Samir Chopra
Crowded calendar will give Indian fans relief
The long gaps between the series that allowed endless mental replays of their worst moments, have now been successfully plugged by leagues
Samir Chopra
25-Feb-2013
Before the Perth Test began, I had been tossing around ideas for a post on how India could console themselves with the fact that a 2-2 result in the Test series against Australia would feel just as good as a win; India would be besides themselves for having drawn the series, and Australia would be distraught at having let a 2-0 advantage slip away. Even if the chance to win an away series in Australia was gone, there shouldn't be any lack of motivation for India.
That was a few days ago. This morning, as I sit in my apartment listening to a chilly East Coast wind rattle the windows of my apartment, I shiver, and not just because the occasional gust has made it through some mysteriously located aperture. My overly-optimistic piece of blogging tomfoolery remains stillborn, and just as well. I would have looked like a fool, and the comments space would have been consumed by the scorn and ridicule of those treated to more abject cricket in the latest installment of India's horrible run overseas. I could call it Annus Horribilis, but summoning up fancy Latin phrases doesn't seem to do justice to this carnage. What is needed is simple outrage; the time for fancy analysis of how cricket should be restructured at the grassroots, how the next generation of young batsmen should be nurtured, and so on, will present itself later (to us fans; I'm not sure whether the BCCI will pay attention).
I have to be honest though. Defeats as comprehensive as the ones India have suffered on their tours of England and Australia seem to provoke in me not so much outrage as wearied acceptance. The hints of the current disaster were always visible to the nervous Indian fan, always needing reassurance about the ability of the team to perform consistently and winningly overseas. On these tours of England and Australia, a collective set of long-held fears simply came true. There is a sense of relief perhaps. This was the worst that could happen. The bottom of the trough has been reached. It couldn't get any worse. (For those who think losing at home would make it worse, think again. Some fans are old enough to remember losing Tests at home, others multiple Tests or entire series.)
Full postTesting the traveller
Following a cricket game while travelling is always guaranteed to induce in me the frisson of the explorer
Samir Chopra
25-Feb-2013
Following a cricket game while travelling is always guaranteed to induce in me the frisson of the explorer: where can I find the precious resource of the newspaper, the fellow fan with the radio or television, and now, the internet café, or the cellular network hotspot so that I may check in, or call for help?
Last year, while travelling through Kerala during the South Africa-India Boxing Day Test in Durban, checking on scores had been easy. Despite the mysterious absence of radio commentary, a television set was never very far away (once we had stopped driving and touring, that is). Most hotels had Ten Sports on their room televisions, and I even managed to catch an extended bit of live viewing in a restaurant just outside the Periyar Wildlife Reserve. But I did not know the result till much later, when, while waiting for our return flight to Delhi from Kochi Airport, I picked up a copy of a newspaper that had India's win sprawled over its front pages.
This year, feeling the strain of trying to follow a Test match to be slightly oppressive on a vacation, I resolved to not check on scores till the game was over. Would I be able to resist? We'd soon find out. The first day of the Australia-India Boxing Day Test was not a problem. The game began late in the evening on Christmas Day; I was ensconced deep in the middle of the Puerto Rican rainforest, and cricket felt very far away. The next day was similarly easy: I travelled to a small Caribbean island and, surrounded by beaches, sand and cool ocean breezes, forgot about the cricket again.
Full postThe most pleasant of memories: My highest score
In my earlier post on magical numbers, I forgot to note one number of especial personal importance: 38*
Samir Chopra
25-Feb-2013
In my post on magical numbers a few weeks ago, I forgot to note one number of especial personal importance: 38*, the highest score I have ever made in any form of cricket that involved an actual, hard, potentially bone-breaking cricket ball. I've scored centuries in air-cricket (a fascinating species of the game that I will detail in a later post. Hint: think air-guitars), double-centuries in book-cricket and, of course, triple-centuries in rapid-eye-movement-sleep-cricket.
But when it came to encounters staged outdoors, involving human beings, willow and leather, 38 is all I have to show folks. I've never had the pleasure of raising my bat to acknowledge the applause of my admiring team-mates from the sidelines, or even been mobbed by ecstatic spectators running onto the ground with garlands of marigolds, or perhaps a glass of sweet, cold, refreshing lassi.
For all of that, my 38 still gives me great pleasure. I scored it during a four-innings game in park cricket, which is a bit of a rarity in itself. And to make matters especially sweet, I scored it in the third innings of the game during the course of a partnership with a lad who scored 51, and helped set a target that proved a little too difficult for our opponents. The pitch we batted on was a dust-bowl (I'm well aware that such descriptions are entirely redundant when describing any cricket played in India, but I might as well leave it in there in case posterity decides to send some recognition my way), and the opposition bowlers were a rather threatening, if skinny, bunch of lads from a school grade above ours.
