Sometimes, you get ridiculed for your cricket knowledge. Sometimes, some think you don't even deserve an answer. Maybe just a glare ?
You think the place is now full of silly points, and guys slinking away into gullies to hide. The expert commentaries fall silent. Bumpers being bowled everyday on the News. Some weakly defend. Some verbally slash.
Tests, one days, 50 overs, twenty overs, IPL; that apparently is the new smart vocabulary. The staid and proper game of cricket , with its glorious uncertainties, has now become a hoop-la Big Fat Indian Game, complete with dancers, lights, Page 3 turners , and there is an entire set of folks who make money out of the statistics of certain certainties.
The greats of the game, appear gagged by those for whom they speak and play. Those that order special enquiries at the drop of the hat, look the other way. The public that pays in time and money for these events feels foolish about holding their breath over a game whose outcome was known in the first place.
I just wondered what the two main stars, the Bat and the Ball , actually thought.....
Born of a willowy mother in the Kashmir valley, she grew up in the shade of a veil of leaves, descending down around her as if to protect her innocence as she imbibed, by observation and practice some tough grains of life.
Statuesque, stately, polished, waxed protectively at the ends, and with facials by Linseed she aged well and became an outstanding Bat of her times with the aid of some helpful handles, and a firm grip on things.
He , born a Ball, of Tehsil Cork, in Meerut, grew up in the little alleys, a disinterested flat fellow, suddenly hammered into a well rounded personality, hung out to dry and learned to face the elements.
A protective fine leather cover, tailored just so, skin hugging above a tight wrapping with affectionate wool rope with the necessary 6 seams running across a blood red central midriff.
They would meet often and he and she would actually indulge in a fling.
Sometimes, she would with a great sense of humor reply in kind; sometimes, she would flick him away and he would pretend to race to the boundaries of his imagination; sometimes , she would actually duck and miss allowing him to spend some time with the fellows who always stood behind her; and sometimes she would gloat as she saw him go sky high, sometimes to get caught !
Proudly walking out with the openers, the entire stadium applauding, and she would watch in great anticipation, as he twisted, got scratched and spat on and even oiled as he pirouetted in some magical fingers, before taking off to meet her in a magical arc
But alas. Like in Bollywood, there is a villain in the story.
Someone who fills ideas in the mind of Mr Ball.... saying "Look! She spends so much time with other fellows in the Kit bag, you need to divert yourself away from where she waits for you, and doesn't matter if she still scores.
No need to always fall at her feet; its OK to bounce up once in a while, and never mind if you get swept off so long as you properly fall into some one's hands".
Its difficult for Mr Ball but he has no choice. Some folks simply cannot tolerate the Pitch magic, and the Howzzat band that always plays, when he and the Bat lady meet.
Life has become difficult. Instead of feeling secure with the players paraphernalia, and chit chats with the pointy stumped fellows, back in the pavilion, they both get flung into a corner as some folks immediately get on their phones.
Folks don't realize that Mr Ball and The Bat lady both have ears, and have some sensational stuff in hand.
A lifetime of being friends, they want to now spend their days together, perhaps watching from the pavilion, or even being on the field when Rahul and Sachin play.
What do you do when the villain continues to misguide ?
Mr Ball, and the Bat lady, watching the field violence, erroneous fingers up, glares, bad mouthing, towels used to signal rather than clean....
Perhaps. It is time to return to the Willow Woods via Meerut..