File picture of Mumbai Indians bowler Jasprit Bumrah, who said he had to ensure he was not a ‘one-trick pony’
| Photo Credit: EMMANUAL YOGINI

The IPL has made one thing clear over the years. There will be huge sixes, big scores, startling bowling figures, misreading of pitches, surprising results. But one thing won’t see as often is the memorable quote or the telling comment. Putting the ball in the right areas is the bowler’s favourite cliche while batters prefer to play it safe with: “I am taking it one game at a time — the idea is to go out there and enjoy yourself.”

But occasionally a line emerges that causes the kind of surprise a maiden over might. The essential honesty and self-awareness of a performer comes through, shining a light on himself while simultaneously making a comment on the format itself.

When the No. 1 batter in the world, Suryakumar Yadav says, “It has been two or three years, (I) have never batted against Jasprit Bumrah in the nets,” and explains why, “Either he breaks my bat or my foot,” honesty, self-deprecation and admiration for a teammate are rolled into one admission.

Dispenser of possibilities

With ball in hand, Bumrah is a dispenser of possibilities. After his ridiculously short run-up, will he deliver a ball over 145kmph, a yorker, one screaming past or staying its course, a slower delivery, any of which he can do without an easily discernible change in action? The viewer is as keen as the batter, but enjoys the comfort of distance.

Asked how he did it, Bumrah told an interviewer at the end of a match where he had taken five wickets that he worked hard, kept going back to watch himself bowl and ensured he was not a one-trick pony. He summed it up with, “There is no ego in this format.”

That’s an interesting concept. But in fact, there are two kinds of ego in competitive sport; one positive, and perhaps necessary, the other destructive.

“I know everything there is to know about my craft, no one can get the better of me,” is thinking that belongs to the negative kind of ego. “Batters might have worked out how to play me, I have to keep one step ahead of them with practice and experimentation,” is the positive kind. Bumrah, India’s pride, is talking about the negative kind that has no place in any format.

Importance of data

If you played (and watched) cricket in the first eight decades of the last century, chances are you look down upon computers and data analysis as unnecessary. “The only computer you need is between your ears,” the great Bishan Bedi said often. Recently, the equally great Erapalli Prasanna told a fan, “Data cannot help you bowl better. It adds nothing to your skill.”

This of course is correct. A leg spinner might know that a batter is weak against the googly based on the percentage of his dismissals to that delivery. But if he cannot bowl a googly himself, that data cannot help him.

Sport throws up so much data on a running basis that sometimes it can get too much even for the player. So when Sunil Narine, KKR’s opening batter says, “I have one role, and the less I know the better it is for me,” he is telling us how he clears his mind of irrelevancies. His strike rate after five matches is 183, and he is in the wonderful position of knowing that his batting is a bonus in a team where he is the leading spinner. Why clutter his mind, therefore? His role is clear: see ball, hit ball.

His 39-ball 85 against Delhi Capitals was the foundation of victory. He will fail on occasion, but even if he succeeds only forty percent of the time, he would have done his job at the top.

Few batters in the IPL have such clarity. A Rohit Sharma or a Virat Kohli might like to think their job too is ‘see ball, hit ball’, but they know that they have greater responsibilities. The state of the match matters, the job of blunting the opposition’s main bowler is theirs, their dismissal can demoraliSe those waiting to bat.

So there you have it. Three quotes, from a top batter, a great bowler and a leading all-rounder. There’s hope. We are not yet at the half-way stage.

Mumbai Indian Captain Hardik Pandya with Rohit Sharma during a practice session
| Photo Credit: VIJAY SONEJI

Every year the IPL gives rise to many non-stories and irrelevancies. This year (so far) it is the saga of Hardik Pandya versus the fans of Rohit Sharma (and the fans of his own earlier team). Perhaps it’s seen as a change from all that six-hitting which can get tiresome. It has the advantage too of taking the conversation away from stuff like which Bollywood star was seen at which match.

But the ‘booing’ strategy lacks imagination. It is too generalised. As many have reported, Sunil Gavaskar and Sachin Tendulkar are among those who have had the experience. But surely in the thousands of spectators across the country, there is someone with a sense of humour, someone who can raise a heckle without raising a hackle.

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Reports that suggest Pandya is the first Indian to be subjected to such treatment are wrong. In his playing days, Ravi Shastri was greeted at virtually every ground in India with cries of ‘Hai, hai Shastri’. Not for anything he did, but because of spectator perceptions.

Shastri incident

This ‘hai’ is not a synonym of ‘hello’ but a jeer. Shastri dealt with this with remarkable maturity, ignoring it, and as he said, using it as motivation to play better. Tiger Pataudi has written about how close-in fielders stopped sledging him when they discovered it only caused him to concentrate harder.

For a brief period, Shastri was addressed by friends as ‘Hai, hai Shastri’; occasionally, when he greeted someone with a ‘Hi so-and-so’, the response he got had two ‘Hi’s’ in it. In the 80s and 90s everyone thought this was hilarious.

Playing well is the best revenge. Perhaps Pandya should have a chat with Shastri, although he isn’t doing too badly himself, calling the heckling the crowd’s way of saying how much it loves him.

It may have begun as fans’ displeasure at his replacing a beloved captain of Mumbai Indians (according to one report, no Pandya jerseys were on sale outside the Wankhede, with enterprising vendors pushing the Rohit Sharma jersey, having assessed the mood). It will continue till the various spectators find something else to occupy them. After a while the original reasons are forgotten, and the crowd is just having fun. Neither the cricket board nor the local authorities need to get involved even if sections of the media want them to.

Sporting tradition

Heckling is an age-old sporting tradition, and so long as it doesn’t spill over into toxicity with racist, religious or sexual abuse or invectives against family (and there are sensible rules to deal with these), no one can complain. But as players ignore the jibes, the temptation to raise the temperature to provoke a reaction may be strong. Humour (“I wish you were a statue and I a pigeon,” as one heckler in Sydney called out to a player) tends to be inclusive while abuse excludes or ‘others’ the recipient.

Heckling is a gift, calling for a range of gifts not available to everybody at a match. Imagine a stadium full of spectators sitting silently and perhaps nodding their heads occasionally when the batter hits a six or a cover point misfields. The barracker brings to spectatorship an enjoyment and an involvement that is unique.

Cricket’s most original heckler, ‘Yabba’ (Stephen Harold Gascoigne), the author of the above witticism, has been immortalised with a statue at the Sydney Cricket Ground. He sits in typical heckler’s pose, with right hand a half-cup beside his mouth. He was funny, knew the players’ stories and had a voice that carried — three important and necessary qualities.

Game rich in humour

Cricket is a game rich in humour, but publicly neither the media-trained players (“I bowled in the right areas”) nor the player-pleasing media is likely to cause laughter in the stands with a funny line. That is left to the spectator, and if he doesn’t oblige, the game is the poorer.

Sharmila Tagore tells a lovely story of someone sitting near her during a Test match yelling at her after husband Tiger Pataudi had misfielded a ball. “I told you to behave yourself last night,” he screamed. That was funny enough. What was funnier was that the yeller was her father. Passion for the game manifests itself in different ways.