Full postAgainst specialist fielders: Give everyone a chance
Captains should recognise their love and commitment towards the game
Samir Chopra
25-Feb-2013
I'm against specialist fielders. I'm not opposed to the idea of cricketers doing stellar duty for their captains in fielding positions that require particular catching or fielding skills (like, say, first slip, forward short-leg, or extra-cover) but rather, against the misuse of a certain species of recreational cricketer by his supposed 'team-mates.'
The phenomena I am about to describe should be familiar to many of us that have played recreational cricket. In a team of eleven cricketers that play cricket on weekends, it emerges that one, sometimes even two, team members, bat lower down the order, are not given any bowling, and often, as a final garnishing of insult, are inevitably sent to field at third-man, deep fine-leg, or deep backward-point.
These brave souls, who love the game, have sacrificed their weekend time to make up the eleven required to play the game on the weekend, spend their time underused and underappreciated, perhaps being consigned scoring duties while waiting their turn to bat at Nos. 9 or 10.
Full postHow exactly did one become a Test cricketer?
As someone that has studied philosophy, I'm used to dealing with cosmic questions: Why is there something rather than nothing
Samir Chopra
25-Feb-2013
As someone that has studied philosophy, I'm used to dealing with cosmic questions: Why is there something rather than nothing? What is the nature of the good life? When can we say we know something?
But I must confess I have often found some rather more mundane questions more puzzling. For instance, how does one become a Formula One driver? Is there a minor league for racing? Do budding Formula One drivers get picked up by talent scouts as they roar down highways picking up speeding tickets?
In the past, the question that perplexed me the most was quite simple: How exactly did one become a Test cricketer? As a schoolboy, it seemed to me cricketers appeared like magic from nowhere, plucked out of the ether to have a national team cap placed on their heads. The connection with domestic cricket soon became apparent, once I became aware of that level of the game. But the mystery persisted. How did cricketers make it to those teams? In some abstract sense I knew the answers to that question as my interest and involvement with the game grew. But I don't think anything quite bridged the gap between my world and that of the domestic and international games like coming into contact with university cricketers in New Delhi.
Full postFaux objectivity: The murky business of light meters
But what precisely are the light meters protecting the cricketers (and us) from? From conditions where the light is either "too poor to play" or is "dangerous"?
Samir Chopra
25-Feb-2013
On November 21, as Australia and South Africa moved ever closer to the thrilling finale of the second Test of their two-Test series, considerable discussion centered on whether the umpires in charge of the game would provide the ultimate buzz-kill for all concerned by consulting those dreaded killjoys, the light meters, and march off the ground with say, two runs to score or one wicket to get.
That possibility was not raised frivolously: batsmen and fielders cannot appeal any more to umpires for relief; the objective light meter dispenses with the problematic, time-wasting subjectivity of the human cricketers and places decision-making squarely in the hands of the umpire. Too bad if this gain in technocratic efficiency results in the loss of cricketing action.
But what precisely are the light meters protecting the cricketers (and us) from? From conditions where the light is either "too poor to play" or is "dangerous"? There are problems with both answers. Light meters do not have a mark that says "At this reading, it is too dangerous to play cricket because batsmen will not connect with the ball or fielders will not be able to visually sight the ball for collection". Rather, they tell us whether light has improved or worsened; the umpire is still in the business of making a judgment on whether the light is good enough to play in or if it's too dangerous.
Full postEmpty Eden: The saddest sight in cricket
When a Test between India and West Indies resembled the scene of a Ranji Trophy opening-round game between Assam and Tripura
Samir Chopra
25-Feb-2013
There is, or at least seems to be, a fairly vigorous debate taking place in the world of cricket about whether Test cricket is threatened, thriving, surviving, dead or perhaps existing in some alternate time-dimension. In this post, I do not want to enter into that discussion. Rather, my intention here is simpler: to note a melancholic cricketing spectacle, that of Eden Gardens in Kolkata, which during a Test between India and West Indies resembles nothing as much as a ground for a Ranji Trophy opening-round game between Assam and Tripura.
How time has flown. In 1998, when Australia toured India, I spent considerable time on the Internet Relay Channel, trying to convince denizens of that virtual space that an attendance world record could be set at Calcutta, as it was known then, during that series; Sachin had just blasted a masterful 155 at Chennai, Warne would be looking for revenge, India was 1-0 up in the series; the stage was set for the Calcutta crowds to show up in droves. Well, we didn't get a world record, but the stadium was packed, and we were treated to the kind of spectacle that only Eden Gardens seemed capable of.
