On cricket

(Does dripping sarcasm bother you?)

Some say I am boring. Some question my patriotism. Some even detest my friendship. And that, my fellow bloggers, is for the sin of neither watching nor following the sacred game of cricket.

Before the patriot in you takes offence, let me assure you that I like cricket and played with elan in the flat lands of Illinois, as I did in Kilkattalai and in the alleys and classrooms of iitm's mechanical sciences building, drowning my studious classmates in darkness when tubelights were most needed...

And my game is not abysmal either. How can it be when i was an honored member of the Ganga "E" team that battled in the '99 flood lit tournaments of sangam (the famous cricket field). Great so far you say, but what after I tell you about the primary strike force of our team: my roomie - a bespectacled gentleman, who can neither see in the dark nor hold a willow and swing it in time to meet the speeding tennis ball. But on that fateful night, much to the credit of this remarkable game, he struck thrice, ran the best batsmen out (on both teams) and nearly snatched the match away from Jamuna B, almost creating a remarkable sensation. If my memory of that match is any indicator, I might actually be in love with cricket.

Clearly, the discerning reader would not contest when I say that playing the game is a different matter than watching an entire day's proceedings on a rather small phosphorescent screen, frequently interrupted with an abundance of irrelevant advertisements, sitting immobile and permanently attached to a couch, wielding a bowl of potato chips (which strangely seems to exhibit all the characteristics of Akshaya Pathram, thanks to the benevolence of the lady that begot you) and a friendly neighbor who insists on competing with Harsha Bhogle and Anandji Dossa in (needlessly) supplying you with expert commentary and obscure statistics. And thus, I present my case to you -- it is the watching I detest.

Perhaps, you should appreciate me for holding out despite going to a school filled with cricket maniacs and a college saturated with uncombed, dirty-trousered gentlemen with remarkable memories, who can fill up on any cricket statistic known to mankind. My dad watches cricket with great interest and so do my cousins, sisters, uncles and aunts. One of my best friends is obsessed about the game, going to the extremes of postponing a timely graduation, all for watching a match of cricket. Live. And later switched his profession to become a sports writer rather than a mechanical engineer, out of his love for The game! Succumbing to peer pressure is not my cup of tea, ladies and gentlemen. As Michael Caine puts it so eloquently in Batman Begins:

"NeVah!"

By now, you must be wondering where all this is leading to. Just as in life (*), these words seem to have a definitive purpose but when you step back, look deeply and manage to reach the end, you are no better than that little cricket perched on a blade of grass on a moonless night, near the forgotten pond, who wonders about those billion white balls in the sky... completely lost.

Your love for watching the game is puzzling and so is my refusal to watch. But, between you and me, I suppose we could remain friends without getting this fixed. Whoa?

(*) warning: profound generalization follows