The Long Handle
Thank you, IPL, you complete me
The post-IPL landscape is strewn with bleary-eyed and confused souls, people such as you and me, fellow cricket tragics, who must somehow soldier on in a world where intervals of time are not sponsored and big beige balloons go
Andrew Hughes
25-Feb-2013
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And behind us, an implausible seven-week long party that seemed as though it would never end, yet suddenly did, at eight o’clock on Sunday night. The IPL final has already passed into my subconscious and I can only recollect it dimly, like a man with a hangover trying to reconstruct the night before. Were there really hovercrafts? Did Harbhajan bat at four? Was there a 50-metre high cricketer? Or was it the gin?
So as I sipped my coffee on Monday morning, my skull still reverberating to the echo of a tumult of horns and drums, I pondered how best to sum up the IPL. But how do you begin to describe the ineffable? Perhaps with carefully weighed judgements, sober analysis and objective conclusions, delivered with the gravitas of the seasoned cricket journalist? That would be one way, certainly, but it wouldn’t be the Long Handle way.
Instead, I decided to thank the people who make the IPL what it is. And where better to start than with that multitude of corporate bodies without whom, as we all know, cricket would not exist. The odd name check here and there is a small price for the viewer to pay, so I’d like to give my own tribute to the companies that brought us the IMF Maximum, the Caramel Cream Catch and the Silly Moment of Success. It wouldn’t have been the same without you.
Full postLess Lalit, more hot air
The financial controversy in the IPL has meant viewers are denied their daily dose of the Modi and instead get to see more of the blimp
Andrew Hughes
25-Feb-2013
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Earlier in the week, a reader invited me to discuss the unfortunate allegations made against the IPL. I am not qualified to stick my nose into financial matters, so will restrain myself on that score, although I will say that one unforeseen and of course regrettable consequence of the tamasha of the last few days was a significant reduction in Lalit Modi screentime during Thursday’s semi-final, a decline in the televisual value of the Modi that some estimates put as high as 100%.
Instead of the lovely Lalit, we were treated to more views of the blessed blimp (of which more anon) and that towering monument to all that is bling: the IPL trophy. The diamond-studded monstrosity has been hidden away for much of IPL 3, presumably because it might discourage the players, but now that the financial storm clouds are gathering, a tidy solution presents itself. Why not return the trophy to the House of Tat from whence it came for a tidy refund? Let us all hope that Lalit kept the receipt.
The game itself reeked of nervous tension. The pitch at Navi Mumbai demanded a certain amount of digging in, but all the batsmen sooner or later felt compelled to obey the voice in their heads, their inner Sergeant Major, ordering them to charge headlong towards the enemy, no matter how tricky the terrain. Monish Mishra was one of many to do just that and the slow motion replay of his demise was accompanied by an ear-drum popping roar of distorted angst that could be heard in Hyderabad.
Full postThe Dalai Lama, the Chennai slammer
The Super Kings-Punjab game had many and varied delights, not least the return of the Butcher of Jharkhand
Andrew Hughes
25-Feb-2013
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It is election time in the UK, and as you might expect, carbon dioxide emissions are reaching dangerous levels. In an effort to avoid the hot air, I remained indoors on Sunday and sought sanctuary with the IPL. But election madness has even affected the land of Modi, because I learned that polls have just opened in an even more significant vote: the election of the best IPL commentator 2010.
Campaigning has already begun. Ahead of Sunday’s game, several of the candidates headed for the hills for a bit of a walk. Naturally, it wasn’t enough for them to take a stroll; like many tourists, they had to bore us all with it afterwards. It felt like an audio retelling of that 1995 Hugh Grant film, The Men Who Went Up A Mountain And Wouldn’t Stop Going On About It.
By the close of play, we knew the exact composition of the walking party, how steep the mountain was (fairly steep), what effect it had on Michael Kasprowicz’s meniscus cartilage (a slight tear), how near they got to snow (quite near), and so on. Laxman Sivaramakrishnan and Harsha Bhogle had opted to stay in their hotel, leaving them bereft of hilly anecdotes but comfortably to the fore in a swiftly conducted opinion poll in the Hughes living room.
