The Hindu Business Line : The cricket circus

It was big news in our childhood, when circus came to town. They came in three categories, international, such as the Russian three-ring circus, which had simultaneous action in three arenas under awe-inspiring domes, billowing in the breeze. The national ones were cosmopolitan and had a good mixture of performers and animals as well as the clowns. And, lastly, the local ones were a motley crowd cobbled together from assorted talent, from which nothing much was expected. T hey performed in a precariously elderly-looking, single tent.

A commercial show

We watched the acts wide-eyed and open mouthed, even if there were murmurs that the animals and trapeze artistes were not as well treated as they might be, and that some effects were simply stage-managed. At the end, the circus moved on to another town or part of the city and the animals were herded into their boxes and carted off, some visibly much worse for the wear but whipped into action for the paying public. Sometimes, a key figure, a star, would arise and be the focus of the wall posters and fancy prices were placed on them, should some other circus try to pinch them. Typically the pictures were of young women in minimal clothing or ferocious looking animals with a reputation for threatening even the lion tamer on occasion. Much like the wrestlers King Kong and Flash Gordon, legends grew around them. But theirs is another story far more of a commercial show than a contest.

It’s pyjama cricket

Nostalgia for the Fifties, however, is not my theme today. I found myself recalling all this last week in an amazing parallel, when I heard the high-pitched excitement in the TV news channels about the prices at which the cricketers from several countries were auctioned, and the reactions to the fabulous sums they went for. Moving from the stately pace of the five-day Test to the one-day match was probably a necessary reform, bringing in the new fast-forward generation of spectators and bringing instant gratification. The next shorter version of 20-20 was clearly a concession to the general trend of Americanisation of the world. Batsmen have become batters and the game has been, to coin a phrase, base-ballised. Pyjama cricket has become the norm. We have moved to numbers and names on the backs of cricketers’ shirts, just as in other games, and the commentary as well as the technology are strongly driven by what the machine is capable of — speed of movement, replay at all angles, hypothetical trajectories, ball speeds — rather than what the highly refined and aesthetically delightful arts of bat and ball can show.

A heady formula

One is happy however that even the allegedly hardened Aussies have a special word for people like V. V. S. Laxman whose artistry and grace defy the imagination and belief sometimes. All is perhaps not lost as long as the longer versions are still so much more worth watching. Yet the players and the cricket boards have done little credit to themselves in making a touring circus out of the game. Now, the 21st century money-making formula is on view, a mix of movies, big business, politics, advertising media and cricket. A heady formula indeed, but did anyone even think of the players who will (unless all the matches are played after supper) melt in the 40C-plus heat of the Indian summer. Even greed and exploitation must have some limits. And guess who will pay the bill for it all, one way or another?

S. RAMACHANDER