A letter of resignation

Dear boss,

I know this is not the usual way to inform of one's resignation in our profession. Normally the police intervene to cut short our careers, but I am forced to take such an extreme step because it's too much to take anymore.

I think I am going mad. Our jobs were hard enough already, what with getting a bunch of whiny, greedy players to do what is required, but now we need to look out for undercover reporters as well? Everywhere I look, I think someone's sitting with a hidden camera, waiting for me. I was nearly thrown out of the bus the other day because I prodded a baby's pram looking for hidden devices. (It got worse when I told the mother I suspected there may be bomb inside, but as it turns out the baby was just really fat.)

I'm scared to take on new clients fearing they may work for NOTW or that TV channel where everyone shouts at the same time. I have gone through 59 cellphones in the last month because of phone-tapping fears. Do you know what that's doing to my carbon footprint level?

The other day Cheeku and I climbed a tree so we would not be overheard. We had to abort halfway because Cheeku didn't like the way the kids in the school next door were pointing and asking him to pick some fruit for them. Which reminds me, why is that we all have aliases that are more appropriate for revolting, snot-nosed three-year-olds? My suggestions for Hollywood movie aliases (I'll be Eagle Eye) or for John Grisham bestseller ones (which will also encourage the boys to read) were shot down, but surely we can do better than Tinku, Pappu, Babloo and the ubiquitous Sunil?

You already know how I feel about the lingo we use: satta, satori, khoka - all so crass.

The players are paranoid too. Even the ones who aren't crooked. I was hanging around a press conference, at the end of which a cameraman complained about the heat. "It's bloody hot here, no?" he remarked to the captain walking past. The captain whirled around, fixed him with a piercing glare and screamed, "No comment! I will not tell you what the temperature is!"

And it's not just the paranoia. We take a lot of pride in what we do; identifying a player who is willing to underperform, or one who will do as instructed, is an art: to approach without looking like a desperate timeshare salesman, to negotiate a price that will keep him interested but not one that's enough to retire on, to pander to his ego when he says underperforming is harder than performing - they don't teach you all that in school. But after that incident when that idiotic batsman forgot he was supposed to get out for under 20 runs, we are expected to send constant reminders to players about what they are to do! I think my speech at the conference on risk management went quite a long way in helping but I still feel all this is beyond the call of duty. My friends laugh at me when I sit up at night sewing instructions into leather jackets. My wife forbade me from sitting in the stands with a "We want sixer dot-ball" poster, saying it was just too obvious. We are being ridiculed.

The one good thing is the end of those glam parties. Everyone seems to believe that all the shadiest deals took place there. The truth is it, was a disaster for us in terms of fresh recruits. The young players got so drunk and so taken up by the young ladies around, some agreed to multiple deals simultaneously. I have no idea how that stayed out of the press. One batsman agreed to hit a four and get out off the same ball. (Resourceful chap, though - waited for a no-ball, hit over covers, ran three and then ran himself out).

Our younger colleagues are no good either. They treat the players like friends, adding them on Facebook; one even suggested we start taking bets on Twitter. What do you say to that?

And if I have to hear someone say one more time, "I got my fix right here", while tapping their heart, I'll kill myself. I hope you understand.

Yours sincerely,

Sonu