On growing disenchanted with the game, and the bouncer

It is reasonable to think that Phillip Hughes' untimely passing away might have sent cricketers into a spiral of self-doubt, and left them questioning their craft and the very purpose behind their effort. For an ardent fan, meanwhile, whose days are simply incomplete without thinking about the world's cricketing matters, this tragedy has made me question if the gratifications I seek from the sport are in fact the ones I should be seeking at all.

About a month ago, I discovered that the end of my academic conference in Brisbane would beautifully coincidence with the beginning of the first Australia-India Test, at the time scheduled to begin on December 4 at the Gabba. This was not merely a dream about to come true - it was a vindication of my devotion to the sport that has given me more metaphors for life than anything else. My excitement was quiet, but profound. Tempering my emotional self so as to not allow any room for a jinx, I discussed, with priest-like sobriety, the possibility of going for this match with my wife.

We configured our travel plans around the first day of the Test, and spent two weeks researching seat options at the Gabba. About a week ago, the decision was made. We booked the Platinum seats next to, and above, the players' area. This would not only give us a Wankhede-North-Stand kind of view, but it would also ensure that my wife was gifted a Rahul Dravid sighting (as a commentator).

When my brother-in-law, himself a cricket fanatic, asked me about our plans, I confessed about how I was driven by the sheer possibility of watching Mitchell Johnson bowl at the Gabba. He of the ferocious handlebar moustache who ravaged the Proteas and the Poms alike; he who evoked enough faith in his captain for the latter to threaten an opposition player with a broken arm. Mitch, fear, intimidation, aggression, and the Gabba. Phew. Would I sign up for that? You bet.

And then came the news of Hughes being felled by a bouncer. At first, the mind refused to even entertain the thought of fatality; after all, the images of Kumble turning up face-bandaged to bowl Lara out, of Broad winning a Test for his country with a smashed nose, and umpteen other such instances had convinced me that a bouncer can be dangerous, but not lethal. It can scare, push the batsman on the backfoot, and make him expect a toe-crushing yorker or any another variety of the fuller delivery.

When delivered effectively by its master craftsmen, the bouncer was riveting to watch, compelled you to marvel at the batsman's fortitude, and left you wanting more of such battles. And the batsman, who survived a testing spell, or counterattacked and conquered the menacing masquerader, wrote his own legend. This stuff is better than a movie, we said.

But then that same bouncer, the dangerous but not lethal one, claimed the life of Hughes. I was in denial, we all were. Come on, he was 25. He was tackling a short ball. He made twin centuries in his debut series against South Africa.

We all had to move from denial to acceptance and remorse, though. And we did. And for some reason, I did not wish to be at the Gabba anymore, and an intense indignation against the sport began to take shape.

As a cricket watcher, I did not wish to see the bouncer one more time. Why do brilliance, and the ability to outsmart an opponent need to be catalysed by intimidation? Did Goran Ivanisevic send a tennis ball careening past his opponent's eyes in full toss before serving up an ace? Did Magnus Carlsen flex his muscles before outsmarting Vishwanathan Anand?

And so, the beauty of the game for me, after a long 30 years, started fading. The heart felt a need for refined contests rather than brutal battles, a game of skill rather than fear, and an assurance that the players will go home safe because they too, as we now realise, are mortal.

As I write, I am barely a 20-minute walk from the Gabba, with no disappointment about the match being rescheduled. For now, my system has lost the bandwidth to witness a live cricket match with any measure of intensity or interest. It is only processing Phillip Hughes.