The Indian Premier League has been a manna for many unheralded cricketers, Indian and International. The Pandeys, Bislas, Ojhas, Marshes and Yusuf Pathans were given an occasion to which they could rise, and make their presence felt amongst the bigger names. Inequalities have been bridged, and identities forged. It has done real good for the game of Twenty-twenty and for various entities whose fortunes are intermingled with that of the IPL’s. It has taken cricket to the furthest reaches of the globe and rendered many financially secure(even post retirement). It has also, to some extent, elevated cricket itself, by making it more affable, human and contemporary. But as with anything momentous and money-minded, it has come with its uglier flypside.
The wicket has turned sticky, rubbed with the green. The capitalists have stormed onto the cricket pitch, knocking over the altruists of the game abrasively to the ground. The manner in which the Indian Premier League has laid siege to the game of cricket could evoke images of brash, intoxicated invaders riding their stallions into a captive nation. The game has been packaged and bedecked to draw in the most lucre possible. Commerce has mildly usurped the game and it may actually shrink the classical sport. While fast-paced sports like Baseball or Soccer are great in their own right, when speed-wheels and bowties are added to a venerable game like Cricket, it feels like a devaluation on some levels.
Cricketarian souls have been captured by the promise of thrills and money. Money has once again shown itself to be the one interest the young, the old, and the middle-aged have in common. Then there is the unfortunate upshot when the call to untold riches might make a player cut short his International career to prolong his body and fortune under the employ of Lalit Modi’s brainchild, as has happened with Andrew Flintoff, or (debatably) with Andrew Symonds.
The game is built up as a spectacle, almost a gladiatorial extravaganza, with the sport losing all delusions of being an interest in itself, other than a product presented upon a retailer’s shelf. A clear delineation between the presenters of the package and the purchasing spectators is seen in the booming introductions made by the sacred umpires themselves, serenading the stadium’s crowd with a reverberating “Are you ready, Bangalore?” at the start of the match with the cadence of an announcer at a boxing bout.
The Twenty-twenty format is not so devoid of cricketing subtleties that it would need to be sold by dancing cheerleaders and resplendent glamour. The attempt to build it up as a world-class event has tended to get a touch overwrought, threatening to overly play up the non-cricket aspects in trying to rope in the laziest of the masses. International exposure and celebrity the IPL may well possess, but redundancy always seemed an inevitability with games packed in like a sweaty box of sardines, each match demanding a fresh independent pertinence in the crowded schedule. Blasé exaggerations woven to inject energy into an otherwise homogenous sequence of matches weaken the game’s authenticity. So much money being involved almost holds success hostage, and the feverish urge to pump up the atmosphere is blatantly visible in the manner of many a mid-innings anchor.
The lure has not spared even the staunchest of cricket’s devotees – the venerated Oracle of the sport: the Commentator. The hitherto articulate commentary of someone like Danny Morrison has degenerated into a series of expressive grunts and onomatopoeic outbursts. Even Harsha Bhogle, whose cricketing integrity has always been his immutable claim to the commentator’s box, has succumbed to dishing out the menial phrases of all those under the IPL payroll. Calling a heart-stopping Sixer a DLF Maximum would sound pathetic to anyone who is individualistic enough to be acutely aware of how shamelessly solicitous advertising can get. Screaming it in a tone that brooks no argument, as though a ‘DLF Maximum’ is the most apt and ubiquitous way to describe a ball that clears the ropes is an even greater aspersion cast on the viewer’s individualism. Sixers did exist before the DLF company’s owners even started playing with Lego building blocks, after all...
Phrases like Karbonn Kamal catches and City Moments of Success are marketted almost too regularly to avoid sounding contrived and manipulative. At times the usages have bordered on the ridiculous. A curious incident saw a ‘Karbonn Kamal catch’ reported missed by a butter-fingered member of the crowd, when a ‘DLF maximum’ had been achieved – and therefore it was a ‘City Moment of Success’. Surely a self-respecting watcher of cricket may well take umbrage at being force-fed labels that brazenly.
Once in a while though, a truly incredible feat overshadows the promotional imperative, driving it away momentarily from the commentator’s memory. When AB de Villiers’ pulled off a shocker of a catch on the boundary against the Royal Challengers Bangalore team, Mike Haysman’s benumbed brain forgot that he had been paid to repeat ‘Karbonn Kamal’ whenever justifiable, and he reverted to the more heartfelt ‘goodness gracious!.. Extraordinary...one of the finest catches you will ever see!” before duty was remembered.
For all the pejorative connotations held by the word ‘shrewd’, IPL’s think-tank – predominantly Lalit Modi – has only really tapped the public’s most lucrative interest. Modi has brought them their breakfast in bed, served upon a pampering tray of frills and thrills. Wynand-esque in its philosophy, the IPL synergises the elements that attract visceral interest in the public, and gathers them into a package that is irresistible despite a certain dilution of cricket by what extreme traditionalists might deem commercial depravity. If the IPL were a girlfriend, she would be quite a Karbonn Kamal.
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