November 9,1998
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WILLS INTERNATIONAL CUP A Heady Knockout Cricketers found the format tiresome. For the ICC it was an occasion to make money and play zealous missionary. By Rohit Brijnath
Dhaka, where cricket has become front-page news, is like a small child who has seen his first aeroplane -- all mouth-open awe. Every time a legend walks into town, the city genuflects; reads one morning newspaper, just below the headlines, SUNIL GAVASKAR IN CITY. At the Pan Pacific Sonargoan Hotel, the foyer is clogged with fans, smiling, waiting, insane. When Shahid Afridi enters, a screaming damsel disentangles herself from Mama's grip and launches herself. She grabs Afridi, joins her hip to his Siamese-twin fashion, and hisses "photo". Squeals Afridi, who like many thought conservative Bangladeshi young women were not the launching variety, "Arre hath to wapis de de (give my hand back at least)." Meanwhile tournament coordinator Asif Iqbal, who's questioning security on why fans are being allowed to get into the lifts, is not doing so well either: Iqbal: "Why are you letting all these people go up?" Security Guard: "Okay sir, I will let them go up." In this strange land where pizza comes from a shop called DOMINOUS, cricket has found a new abode. Pele has made way for Tendulkar. You see it every night as the stadium roars, 45,000 where 35,000 should legally be. You see it in who comes calling, the foreign minister one day, a former President called Ershad the next. But most of all you see it, says Ashraful Huq, secretary of the Bangladesh Cricket Board (BCB), in the 480 schools that attended its national schools tournament last year. "This year," he smirks, "there will be 500." If the International Cricket Council (ICC), which brought this tournament to Bangladesh, has pretended to play zealous missionary, then the natives at least have been converted. The frenzy where 150 taka tickets go for 1,100 taka, this adolescent excitement where local journalists ask Arjuna Ranatunga, "Why did you avoid your century?" after his brilliant 90-odd against New Zealand, has been Bangladesh's gift. For a sport to flourish, passion, we believed, was the only requirement. Well no, it isn't. Passion is nice, but a fat cheque is even better. The heart of sport once lay on the field; now it rests in the boardroom. Everything comes down to the deal. So the BCB, which got 14 crore taka from the Government for lights and stadium renovation, did not complain when the only revenue it earned was 3 crore taka from gate receipts; it did not blanch either when its request for Bangladesh's participation in the tournament was gently stepped on. The board knew, as Iqbal advertised it, "This tournament is to make money for the ICC." Last year ICC President Jagmohan Dalmiya vowed to give financial teeth to his institution: with $11 million (Rs 46.75 crore) in TV rights, Rs 35 crore from ITC and a few million more from Pepsi and Kodak, the icc's development fund has some weight. Should Vanuatu and Belize need wicket-keeping gloves they needn't worry anymore (they are ICC affiliate countries). Saber Choudhury, BCB president, is grinning too: "When the ICC allots the money it earned here to associate members, we will ask for a bigger share." Chaudhury is no politician (he's deputy minister of shipping) for nothing and his sleeve holds another trick. An Asian Test championship, six Tests in total involving India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka, is being planned for early next year; Sharjah will be one neutral venue, Dhaka, which hosted the first India-Pakistan Test that side of the border in 1956, is possibly the other. Unlike soccer or athletics, cricket remained an arrogant sport, more exclusive than inclusive. As a result Europe sneered at it, the US and China wanted no part of it, the Soviet republics couldn't understand it. With only nine Test-playing countries, labelling cricket a global game was much like the Yanks calling their baseball play-offs the World Series. The ICC now has 25 associate members and 19 affiliates and with funding now prays development will accelerate. So, everyone was happy, yes? No, the teams found it all too tiresome. "Look," said Steve Waugh, "We had a wake up call at 4 a.m. yesterday in Pakistan, the flight was two hours late, we landed here and had a match the next day. For a tournament called the Mini World Cup that's not good enough." "Hey," said Bob Woolmer, South