Duncan stepping up to the Free Throw line, with a none-too-subtle AD at the bottom of the TV screen showing a  Huggies AD, with a punchline rolling across screen, “HUGGIES – Freedom for babies Free Throw“. Or Joe Flacco making the game winning touchdown for the Baltimore Ravens against the Minnesota Vikings, with a hyperactive commentator on ESPN yelling, “…… and he scores, he scores !!! 7 points,….. with the TYLENOL touchdown !!!”. Close your eyes now. Can’t you just see it now ? Wayne Rooney makes a brilliant run down the left flank, all the way to the penalty box. He tackles, one, two defenders, makes a brilliant side-step and makes a brilliant, curling shot into the top right far post  “…….. for the GATORADE goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooallllll “. Yup. I see it now.

Here’s the beef I have with commentators and others of their ilk. These are the same guys, Harsha wheres-my-hairpiece Bhogle Sunil I-wish-my-son-was-a-half-decent-batsman Gavaskar Ravi flaring-nostrils-RayBan-at-night Shastri, Laxman oiled-and-slicked-Tamil-movie-star-wannabe Sivaramakrishnan, who write endless syndicated columns by day and during the week, romanticizing Test Cricket, and all its qualities, who go on unendurably from Monday to Friday about how  Twenty 20 cricket is a sham, a mere show, a carnival of humungous proportions, which can never mimic the appeal and the endurance of Test cricket. These same guys go into their commentary booths come Saturday and Sunday, and jump off their seats everytime a DLF Maximum is hit, or the bowler delivers a JAFFER of a delivery, or celebrate with the Deccan Chargers when theyve had a CITI moment of Success.

Commentators apart, the players are no less erudite in their assessment of the game. Shanthakumaran Sreesanth, for example, when asked after the game, says he “tried to bowl in the right areas”. I guess thats why you went for 125 runs in your 10 overs, while making faces in a sad attempt to intimidate the batsmen, nincompoop. You have bowlers saying they tried to “hit the deck hard” … (whatever that means), or fielders who “fly through the air to take a stunning catch inches from the ground” (Poor Superman has got a complex). Then you have captains  – at the toss, saying ridiculous things like we’re-looking-to-win (No kidding?) , or “The toss doesn’t matter” (Oh yeah, wise guy ? Why did you go out there … to see how many sides a coin has ??),  or after the game, going “the boys did well“. Even though they lost.

Let put all that aside for the present. Cause the GIANT circus has just rolled into town. For now, lets sit back and  partake of the legalized flesh-trade show that is the IPL 2010, and be glad we don’t have to deal with the nonsensical cowardly imbecile called Fake IPL Player this time around. Let all the hackneyed references to tracer-bullet, super-shots, fine tickle, gone like a rocket, going-going-gone,  that one’s out of here and bowling good line and length BEGIN.

September 9, 2008

The legend lives on

As he watched the desperate last-ditch forehand from Andy Murray sink low into the net, one can only imagine the avalanche of emotions that must’ve flooded Roger Federer’s mind as he fell to his knees in celebration. The flashbacks of the total surrender on the clay dirt of Roland Garros, the heart-wrenching epic battle loss on the hallowed lawns of Wimbledon, and the semifinal disappointment to Djokovic at the start of a difficult year. Yet, in that one fleeting second, he was back on top, where many still believe he rightly belonged. In that single instant, redemption was bought, all was forgotten, the game suddenly made sense and all was well again in Roger Federer’s world again. The months of intense speculation, the annoying comments and questions asked of the man would have driven any other mortal player to introspection, soul-searching, and eventually a downward spiral from the top. NOT FEDERER.

For 1 whole year he toiled away, with nothing significant to show for it. He suffered the humiliation of 12 losses all season, the most losses he’s ever had in a single year since 2003. Most of them came against journeymen, players who Federer had no right losing to. They were players either well past their prime and ageing (case in point Radek Stepanek), and some who were bursting through the ranks, brimming with talent and confidence, some as young as 21 (case in point Andy Murray). Yet, in a bedazzling display last night, under the bright lights of Flushing Meadows, Roger Federer played as only ROGER FEDERER can. For a player whose biceps and suddenly muscular frame were highlighted and splashed across major tabloids, and whose build was compared favorably to Rafael Nadal’s bulging sinews, Murray showed a surprising lack of muscle in the finals. Coming into the tournament, he was the most successful hard-court player on the men’s roster this season, with 3 hardcourt titles, and a favorable 2-1 record against the man himself. Yet, when it came crunch time, Murray showed he has a while before he can seriously threaten to win a slam.