A few years later, when Australia toured India again, and the Kolkata Test took place, the stands were full again. It is hard to imagine that the drama of the Test would not have been affected adversely had the stands been as empty as they have been in the current Test. Part of the pleasure in watching the highlights of that game is the sense of the cauldron that engulfs the players, the sounds and sights that form the backdrop for the players' heroics.
Full postOn 15,000 and 500: Tendulkar and Boucher can rest easy
I should take note of two new staggering numbers that have entered the test pantheon: 15,000 and 500
Samir Chopra
25-Feb-2013
It is perhaps only appropriate that to follow-up my last post on Curiously Significant Numbers, I should take note of two new staggering numbers that have entered the test pantheon: 15,000 and 500. I admit to finding both of these numbers slightly disorienting because of the cricketing feats they are associated with: the former with Test runs and the latter with Test wicketkeeping catches. Both appear unlikely to be ever broken, and I suspect, in future years will take on an aura similar to Jack Hobbs' first-class aggregate runs or Wilfred Rhodes' aggregate wickets records.
Which brings me to what I consider the most interesting feature of these records: they are associated with international Test cricket, not domestic cricket. Some of the most staggering records of aggregate accomplishments of yesteryears had huge contributions from domestic cricket performances. Most of those will never be broken. Check out the list of aggregate records for first-class wickets. I find it extremely implausible that anyone from the present era will get remotely close.
What the modern era is ensuring that most cricketers will play little domestic cricket once they have graduated into international cricket. A busy schedule dedicated to keeping three formats ticking over ensures that a cricketer moves on from domestic cricket with only an occasional backward glance. Most of the cricket he will play from that point on will be international cricket. Domestic cricket produces these cricketers and from then on is only able to draw upon their talent and skill occasionally.
Full postThe case of the Curiously Significant Numbers
Does the number 1381 ring a bell?
Samir Chopra
25-Feb-2013
Last week, for my Philosophy of Psychology class, I had assigned one of Sigmund Freud's classic case studies, "Fragment of an analysis of a case of hysteria". To make life easier for my students I had made most of the semester's reading available in a large text file with numbered pages. I used fragments from this same file to prepare my lecture notes, so that my students and I were following the same pagination. So there I was in my university office, reading the case study's printout, jotting down notes on the unfortunate Dora, thinking about sexual repression, transference phenomena, and the human unconscious. As I read, I took each page and set it on the side, using its page numbers to make sense of the unstapled collection of papers. As I did so, my eyes fell on the page number of the next sheet up for consignment: 1381. I stared at it for a second, suddenly distracted, and suddenly reminded yet again, by the phenomenon of the Curiously Significant Number that cricket had intruded into my life yet again.
For 1381, of course, is the number of runs Bobby Simpson made in 1964, a record for most runs made in a calendar year till Viv Richards broke it in 1976 (1379, the number of the page just below it, is the English record, held by Dennis Amiss for his 1974 feats). That record of Richards was one of the first major cricket records I had noted. For many years it remained particularly significant to me as a symbol of batting proficiency.
Cricket is a game of numbers and the devoted fan tosses them around, thinks about them, disputes them, collects and analyses them. These numbers slowly become imprinted into our consciousness, and in very little time they come to stand for much more: a set of memories, a favourite player, a piece of cricket history with an especial significance. A cricket fan stares at a scoreboard and a story tells itself; some of those numbers carry stories within themselves. For many cricket fans, for a very long time, 365 was not the number of days in a year; it was the record score by a batsman in Test cricket.
Full postElaborate Fictions continued: A cricketing chain novel
Writing in chain-novel format can be an exhilarating and infuriating experience; each writer supplies inspiration and sand-in-the-wheels for his partners
Samir Chopra
25-Feb-2013
In my last post, I had recounted the tale of my attempt to bring an imaginary Test to life by writing a report of its action. That attempt failed; as is often the case while undertaking writing projects these days, I lacked the attention span and the discipline to pull it off. But, as I have often found with my current writing projects, the key was to find a good co-author.
In the eighth grade, my best friend was a lad from Kerala, 'VC', recently returned from a stint living in England (thanks to his father's work assignments). He was cricket obsessed, so was I. We loved West Indies. Our tastes only diverged when it came to England (he liked seeing them win, I didn't). I told him about my attempt to write a match report of an imaginary Test and suggested we write it as a chain novel: take turns writing reports of sessions, with each of us free to develop the Test match action as we wanted, based on what had gone before.
Who would be the combatants in this Test match? I preferred Australia and West Indies, VC wanted England and West Indies. I didn't mind too much; the summer of 1979 had made us both Ian Botham and David Gower fans. So England against West Indies it was, playing in Bridgetown.
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