The Leather Jacket and the Ingenue, Part II

In the seven months that have passed since my last post, I've done a lot of thinking. I've taken to wondering whether the leather jacket and the ingenue and the ingenue draped in the leather jacket are new to cricket, or whether they've been on the scene since leather first met willow.

Would Dr. Grace have been susceptible to the charms of a fair maiden in a corset, or would he have retreated home faithfully to Agnes in the aftermath of his six-dozenth century? This much at least is known: William Lambert of Surrey, MCC and Sussex was banned for life after allegations of match-fixing surfaced against him. The year? 1817.

Nearly 200 years later, the matter of Lambert's guilt or innocence is still debated. Was he a fall guy that fell victim to a witch-hunt, or did vice get the better of him? Did a few gold sovereigns change hand or was it the price of a bespoke suit? Were there a few missing frames in the video footage made available to the Third Umpires of Lord's, or was the man simply out of nick?

Then, as now, silver-haired gentlemen mourned for a vanished past where the sun shone on the idyllic greens of Hambledon and the players competed for no grander prize than a mug of ale after the battle of bat and ball. The blacksmith opened the bowling, and the innkeeper took guard at the Marsh End, while the village ducks would keep score noisily in the pond just behind. And the sun, of course, never set over merry old England and Empire.

But since our old days (which are always the best days) are the days we are eking out now, we must attempt to romanticize the present. We must be unanimous on some basic points, chiefly that there will never again be a batsman as silky as VVS Laxman, never a bowler as wily as Mendis, and never a fielder as athletic as Gibbs.

And nor will the game ever be played with the same fairness of spirit and gentlemanliness of conduct as in the present day.

In our time, the players played only for...no, wait, we won't be able to say that.

To be sure, the money's there for the taking, and long may today's cricketers enjoy it. Yesterday's cricketers fool no one when they weep blood over the rot that money has brought in and the corresponding greed displayed by today's me-first youngsters. Cricket mirrors the economic growth visible in India and the cricket commonwealth as a whole. In the 1980s, you had to save up for your Maruti 800 and cricketers wore close-fitting jerseys that always looked one size too small for them. In the new millennium, EMI spells shiny new car, not a music company that made the LPs your Dad bought in college. The cricketers actually wear jerseys that fit too.

The world over, there seems to be a wave of resentment when any sportsman runs towards the sign of the dollar. Hoarse shouts of 'traitor' and 'money-grabber' are to be heard, and yet, how is the sportsman any different from any young professional changing jobs to make some extra bucks a month? (One speaks here purely of endorsements and team-switching, not match-fixing, which is on parallel with industrial espionage.)

It is time for the fan to make his peace with the concept of a professional sportsman and to stop humming the national anthem or club song to an accompaniment of falling tears whenever Joe Batswell takes the crease or Tom Wattabowler sends the middle stump flying. See the man for what he is, a professional at work, and then ask yourself if you jump and down and cheer loudly every time your colleagues in Client Servicing manage to successfully staple two sheets of paper together.

I know I do.