Samir Chopra
The misleading aura surrounding Wisden's five
The most anticipated annual award in cricket is just like any other - chosen by people with personal preferences and prejudices
Samir Chopra
14-May-2013
Last year, as the annual Academy Awards ceremony rolled around, attended to by all the usual hype, I wrote a post at my personal blog in which I attempted to describe the origins of my disillusionment with the Oscars - because I had previously imagined them to be awarded by some extraterrestrial jury - and the opportunity it provided for understanding that human reckonings of human achievement were just that, human. In that post I described finding out how the Oscars were merely the result of voting by a very particular panel of movie-goers, the Motion Picture Academy of America:
When I reached this point in my reading, I remember being stunned: Wait, that's ALL the Oscars were? Just the result of voting by some Academy? Made up of humans voting their preferences? Why was that so special? Couldn't they just vote for their favorite movies? I knew somehow, dimly, that human beings often differed in their utility allocations; schoolyard rumbles had at least taught me that much. Somehow, I had imagined that the Oscars resulted from a non-earthly assessment of cinematic quality, that their awards were free of the taint of human subjectivity and bias.
I'm reminded of this story whenever I witness the annual hype surrounding Wisden's Five Cricketers of the Year. Every year, when the Famous Five are announced, some cricket fans find out to their dismay that the Yellow Book has not deigned to recognise the achievements of their personal favourites; their dismay is only partially tempered when they find out that it is because these feats took place far away from English shores. Wisden's list is still a Big Deal™.
Full postThe internet and cricket: a brave new world to be seized
The game must find a way of showing itself off online, of allowing the fans to access and enjoy it
Samir Chopra
07-May-2013
Early in the morning on Christmas Day 2012, I was surrounded by bawling babies. Three of them.
I was in a maternity ward at a Brooklyn hospital, waiting for the pediatrician resident to conduct the requisite series of postnatal checks on my newborn daughter so that she, her mother and I could all go home. Because it was Christmas Day, the hospital was understaffed, and the young Indian woman who was working as resident on duty was clearly overworked.
As she diligently made her way through her battery of tests - hearing, respiration etc - I waited patiently, ready to sign the discharge forms that would soon be sent my way. As I did so, I suddenly realised that according to the cricket calendar, India and Pakistan were due to play the first of two Twenty20 internationals that day.
Full postThe Kohli-Mumbai spat, and the lure of sports tribalism
Those who run the IPL will hope that ties to a franchise are uppermost on everyone's minds when the tournament is on
Samir Chopra
30-Apr-2013
In Brave New Pitch: The Evolution of Modern Cricket, in a section titled "If You Build a Franchise, They Will Come", I wrote:
[O]ne straightforward difficulty faced by the IPL is of generating a loyal, committed and passionate fan base. This is not an insurmountable barrier for a lavishly promoted league. But neither are its challenges to be discounted...
In such a fledgling league, now five years old, rivalry between clubs and their fans is often tenuous, artificially propped up by the excessively contrived franchise advertisements that start doing the rounds well in advance of the season. But the IPL needs to attract the kind of loyal committed fan whose constant passion has enabled cricket to weather times of economic penury. It cannot hope to survive on the drive-by fan. A fan reared on international cricket, who thinks cheering for large professional franchises is a bit like cheering for Ford vs Chrysler, might find the IPL's inter-city rivalry contrived and fail to engage emotionally. IPL franchises will have to convince such a fan that his attention is fruitfully diverted to their offerings. It will be cricket that will do the trick, and not just the IPL's stadium entertainment package…
Full postThe sickening thrill of the late collapse
Remembering two electric periods of play when Malcolm Marshall and Michael Holding ripped India to shreds
Samir Chopra
25-Apr-2013
A couple of years ago, in a post titled Little beginnings, I wrote about crucial, brief sessions of play where the batting side, coming out to play late in the day, had attempted to seize the initiative from the bowling side. I wrote about these in the context of passages of play in Test cricket:
Some opening passages of play are well established as mood-setting tropes: the opening batsmen's encounter with the new ball on the first day, the commencement of the fourth-innings chase, or the second-innings response to a large first-innings total.
