When the Law is an ass

Nine months of continuous Test, ODI and Twenty20-watching can play merry hell with the enthusiasm levels. Then, shortly after the curtain finally descended on England’s relentlessly suffocating 2007 campaign, along came Saturday’s wrestling match in Paris to remind us why rugby will never usurp cricket - much less soccer, as has been ludicrously mooted in the British media - in the planet’s pecking order of athletically-inclined obsessions.

In many ways, since each pursuit has embraced Mammon, the paths taken by muddied oafery and flannelled foolishness have diverged starkly. For all the unflattering evidence of its own World Cup earlier this year, cricket is as good to watch now as it has ever been, probably better. Yet despite a vibrant World Cup full of upset formbooks and torn-up predictions, rugby union is becoming unwatchable. No ballgame has suffered so much damage from professionalism. And rightly so. After all, no other ballgame sets such store by physical prowess and legitimate thuggery. Self-expression? Not much room for that, matey.

Which is why, as unpatriotic and even unromantic as it may sound, I was quietly relieved England’s hitherto hopeless rugger-buggers did not beat South Africa at the weekend. The way I saw it, it would have been a victory for uncreativity, for fearless, naked destruction. As it was, the Springboks were barely worthier champions. There were no tries, hardly any individual sorties and precious few passing movements. With its emphasis on speed, brute force and nullification, rugby union, a cherishable spectacle just 20 years ago when fitness applied solely to one’s capacity to down 10 pints of beer after the final whistle, is now a raspberry-blowing rejection of everything that endears the competitive arts to this near-ex-disciple. Short of merging with rugby league and trimming teams to 13, enlarging the pitch seems the only way forward.

When Evie, my nine-year-old daughter, unexpectedly informed me of her desire to watch the final, she explained that she found rugby “fun” to watch but that, unlike cricket, she had no desire whatsoever to play it. As the game unfolded, that growing ardour was tempered. “All they do is wrestle,” she observed at length. “You don’t often see the ball, do you?” I nodded with ill-concealed satisfaction. The difference between rugby union and cricket, I explained, is not simply that one is a mite rougher than the other. It is that it is impossible, in essence, to win playing negative or even neutral cricket. The next day, I read a quote from Eddie Jones, the former Australia coach now aiding South Africa, who reasoned that NOT retaining possession of the ball was more advantageous. How perverse is that?

How reassuring, then, to read the comments of Syd Millar, chairman of the International Rugby Board, who believes his sport should be “freed up a bit” and “produce more options for players”. Even amid the glow of the most profitable RWC yet, there appears to be some evidence of objective self-analysis, of an awareness that improvement is required, even imperative. Indeed, the rules are forever being tinkered with, adapted to times and tastes. Yet for all its amoeba-like talent for self-division, cricket has been comparatively statuesque with regard to its Laws (note that hubristic capital L).

There have been just four new Codes since the original MCC model of 1788, and for all the intervening and succeeding revisions and clarifications, far too many of the fundamental elements need rephrasing, even reinventing. Much as some might reasonably strike the uninitiated as illogical, indefensible and downright offensive to the intellect, this is not exclusively about attracting and keeping converts and potential apostles. Many of us old hands are fed up with trying to rationalise the irrational.

Here, then, are 10 modest proposals, in order of priority, pressingness and, yes, annoyance:

1. Substitutes

Law 2.3 dictates that only 11 men be empowered to bat or bowl. Hell, it was only comparatively recently that the 12th was allowed to field at slip. Given the rank unfairness of an ever-fattening fixture list and the heartless, insensible refusal to permit an injured batsman or bowler to be replaced, isn’t it about time this nettle was grasped? Soccer has expanded from 11-a-side to 16, rugby union from 15-a-side to 22. Would it be that huge a climbdown for cricket to permit one substitute for each discipline?

2 and 3. Stumped off a wide/Run out off a no-ball

Why should the fielding side profit from an illegality? Why should they be granted a chance to redeem themselves by dint of faulty running between the wickets or an overbalanced back foot? In both cases, the umpire’s signal should denote that, strictly in so far as the offending collective is concerned, the ball is dead. The batting side, on the other hand, should still be able to take due and just toll without fear of retribution.

4. Overthrows after ball hits stumps

Punishing the fielding side for an accurate throw? Why not penalise a batsman for being too nasty to the ball? Redraft Law 23, which governs whether or not the ball is dead: once a bail has been legally removed, it should become an ex-ball, cease to exist and nip off smartly to meet its maker.

5. Toss out the tossers

Law 12.4 gives the successful heads-or-tails caller (or, for that matter, non-caller) the right to choose whether to bat or bowl. Without wishing to cast too many aspersions, even those with a degree in naivety might acknowledge the remote possibility of collusion between the groundsman and the home team – and perhaps even a spot of coin-fixing. Eliminate any suspicion once and for all by giving the away team the inalienable right to choose, as was the case a couple of centuries back. As the Marylebone boys themselves wisely if fruitlessly proposed a few years back.

6. Boundaries

Is there any more credibility-sapping sight in sport than a fielder reaching heroically to catch a ball only to intentionally chuck it away when he realises he might topple over the boundary? Only when it’s trumped by a fielder stretching every sinew to stop a four whereupon his efforts are nullified by the touch of toe on rope. Law 19.3 states that, for a boundary to be awarded, the fielder must have “some part of his person touching the ball” and “touches boundary or has some part of his person grounded beyond the boundary”. Let’s get shot of the “touches boundary”. In major league baseball, where boundaries are denoted by fences and even walls, of varying heights, an outfielder is entitled to leap up and catch the ball, legally whisking it back into play, even after it has crossed the top of the barrier. Thus are practice and athleticism duly rewarded.

7. Obstruction

Are you confident about the distinction between, much less the need for, Hit The Ball Twice and Obstructing The Field? You’re not alone. I can just about comprehend why you should be allowed to hit the ball twice in defence of your wicket but not in an attempt to score. What baffles is that you are permitted to hit the ball twice in defence of your wicket, even kick it away, but not in order to prevent a catch carrying to a fielder. Let’s have some consistency here, chaps. Either it is wrong to obstruct the ball’s destiny or it isn’t. Inasmuch as both modes of dismissal seek to punish wilful interference with due process, merge Laws 34 (HTBT) and 37 (OTF) under one roof, as Obstruction, then make it enforceable whenever and however that interference is made.

8. Never mind the width

Law 6 places a restriction on the length and width of a bat, but not the thickness. Justify in light of technological advances at Slazenger and Gunn & Moore.

9. Stumps

Law 8.2 stipulates that the stumps should be 71.1cm high. If metric measurements are to have any meaning, surely they deserve the status of fullness? Make it a round 72cm and give the bowlers (and umpires) a bit more to play with.

10. Intervals

Law 15 has been left unexamined for far too long, although nowhere, it should be added, does it mention any prescribed times. Which leaves us mired in the treacherous sands of convention. Just as much as 40 minutes is a tad excessive for lunch, 20 minutes is too brief for tea. Sessions can now last the thick end of four hours. What other ballgames oblige their practitioners to spend so much time on the field at a single stretch? And don’t give me that guff about not having to run around overmuch. Energy is expended in mental as well as physical terms. Give the guys two decent breaks. Let’s set it in stone for first-class matches: 30 for lunch, 30 for tea. And, while we’re about it, let’s have no more of those nine-wickets-down = delayed tea scenarios. In a game that measures its contests in tens of hours, to fret over the saving of a few minutes is as pointless as sport gets.