There are a sizeable throng of naysayers out there STILL believe Federer wasn’t seriously threatened and would have lost, had Nadal been in the finals, or that he had luck on his side, a favorable schedule and fresher legs for the finals. While all that could be true, it is more of a wishful thinking. If you’re not a Roger Federer fan, chances are you’re still not convinced. Well, my point here isn’t to attempt to convince you. The match spoke for itself. The point is, THIS ISN’T OVER. One bad summer doesn’t suddenly make Federer a player on the decline, just as one extraordinary almost Federer-esque season doesnt make Nadal the best player in the world. On the contrary, it has showed everyone that he is infact human. Not a ferocious forehand-swinging racquet-wielding automaton who demolishes opponents with nonchalance. And it is in this show of heart that Federer has won more hearts. Without going out of his way to convince his fans and supporters that he’s still THAT DAMM GOOD, he has silently gone back to doin the basics right, and focussing his sights on the grand slams. In the process, he has won over many many more fans, who’ve identified in themselves, and in their daily struggles, a close bond with him. And that “is the best compliment a player can ever hope to get”.

The upcoming year holds significant promise that Federer would once again kickstart his campaign to surpass another legend, Pete Sampras in his quest for 15 Grand slams. It also holds enough mouth-watering suspense for a highly entertaining post-season of tennis. The Australian Open next year would set the tone for Roger’s revitalized campaign, just as it did this year. Andy Roddick and several other players have joked this year saying “I’ll definitely take his bad year any day of the week”. But the way he pulled himself out of the “decline” showed us that he still has the passion and hunger to keep going without feeling the need to prove himself to anybody. This year, he ONLY reached 2 Grand Slam finals, ONLY won ONE, and was ONLY a semi-finalist in the other. In winning the US Open, Roger has silenced the mob of boisterous detractors, self-help-quacks and quick-fix-doctors who were on his back throughout the course of the year, dishing out all sorts of advice on his technique, mental strength and ability to win. He even jokingly quipped at the post-match conference …

I mean, I’m a bit disappointed. Sometimes to a point a bit annoyed, because all sorts of crazy people started writing me and trying to reach me, telling me I need some help either mentally or physically. (Laughter) You’re laughing but it’s the way it goes. People come out of closet and think they can start helping me now. It’s just a pain.For me, this sort of puts them to rest a little bit, and calms down the phones at my parents’ a little bit, which I’m happy about.

Michael J. Gelb, internationally renowned author, speaker, and consultant says “Champions know that success is inevitable; that there is no such thing as failure, only feedback. They know that the best way to forecast the future is to create it. ” Genius cannot and should not be questioned. Mortals like us can only watch the Gods, and reminisce when we’re well into old age ….. that we had the privilege to see this craftsman weave his magic in his prime.

August 11, 2008

India's GOLDEN boy

Abhinav Bindra stunned the shooting fraternity by winning the Olympic Gold medal at the Beijing Olympics today, India’s FIRST GOLD in over 108 years of participation in the Olympics. The quadrennial extravaganza is the cynosure of all eyes in every country around the world every 4 years, all countries save India that is. I’ve only been alive since ’83, but the few Olympic games i’ve witnessed have been a humiliating performance from the Indian contingent. Every Olympiad, barring sterling performances from 1 or 2 gems, the rest fall way short of the world standard. It isnt for dearth of money in the country, or lack of talent. It is simply the governments repeated failure to learn from past mistakes.

Every so often, Indian athletes have demonstrated flashes of brilliance which seem to suggest that the talent is very much there, the ability isn’t a problem, and that they are very much willing to work hard. Yet, why is it that we are CELEBRATING our FIRST gold medal since the hockey team won their last gold way back in 1980 (Thanks Jinsi for tht correction 🙂 i thought it was 1960’s) ? Maybe it is our collective mindset, that as a country so rabid about cricket, other sports get applause if the athletes win a token medal or two, and in doing so, draw the attention away from cricket only for the briefest of whiles. Maybe its high time we give them their due.

Maybe its time for me to start my usual share of rants against the government and all those responsible for the neglected condition of sport in our country. But for the time being, lets bask in the joy and contentment and pride only we know the value of. After 108 years of disappointment, we can only hope this is the beginning of a golden age. Thank you Abhinav Bindra, for a surprisingly early Independence Day gift to the nation 🙂

Next Page »

Create a free website or blog at

%d bloggers like this: