In the mental crawlspaces of the rich

I watch the IPL. Hell, I enjoy watching the IPL. 'Tis probably a testament to how much time I've spent trawling through the muck that poses as the Internet over the past two years that I actually feel guilty saying that. The IPL is the Root of All Evil, right? Right, sure. I'm not arguing against that, honest. But it's fun, and it gives me something to look forward to every evening for two months of a year. Like the only reality TV show that's worth watching. Plus, it has a team that represents Chennai and a whole host of players I adore and admire, and given how much of my investment in this sport is purely emotional, I find a lot to get behind.

So this time when I heard they were televising the player auction for 2011 (did they do that the first time? I don't remember), I watched it with much anticipation.

Aaand, uh. Okay. I spent most of the first hour with my mandible stuck firmly to the ground. Because, holy shit, it was mindblowing, in the most perverse way possible. After a while, I got into the rhythm of the whole thing. It was easy to forget, after some time, that they were dealing with actual players; it was like watching a gigantic Fantasy-Team game - can you fit in your dream team within your budget before your opponents do? Play and find out! - and I was getting behind the CSK contingent, praying that we managed to buy back the likes of Ashwin, Murali, Dougie and the rest. It may have gotten a little out of hand (my mother informs me I was raving put that paddle down, crazy Kochi lady! at the TV while the bidding war for Muralitharan was going on between CSK and Kochi, but hey) but it was fun, you know? It was only when the second day came about, and even the team owners looked like they were fooling around and treating the whole thing as a game, that I began to feel queasy. To their credit, though, I thought the CSK contingent remained serious throughout, hardly cracked a smile, and mostly left during the so-called "reauction" at the very end, when they were pretty sure that they'd finished what they'd started out to do. (but then again, the owners barely grinned even when we won the trophy last year, so maybe they're just naturally sourpusses).

People think that this is shocking and demeaning to cricket. I mean, sure, okay. I've always thought that the IPL is just more of a flamboyant circus that doesn't hesitate to show its garishly-painted butt while the rest of cricket is a circus that pretends it's not and covers itself in mouldy trappings in the name of heritage.

I was wondering just how surreal it must've been to sit in that auction room, as part of one of the contingents. Or maybe that's just me, and the owners were perfectly grounded even as astronomical sums of money were splashed about on people they couldn't tell from Adam (give me one person from the team that bought him who can even pronounce "Francois du Plessis"). I don't know. My belief is that everybody who signed up for this circus - franchise owners and players both - knew what they were getting into. They knew what lay ahead, what was likely to happen. And apparently, 353 of them were perfectly fine with it.

Is there a sense of wrongness to all of this, especially given the corruption that's rampant in the IPL's short history, and all the malingering and power-plays in the administration? That the IPL as an incentive is skewing the priorities of whole generations of young cricketers? Certainly.

Can I bring myself to care? Not really. My one explanation would be that cricket seems to be perennially caught in crisis; so much so that I think it's the only way the sport survives. Australian cricket is in crisis after being walloped by the English; Mumbai cricket is in crisis after failing to reach the Ranji semis for the first time in a billion years; cricketing administration is in crisis because Australia and England aren't calling the shots anymore the BCCI is throwing its money-bloated, corrupt stinking weight around; the inundation of Twenty20 is bringing out the basest instincts out of a generation of cricketing innocents, and will nobody think of the children?! But to be completely honest, I don't care about this the same way a lot of don't really care about the stuff that's happening in the rest of the world. If we were to judge ourselves hypocrites by watching the IPL, then there is not one person in the whole world who is not a hypocrite, in some walk of life or the other. Mind you, this is not an attempt at justification. I'm just calling it as I see it. A spade a spade - and maybe occasionally, a shovel.

Every generation has its own demons to grapple; the greatest enemy of our generation is our apathy.

So here's what happened.

Dhoni out for 90. His previous innings? Out for 98.

Who was his partner both times? Sachin Tendulkar, and both times he went on to score a century.

Clearly, Dhoni has somehow, supernaturally perhaps, transferred Sachin's 90s jinx onto himself. I understand as a captain you sacrifice a lot for your team, but this might be too much, yeah?

(Either that, or Shane Watson has done some kind of trans-continental Jinx Transference).

Jokes apart, this is the beginning of the end. Even as I type, Harbhajan falls, and India are 8 down. We are going to lose, but at least we put up a fight and Dhoni and Tendulkar were twelve billion flavours of Awesome.

We could take inspiration from Australia, who came back from the edge of ignominy to soundly thrash England (there's a lot of sadistic pleasure to be derived from that piece of imagery, especially given one couldn't open something cricket-related online over the last week without an Englishman tooting his horn) at Perth, levelling the Ashes 1-1. There's hope yet!

One last wish before this match goes up in a puff of smoke: I hope Sreesanth isn't dispirited enough to not repeat his 2006 antics, viz., doing the pelvis-thrusting, bat-spinning Dance of Awesome after hitting a six.

(... where's Andre Nel when you need him? ... )

EDIT: Bad light's stopped play! \o/ We stand at 454/8, Sree and Sachin batting.

I shall now search frantically through my handbook on Rain-Summoning Rituals. There's got to be something here that has international effects, right? *flips*

Also, I have to say: I haven't had this much fun watching a day of Test cricket since the halcyon days of India's '07-'08 tour of Australia. That series was gold, and got me hooked to Test cricket for LIFE.

Three things

1. Who in the world is Michael Beer?

I'm reminded of my up-ended jigsaw-puzzle analogy (because I'm self-obsessed like that). What's next? Warney's Sunday drinking buddy?