Among these kinds of openings of an innings is a classic period of play: the little beginning, late in the day, when opening batsmen come out to play out a few overs before shutting up shop again for the day after. At that moment, the batting side has everything to lose, the bowling side has everything to gain (the list of small but dramatic collapses late in the day, achieved within a few overs, is quite long). The fast bowlers can go flat out, the fielders are keen and haring about, the light is starting to get dodgy. The batting side's fans hang on tight, hoping to make it through unscathed.
Full postThe joys of pre-season nets
The time to dust off the winter, warm up creaking bones and get ready for the cricket is always a special one
Samir Chopra
15-Apr-2013
A few weeks after I moved to Sydney - in 2000 - for my post-doctoral fellowship, I "had a net": a practice session in a cricket net, available for use by the average recreational cricketer, at the Waverly Oval (within walking distance of Bondi Beach). It was a typically beautiful spring day in Sydney, sunny, cool, and bright; rugby teams featuring young, loud schoolboys practised nearby, for the footy season was still on; a father and son pair went through their batting and bowling session in the net next to us. I had not played cricket for years; my bowling and batting skills were rusty; my body found the strains and stresses of bowling unfamiliar; my batting lacked timing and seemed, at first, to consist merely of a series of cross-batted swipes. The first toe-in-the-water welcome to the cricket season was under way, humbling and alluring in equal measure. The summer lay ahead, holding the promise of weekend after weekend of encounters with suburban cricket warriors.
Over the next few weeks the nets sessions continued. I discovered that my bowling run-up was full of stutters and needed ironing out; that I could not consistently maintain line and length for more than a couple of overs (thus making it possible for me to relieve my captain of the awesome responsibility of wondering whether to keep me on for more than short spells); that batting improved if attention was paid to the basics (like keeping an eye on the ball). The nets reassured me. They provided fodder for dreaming about the season yet to start. I dared imagine that I would contribute to my team's fortunes in our summer competitions that included one- and two-day variants.
Because I was joining a new team, my first nets session with my new team-mates was a crucial one. I would interact and become familiar with those who would be my companions in cricketing battles, my partners in calls for runs, the fielders who would protect my bowling figures and hold catches for me. They would call out encouragement every time I turned at the end of my run-up, threw in from the boundary or was parsimonious with runs in the field. They would want to size me up too, this new entrant to their fold, their band of brothers. Our meeting went off well. I got a few "well-bowleds" and dished out a few myself. I was whacked on the thigh by our quick. I felt for our opponents who would face him when he was firing on all cylinders. I tried out all the bats available in our equipment stores and settled on one for the summer.
Full postRyder assault had everything to do with alcohol
Soon after news of Jesse Ryder's terrible injuries made the news, we were assured by the NZCPA and Cricket Wellington that the violent assault on him was 'not an alcohol-related incident.'
Samir Chopra
01-Apr-2013
Soon after news of Jesse Ryder's terrible injuries made the news, we were assured by the NZCPA and Cricket Wellington that the violent assault on him was 'not an alcohol-related incident.' I presume that we are being reassured that Ryder was not drunk and he did not start the fight, so that those who remember his previous alcohol-infused altercations will not be too hasty in jumping to conclusions.
I have to admit though that I am a bit nonplussed by that statement. The fight started in a bar, a commercial establishment where, among other things, alcohol is served. I presume Ryder was drinking a beer, perhaps his first of the night, perhaps not. It is also a reasonable conclusion that his companions were drinking as well. One of them might have taken on designated driver duties for the night. And lastly, one can reasonably surmise that those who attacked Ryder were drinking too. Alcohol, as a drug that impairs judgment, and produces interesting psychological and physiological effects in those who consume it, was in the mix all right.