African coach, "If you say this tournament is about judging the best team in the world then forget it." "No," said Arjuna Ranatunga, "there's too much luck involved." Pure knockout or no second chances is an immature sporting concept. Like soccer, cricket has designed itself to squeeze the best from its performers and for that time is of the essence. Cricketers like to smell a land, understand the personality of its pitches, the breath of its crowds, the quality of the shine of the lights. Early matches warm the blood and prick the appetite -- as Pat Symcox said, "Tournaments are to be like a long, languid five-course meal." This was fast food. Insipid too, for Allan Donald, Shaun Pollock, Gary Kirsten, Glenn McGrath, Curtley Ambrose, Inzamam-ul-Haq, Saeed Anwar, all were missing. Mini World Cup this certainly was not. As the ICC grows a bank balance it needs to flex some muscles
too. Cricket ails. There are too many one-day matches that leave no memory, just dates on
a calendar, all deeds great and small blurring into each other. Wickets look so dead they
seem borrowed from cemeteries. One Indian batsman said, "If you get your eye in here
you can stay in all day." Indeed, batsmen dominated so heavily that 275 was the
average score in three of the first four matches. Yet, it is bribery and the underlying
tensions of race that threaten the most. A sport that has embraced commerce so readily has
perhaps, expectedly, a seedy side. When the reasons for Anwar's no-show in the third Test
against Pakistan kept altering, veteran broadcaster Jim Maxwell of ABC Radio said on air,
"He got an ear infection from the Lahore High Court which turned into a back injury
which became a stomach upset and ended up as an ear infection." That was funny. What happened earlier was not. For even Mark Taylor's dignified declaration at 334, he being some romantic knight caught in a time warp, invited cynicism. A Karachi journalist wrote of the presence of an Indian bookie in Pakistan at that time and then, so chorus the Aussies, insinuated that Taylor's declaration had less than honest dimensions. The Aussies were livid and eventually a retraction was printed. Yet the Pakistani journalist has this to say: "They call our team cheats and monkeys in Australia. They say our players take money and get away with it." Racism is what he smelt. In Dhaka, something bizarre occurs too. As the story goes, Muralitharan accosted his friend Anil Kumble in the evening and said, "Whatever happens, Australia you must beat." All sorts of divides are springing up. Of match-fixing says ICC Chief Executive David Richards, "Countries have to decide whether they want to give the ICC the power to ban players?" Cricket needs cleaning up. One man though erases all despair. Every time Tendulkar bats now you need to pick up a Synonym Finder -- but even that has limited alternatives for genius. First night he scored 141, took four wickets, hit the wickets with a 50 m throw. At the end he should have just raised his arm like Superman and flown home. No one would have blinked. Later, he explained his innings, saying: "This is a knockout, so every match is a final." Jesus, genius on tap; the guy wants a century so he just goes out and gets one. One morning Ranatunga had said, "It takes normal batsmen time to settle down in tournaments. So maybe here you will see the difference between great, good and okay batsmen." We did. |
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Mohammed Hassan is driving. On the
other side of the road divider, straight at the incoming traffic, looking back and
grinning, "Jayasuriya, he is already going." Yes, and no doubt I would be
following soon. Welcome to Dhaka, where Michael Schumacher is thought to have grown up and
where crossing the road is a recommended outdoor adventure. Hassan's car rattles, heaves,
then belches smoke, but always a scratchy speaker spits out his favourite music -- cricket
commentary, today being the New Zealand versus Sri Lanka match. "Out, out, out, out,
out," exclaims the commentator whose vocabulary seems to have deserted him as De
Silva is caught, though in a way it sounds like a plea for me to exit the taxi. 
Nothing personal against Hassan. Every Dhaka driver seems to have a genetic
connection with Indiana Jones. Life here being one long traffic jam of kissing cars --
they lurch, brake, swerve, collide. And every meter gained is a famous victory. No wonder
this Wills International Cup is a knockout. Everything here is. 