Full postA lesson in civility and generosity
The players from Chennai and Delhi could teach us all a few things about good behaviour
Andrew Hughes
25-Feb-2013
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I am pleased to report, however, that any unfortunate unpleasantness was avoided as the hosts were attentive to their duties and did their bit in keeping up acceptable standards of hospitality. To the approval of several onlookers, the Chennai gentlemen were fastidious in their attempts to set their guests at their ease, freely distributing dollies and lollipops to the visitors, as is the local custom.
Particular credit in this regard should go to a Mr Hayden, who though an Australian by birth and inclination, showed himself a fine judge of social niceties, making a generous offering of his wicket to Mr Collingwood. Messrs Raina, Vijay, Hussey and Morkel were similarly hospitable, and the innings was brought to a pleasing conclusion with an impromptu display of timber swinging from a Mr Bollinger.
There were, regrettably, some unseemly moments. Mr Badrinath’s perspiration was the cause of some perturbation, and I understand that several ladies of a refined disposition found the sight of this young man dripping onto the field of play to be most unsettling. It is to be hoped that in future he follows the example of his elders, notably Mr Dhoni, who, recognising that a gentleman does not exert himself unduly in such conditions, modestly departed the crease soon after arriving.
Full postThe Sourav Ganguly self-help programme
You’re a useless waste of space and now you can pay for the privilege of having a former India captain tell you so
Andrew Hughes
25-Feb-2013
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Have you got yours yet?
What do you mean you don’t know what I’m talking about? It’s the new IPL must-have product that is set to become a summer bestseller. Pull Yourself Together. Fast is a motivational course for office and home, from former Indian captain and self-help guru Sourav Ganguly. For a reasonable price, you get a book, a DVD and a signed photo of the author looking disdainfully past you.
Pop the DVD into your player and you will be immediately confronted with a close-up shot of the Kolkata captain’s face as he tells you that you are pathetic, that he can’t do everything for you and that if you carry on like this, God help your career. Apparently ITV are playing it to all their guest panellists, and though it hasn’t yet noticeably upped their game, it has reduced Graeme Hick to tears.
Full postPresenting the new cheerleaders of the IPL
The Rajasthan government may have banned the dancing girls but Andrew Hughes has a plan
Andrew Hughes
25-Feb-2013
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Stop right there, I can hear the weary reader ask. We’ve done cheerleaders already! It’s old news. What possible excuse could you have, two and a half years after the first agitation of a pom pom at a cricket game, to witter on about it again? Well, I’m glad you asked me that. It just so happens that earlier this week, the state government of Rajasthan banned cheerleaders at all Jaipur’s IPL games. Thus cheerleading is topical and I have something to write about. Big thanks to Prabha Rau and friends.
So. Cheerleading. Just like a proper journalist, my first and indeed last stop on the research railway was Wikipedia. Therein, I learned that cheerleading began in America in the 1890s when some jumped-up little herbert decided that it wasn’t enough for a crowd to amuse themselves; they needed organising and their willy-nilly cheering channelling in a constructive fashion. There were lots of other paragraphs after that, though I forget the details. I’m not a proper journalist, after all.
But why has this alien tradition been transplanted to the great game of cricket, leading to the discomfiture of the sofa bound viewer and the discombobulation of the fine politicians of Rajasthan state? There are three possible explanations:
Full postThe attack of the handymen, and severe llama-petting
Collingwood, Gambhir, Kallis – the Delhi-Bangalore game was short on flamboyance
Andrew Hughes
25-Feb-2013
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Sunday afternoon’s game was not easy on the eye. Perhaps it had something to do with the venue. The Feroz Shah Kotla may be many things, but aesthetically pleasing it is not. This is mainly due to the looming edifice at the Tata End: a brooding construction that owes much to the Brutalist movement of the 1960s, giving the startling effect of a multi-storey car park where a pavilion should be.
Then again, perhaps it had more to do with the prominent role played by Paul Collingwood, who if he were to be represented in architectural form, would surely be a concrete bunker. And though a concrete bunker is a reassuring thing and of great value in an emergency, it is unlikely that tourists and casual pleasure seekers would queue to be given a guided tour of the Collingwood.
But a Collingwood innings is not without its pleasures, not least the resourcefulness with which he employs his favourite shot, which at first glance appears nothing more than a bottom-handed swish across the line, but on closer inspection turns out to be the Swiss army knife of cricket shots, adaptable to any circumstance. His modus operandi may appear vulgar, but that is our problem, not his. He is a natural cricketer.