It is a sad commonplace that bars require bouncers not just to check IDs but to, you know, 'bounce' the unruly, aggressive, and hostile out on their rear-ends, through the bar door. And an anthropologist from Mars, if brought in to conduct a field study or two on Earth, would, if his investigations ran long enough, surely report back to his grant agency on the Red Planet that the males of the human species have a strange habit of congregating indoors to drink copious amounts of amber fluid, an activity which is often followed by several varieties of verbal abuse, aggressive posturing and physical conflict.
Full postFour-nil means no more 0-4s?
Samir Chopra investigates the dominant nature of India's 4-0 result over Australia, and how it has bucked the trend of previous results
Samir Chopra
25-Mar-2013
An Indian team winning 4-0 is a rare thing. Indian teams do not do dominance. They do not hand out a thumping, and then continue to do so. Usually the foot comes off the pedal, a series win is settled for, and the draw is chosen. They especially would not be thought capable of doing dominance a short while after having suffered a rare defeat at home, one in which their bowling attack looked threadbare and inept. But exert dominance is just what the Indian team has done in this past series against the Australian team.
It is too early to say whether this series win signals any sort of novelty in Indian Test cricket. I have borne witness too long to too many events in Indian cricketing history that were deemed seminal, revolutionary; and all of the rest to draw extravagant conclusions from its occurrence. What this series does permit is a revisitation of some remarkable individual and team performances, ones which ensured that despite losing all four tosses, and facing the prospects of batting last in each game, India won all four Tests. It will also permit the debunking of the silliest myth associated with the Indian win: that it was all about the designer pitches.
Last things first. In the first Test, Australia scored 380, and India replied with 572. In the second Test, India scored 503. In the third Test, India responded to 408 with 499. It was only in the fourth Test that we got scorelines that might have indicated a raging turner. But the Kotla does not seem to have played like one, just like the first three Tests. Rather, in each case, there was some turn, wear and unpredictable bounce. Indian spinners bowled tight line and lengths, and Australian batsmen lacked patience. And in each case, India batted better.
Full postKim Hughes: Shots out of heaven
Australian cricket should have treated Kim Hughes much, much better and left him alone to do what he did best: play the most dazzling cricket strokes imaginable
Samir Chopra
18-Mar-2013
In my book Brave New Pitch: The Evolution of Modern Cricket, in the chapter on media coverage of cricket, I write:
Viewing the highlights reel of Kim Hughes's 214 against India at Adelaide in the 1980-81 series is an awe-inspiring experience. Channel 9's telecast showcases the most attractive and dynamic strokeplayer of the modern era in full flight. What makes the experience complete are the slow-motion replays of Hughes's shots. Again and again, a perfect cricket photograph springs up and passes away. That momentary glimpse is enough. Hughes strikes us speechless; the power and beauty of his shots in slow motion come through as never before; the rewind button does double duty.
Clearly, I seem to think a great deal of Kim Hughes (even though I have got his score wrong!). His batting is 'awe-inspiring', he is 'the most attractive and dynamic strokeplayer of the modern era'; 'the power and beauty of his shots' strike me 'speechless'. I meant all of it; I never been shy about my reverential attitude towards' Hughes' batting. When I reviewed Christian Ryan's Golden Boy over at Different Strokes I had made note of this admiration, and then, in my last post, on the 1979-80 Australian tour of India, wrote that Hughes produced in me a species of fandom that can scarcely be rivaled. What did he do to inspire such obsession?
His batting, that running down the pitch to quick and slow alike, those amazing shots, his trigger-happy hooking and pulling, obviously, are the main reasons why, but there were other factors too. Over time and culminating with his downfall, I came to see him as a forlorn figure deserving my sympathy, one who should have been one of the all-time greats but who was betrayed by his board and his teammates alike, who was hounded by an unsympathetic media, who could not--or was not allowed to--do justice to his talents and ultimately had to fade from the scene into almost complete obscurity. (There was never any chance that he would earn a commentary deal from Channel 9.) There is an element of the tragic in his story; most thinking cricket fans would agree, I think.
