The fading smell of leather

From Apoorv Singhal, India

Umar Gul is walking back to his run-up mark when it suddenly strikes him he is not playing in the sub-continent anymore. He decides to go round the wicket and asks for a short leg. The batsman, Ross Taylor, stiffens and opens his stance a wee bit. Gul sprints in as he always does. Is it going to be a bluff delivery? Nope, no need to bluff anyone here. He bangs the ball in and it is aiming straight for Taylor's jaw before his gloves come in the way as he fends it off awkwardly, the ball bouncing a couple of feet from the short leg's outstretched hands. A wry smile and Gul tries it again. Taylor goes for the pull but the rising delivery takes the top edge and goes for four to the fine-leg boundary.

I think I know what may have gone through Taylor’s mind after that. "What's that smell? Oh wait, I know that. That's the smell of leather. Wow, it's been a long time since that round, red thing has whizzed past my nose." And Gul? "What's that smell? Oh wait, I know that. That's the smell of fear. Wow, it's been a long time since I have seen the guy with the bat tapping his nose to make sure he can feel it."

So what has happened in the last few years? Why don't the Donalds go around the wicket, bang the ball in and make the Athertons jump and dance around? Since when did the Marshalls start caring less for the wickets and more for the 'spirit of cricket'? If you'd have told Geoffrey Boycott in 1971 that 39 years from then, batsmen will try to scoop 150 kph deliveries over their heads, you'd have heard something like "Now, now, we all have a little too much to drink sometimes, son. Now run along, there's a good lad."

If I were facing Marshall bare-headed, wearing a box that hasn't been approved by research labs around the world, with some foam qualifying as glove protection, and unable to discern the pitch colour from the square adjacent to it, I'd be pretty darn scared. And I'd know that Marshall wasn't lying when he said that "he's going to pitch it short" and that "there was nothing you can do about it". Doesn't matter what happens next. When Marshall started running in, batsmen weren't going to give themselves room, or go across, or try the suicidal - crouch down and try to scoop the ball over the keeper's head. Some overworked grass cutters and bomb-explosion-proof helmets later, batsmen are actually going down the pitch to fast bowlers, cross-batting perfect length deliveries over midwicket, glaring at the bewildered bowler and acknowledging his team-mates' applause for his second triple century of the season.

The captain runs to the disconsolate bowler and puts his arms around his shoulders. "Don't you want to renew your IPL contract next year, buddy? What are you doing, staring back at the batsman and all that? Now let's stick with the change-up delivery and don't let me see you try and bowl the "quicker one" till you get my nod, ok son?"

I'm not sure Lillee or Thompson or Marshall ever sniffed the idea of "varying their pace". Nor were they ever ordered to take care of their daily calorie intake, or told to come back after the day's play and check out their pitch maps, or ensure they complete their monthly 56 compulsory hours of gym training. As these bowlers would tell you, all they needed was a two-month break after every series to recharge their batteries, after which it was difficult for the captain to take the ball away from their hands. What made them tick was the sheer hunger and desire to play and perform every single time they walked onto the field, and they eluded injuries for the better part of their careers.

Now, with the insane amount of back-to-back matches that the fast men have to deal with, they can't steam in without a care for their ankle ligaments. They have to run in, systematically, gingerly at times, hoping they could pull through to the next IPL edition. The ones who do try and push their bodies find out the hard way, that bowling short and fast isn't doing much good, with the slow and barren pitch making it easy for the well-protected batsmen to flay their super-bats around, scoring boundaries from half-timed slogs.

Nowadays, a specialist bowler is expected to master conventional swing, reverse swing and slower balls, contribute with the bat down the order, and shave regularly. What happened to the hairy, muscular, growling, moustache-sporting, curly-haired, chest-baring and loud-mouthed men who ignored the umpire mumbling something about "keeping it easy" and bowled as fast as possible and as short as often as their bodies could allow?

The administrators around the world are flattening tracks in the hope of ensuring five days of run-fests in Test cricket to entice crowds. Only in England and New Zealand, where the administrators can't control the weather, the conditions still provide an even battle between bat and ball. Does anyone remember the countless, meaningless, mammoth run-fests played in the subcontinent?

Easily, the most memorable tournament this decade was the Ashes 2005 series, where the fast bowlers decided the fate of the series. One man gave us indefatigable fans few of the greatest Test cricket moments. Andrew Flintoff has been one of the few bowlers in this era who could actually make top-order batsmen stand rooted to their guard. I can vividly remember that Edgbaston moment, when he had just taken Langer's wicket and Ponting came to the crease. Fred turned on his run-up mark, and started sprinting in. Ponting took guard and wondered for a fleeting moment whether he had filed his health insurance papers when the noise from the crowd brought him back to his surroundings.

Flintoff steamed in, and the crowd went 'OOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHH' in a united chorus. Flintoff hit the length, the ball seamed away, taking Ponting's outside edge and landed in Jones's gloves, and the din that followed enveloped your senses. The fan in you was entranced, as if transported to Edgbaston, and transported to those times when the batsman knew what leather smelt like.