2. Why, thank you, Gauti. We must all bask in Ashwin's awesomeness. *basks*

(Are you listening to/reading this, CSK? You can always replace Vijay any old day, but not Ashwin! Hold on to the man and release Vijay! Come on, now!)

3. I thought I could go to the match yesterday, I really did. I had an exam in the afternoon, but once I finished that, I thought, hey, I could go home and take up my friend's offer (an open invitation to the match, because he's awesome like that).

I checked the score once the exam finished: NZ 103 all out. I rechecked after I got home: India 52/2.

Not much point in going after that.

(but it didn't rain, which I'm willing to count as a miracle, because just a week ago this city was almost drowning in a torrential downpour that lasted for more than 2 days).

Still on the Ashes

I thought there was nothing funnier than Kevin Pietersen hitting a double-century in Australia against Australia, before I rediscovered this little gem:



A little out-dated, but still priceless!

The absolute pinnacle atop the pinnacle of... something.

So. Let's talk Ashes, shall we?

Today was the first day of the first Test, in Brisbane. Peter Siddle got three wickets in three balls - Alastair Cook, Matt Prior and Stuart Broad, causing me much delight, because, dude, fabulously hand-picked victims - and England ended up folding for 260. The Australian openers sauntered to a cool 25/0 before stumps, and look nicely poised for a team that got whitewashed by a team that struggled to win against a team that got whitewashed by the lowest ranked Test team in the world.

Yeah.

I'm not going to talk about what actually happened at the 'Gabba today because I didn't see it and there are more well-informed observers who can tell you all about it. Today, I decided, I was going to get to the bottom of this whole Ashes shindig. Someone asked me the other day what the Ashes was really all about - I'm suddenly considered an authority on cricket in my university, it's crazy, especially when I stand there blinking when their questions get too technical, because my expertise in the technicalities extend only to extricating myself out of the tangled mess of another Ravi Shastri metaphor - and I had to admit that all I knew was that it had something to do with England, Australia, Test cricket, a teeny-tiny urn containing the burnt remains of an old stump, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and a LOT of empty bravado.

But not much else, really.

For the shame!

So it was that I decided to do a bit of research.

As is the (very unprofessional) norm, I looked it up on Wikipedia. This is what it had to say:

The Ashes is a Test cricket series played between England and Australia. It is international cricket's most celebrated rivalry and dates back to 1882. It is currently played biennially, alternately in the United Kingdom and Australia. Cricket being a summer sport, and the venues being in opposite hemispheres, the break between series alternates between 18 and 30 months. A series of "The Ashes" comprises five Test matches, two innings per match, under the regular rules for Test match cricket. If a series is drawn then the country already holding the Ashes retains them.

The series is named after a satirical obituary published in a British newspaper, The Sporting Times, in 1882 after a match at The Oval in which Australia beat England on an English ground for the first time. The obituary stated that English cricket had died, and the body will be cremated and the ashes taken to Australia. The English media dubbed the next English tour to Australia (1882–83) as the quest to regain The Ashes.

[...]

The urn is erroneously believed by some to be the trophy of the Ashes series, but it has never been formally adopted as such and Bligh always considered it to be a personal gift. Replicas of the urn are often held aloft by victorious teams as a symbol of their victory in an Ashes series, but the actual urn has never been presented or displayed as a trophy in this way. Whichever side holds the Ashes, the urn normally remains in the Marylebone Cricket Club Museum at Lord's since being presented to the MCC by Bligh's widow upon his death.

Since the 1998–99 Ashes series, a Waterford Crystal representation of the Ashes urn has been presented to the winners of an Ashes series as the official trophy of that series.

Ah ha! So Douglas Adams got it wrong, did he? That sorry little urn does not contain the Ashes of the Wooden Pillar of the Wicket Gate! I feel like my teenage years have been violated.

So much fuss for this? It reminds me of a once-renowned clique trying to maintain illusions of their ~exclusivity~ and relevance in a world that's moved on and doesn't really give two shits anymore. Damn Indian money and eyeballs, we are still the most important things in this sport! So let's milk this tradition for all it's worth, even if we are playing for a tiny fake urn every two years!

Y'know, this can be a good thing, too. It's amusing to see/hear people compare any decent rivalry in international cricket to the Ashes (Ashes marketing dudes need to take classes), and occasionally these two teams produce sensational contests. I watched highlights of the Ashes '05 a couple of years back, and it isn't possible for me to love cricket any more than I did while watching them. It was the cricketing equivalent of rainbows and bunnies and unicorns. Of course, after that, I watched the Ashes '09, and that was the cricket-equivalent of a three-week long Pharmacology lecture. Like watching Rahul Dravid on freakin valium. God.

Probably the most amusing thing is the testosterone-sloshing, uh, I mean, the 'verbal duels' before the series. Because, lord, it is funny. Everybody builds it up so much that when somebody farts during an Ashes Test, it's a special fart, because, you know, it's THE Ashes.

The contest for the tiny fake urn has started off well this year. I eagerly await more amusement, and hopefully, some great cricket.

Chi chi, Ricky!!

(image courtesy of cricinfo)

Looks like Ponting's been working away at the vethelai paaku. You know, the ones he's going to adorn the golden plate with when he gifts the Ashes urn to England.

Although he should probably know that he's not in India to be spraying it around as a natural air-conditioner.

Seriously, though? Poor Ricky. What a spectacularly boring way to lose the Ashes.

In other news, this be my 50th post. Which, hello, achievement, considering I'm worse than a three year old with ADD when it comes to these things.