At a cricket match

The Living Stream

When two passes to the India-Netherlands cricket match in Bengaluru last Sunday came my way, I readily reached for them. Since my 15-year-old son follows cricket closely, I was certain he would want to go for it. And, in recent months, I had come to wonder whether the syrupy image of the father accompanying the son to a sport event carried some value after all as a ritual of paternal duty.

The last time I had gone to the Chinnaswamy Stadium was in 1989 when India and Australia played a one-day match. This was during my high school days, when my interest in cricket had peaked. I stopped following the game afterwards when books and films and music were all I could make time for. Soon enough, in 2000, the match-fixing scandal had offered a perfect reason to turn away from cricket altogether.

As we emerged out of the metro station opposite the Chinnaswamy stadium, a man with a paint can and brush held my son tight and almost began to paint something in blue on his face. “Beda, beda!” I pulled my son away from him and moved ahead swiftly. I was relieved: If he had actually managed to paint anything at all on his face, I would have surely had to pay him something for his effort and then there would be the hassle of taking the paint off the face.

The sounds from the stadium hinted that the match was about to begin. So we started moving towards the stadium gate as briskly as the pavement realities would allow. Alongside the many others rushing on like us, there were the energetic sellers and buyers of cricket merchandise to get past. Many were trying on the blue t-shirts over their clothes to find the right size. Close to a third of the 30,000 fans inside – I later saw – were in blue t-shirts and caps, most of which were probably bought right outside the stadium.

We went past the security checks quickly since most spectators were already inside. Lucky to find two adjacent vacant seats that also offered a decent view of the field, we settled into the stadium milieu soon enough.

The game began in earnest. The Indian batsmen kept the big hits coming, putting their fans on a high more or less continuously. For their part, the Dutch bowlers kept at their task without letting their spirits sag and showed a lovely gentlemanliness overall.

Many spectators were content to just watch the game. A big chunk of narcissistic spectators though went into raptures when they saw themselves on the large TV monitor. Excited at the chance to greet and be seen by millions of TV viewers around the world from a live location, they appeared ready to turn towards the camera whenever it was moved in their direction. Every now and then, an audio clip of a hit Kannada or Hindi film song brought out loud audience cheer. The MC announcements that whooshed by loudly whenever a half-century, a century or any other milestone was reached added to the new sound realities of the game. (Just as I had feared, the MC was not half as active when the Dutch side batted).

Another element that showed how a baseball watching culture was shaping things inside a cricket stadium: the food. People ate and drank all through the match. Biriyani, egg puffs, idlis, paneer and chicken rolls, pan pizzas, burgers, bhel puri, nachos, sandwich, soft drinks, coffee, tea: people carried these across the aisles throughout the day. The trash bins beside the large support pillars began to overflow in no time.

The Indian side scored high: 410 runs. The big hits were really fun to see in the company of an enthusiastic audience. But, in the end, despite a respectable score of 250 by the Dutch, it didn’t feel like we had seen a great game. The post T-20 obsession with run maximisation leaves little space to appreciate humility, gracefulness and other gentlemanly virtues that make cricket a unique game, a game where traditionally sportsmanship was everything, and not winning. The carnivalesque stadium atmosphere is perhaps only a symptom of this shifting character of cricket.