Full postReluctant but brave
Indian fans knew little about the internal issues dogging Australia on their 1979 tour but, although they were to succumb over the course of a long, draining series, the likes of Kim Hughes and Allan Border left their mark
Samir Chopra
11-Mar-2013
Dav Whatmore, Peter Sleep, Rick Darling, Allan Border, Rodney Hogg, Kevin Wright, Graham Yallop. The names of the tourists that year were a mixture of the giggle-inducing and the dramatic. It was the autumn of 1979, and the last Packer-depleted Australia side to turn out for the ACB was in India. Those of us that greeted them that year knew little of what reluctant tourists they were, about how they felt cheated and betrayed by their overlords, and how they griped and belly-ached about their touring and playing conditions. (For that, the serious cricket fan must read Gideon Haigh's The Cricket War.) All we knew was that Indian cricket was suspended in a bizarre netherworld, one where the world's best cricket players all seemed to be playing in a poorly attended circus in Australia, while second-stringers were sent to our shores. But I still thought the Packer players were mercenaries and still paid obeisance to nation-based cricket, so these players were going to get all my attention.
Kim Hughes' Australians lost the six-Test series against India 2-0 but they were not disgraced, and during the course of that season, I found new heroes, including the captain himself, who induced in me a species of obsessive fandom that I find hard to believe could be replicated by others. (For the record: I once switched off the radio commentary when he batted rather than run the risk I'd hear him dismissed.)
Hughes and Border both scored heavily on the tour; Geoff Dymock bowled his heart out; Whatmore played a brace of fine counterattacking innings in the only Test I saw telecast live; Yallop scored a fine ton at Calcutta. As can be seen, the series had many moments of personal success for Hughes' team, but the Australians were always just a bit outgunned and outmatched, and given that they were never very happy, the result was a foregone conclusion. Still, they showed fight, their batsmen played spin reasonably (Border and Hughes especially well), and their captain showed himself to be more enterprising than his Indian counterpart. As was their wont, and still is now, India failed to win more comprehensively against a much weaker team. (To be fair, weather did a play a role in generating draws as, yet again, a Test tour had been organised at a time when traces of the monsoon still lingered in India.)
Full postPostcards to my cricketing homeland
Why do I write about cricket? It is because I'm infected by a deep nostalgia, an incurable homesickness; and sometimes because it seems that to stop writing about cricket would be to acknowledge that one part of my life is over and I can never go 'home'
Samir Chopra
04-Mar-2013
In this, my debut innings for The Cordon, as I take guard, it is perhaps appropriate I reflect on why I write on cricket. After all, I do waffle on quite a bit on it, don't I? I have blogged for almost seven years now: first at Eye on Cricket, then Different Strokes, then The Pitch; I've written two books on cricket, had one published, and am seeking a contract for the second. And before that, between the years 1990 to 1997 or so, I often wrote on rec.sport.cricket, the cricket newsgroup, and chatted with other cricket fans on the Internet Relay Channel. What's the deal with all this verbiage? Why talk so much about a game?
The answers to those questions are quite obvious for some, and I won't go into the most straightforward ones. (Besides, there's always a new game or a new player to be talked about, and the game itself has changed.) Today, I want to focus on my particular station as a cricket writer who grew up in a cricketing country but now lives 'abroad' in - with all due respect to American cricketers and fans - a cricketing wasteland.
Mostly, it might be that I continue to write about cricket because I'm infected by a deep nostalgia, an incurable homesickness, one that I cannot stop hoping will be cured and palliated by conversation with others who love cricket like I do. The homesickness, the 'homeward bound gaze' of the immigrant is a cliché now, but its emotional impact remains the same as it ever was. While, like many others like me, I miss the light of the north Indian winters, the brilliant sunshine that warmed my non-centrally heated body as I emerged from a cold Delhi interior, I also miss the sounds and sights of cricket: radio commentary and street games and men in white on cricket fields. Twenty-five years of absence have attenuated this feeling, as has the non-stop saturation by international cricket, but the desire to talk about cricket has not gone away.
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