Full postThe Punjab horror show
Even Hitchcock couldn't have inflicted such psychological torment on his audience as the Kings XI did in their match against Bangalore
Andrew Hughes
25-Feb-2013
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It was all the more disturbing because most of the horror was packed into the last quarter of the game. Up until then, I had thought I was watching an entirely different production; a sentimental straight to DVD American movie about a bunch of misfit but likeable kids on a sports team that has never won a game, who finally discover that if they just believe in themselves, they can do it.
It all seemed to be going so well. The bookish boy who had reluctantly accepted the captaincy was threading elegant boundaries in all directions. There was the streetwise youngster Ravi, fighting back with a gutsy little innings. Later came clean-cut Brett, quirky but loveable Sreesanth and brave little Yuvi facing up to the big South African bully who had called him such horrible pie-related names. It was heart-warming stuff.
Then without warning, not even any sinister background music, the dropped catches began. To be strictly accurate, Sreesanth didn’t really drop his chance, since he didn’t at any point have hold of it. Dominic Cork, a new, strident recruit to the ranks of pontificators with microphones deemed it a schoolboy error. Those of us who can remember standing out in the long grass, experiencing that familiar feeling of rising terror as the ball soared inexorably towards us, felt instant affinity with Sreesanth.
Full postLunar tunes
The IPL commentators can't get enough of the moon and the bag of hot air that hangs above the stadium
Andrew Hughes
25-Feb-2013
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Sunday’s game in Navi Mumbai was loud. No, it was more than loud, it was cacophonous. It was noisier than a Boeing 747 full of angry dinosaurs taking off next to a Motorhead concert. Even via an outdated television set across a reasonable sized room four thousand miles away, I felt like I was sheltering in a shaky hut on the seafront whilst a force ten gale raged all around. The incessant roaring made my teeth ache and my head throb. Heaven knows what it did to the players. Adam Gilchrist had to use semaphore to talk to first slip.
Anyway, you get the idea. It was loud. So loud in fact that "Muttering" Mike Haysman was barely audible. For the entirety of his commentary stint, I had absolutely no idea what he was saying. I was dimly aware that he was talking, but the words were snatched up in the maelstrom of sound and whirled away into the ether. Fortunately, it made little difference, since I could already see what was happening via the pictures on my television screen. Perhaps there’s a lesson to be learned there.
Mumbai, whose shirts seem to have acquired extra silver stripes that make them look like disco tigers, are a clever team. They are clearly the best in the tournament, but are not provoking the IPL gods by peaking too early. For most of this game, they were losing. Enter Bhajji. His boundary-heavy innings was accrued with a stupefying nonchalance that made no sense at all. In my confusion I looked to the experts in the booth. Was it the bowling? Was it the pitch? Was Harbhajan using an enchanted bat? But as usual, yearning for technical insight from the commentary box is as futile as hoping that your pet hamster might one day sing an aria from Turandot.
Full postChennai, have you forgotten something?
They have the other IPL requirements: gaudy shirts, batsmen, cheerleaders, and a drummer
Andrew Hughes
25-Feb-2013
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I exaggerate (but only slightly). There is Muttiah Muralitharan of course. But IPL Murali isn’t quite as compelling as normal everyday Murali. He whizzes through his overs smartly enough and there is plenty of smiling, but using the greatest offspinner of all time in this fashion is rather like asking Mozart to play an Abba song on a kazoo. Very nice and all that, but you can’t help feeling that you haven’t quite got your money’s worth.
Still they do have lots and lots of batsmen. Some say that Matthew ‘Matty’ Hayden is over the hill. Tell that to the poor little cricket ball he assaulted on Thursday. He remains, along with Yuvraj Singh, the most brutal leather abuser in the world. He hits the ball so hard you wince at the moment of impact. He was in awesome form against Zaheer Khan, chopping four boundaries with the anger of a mad axe man who had not received his invitation to the annual convention of psychotic wood choppers.
But at a crucial juncture, he called for The Mongoose (sadly not in the way that Tarzan used to summon up the beasts of the jungle) and departed soon after. Bhajji was the Hayden-slayer and celebrated in the traditional manner; that is haring off towards third man roaring like a Samurai warrior who’d just discovered he had the winning lottery ticket. The yellow-shirted Hayden meanwhile retired to a white plastic chair on the boundary, where he demurely sipped a cup of tea looking for all the world like a children’s entertainer taking a break at a village fete.
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