The Indian Pioneer League

Out with your cola, corn puffs, candy and chips, rolling into the deep thunderous stadium; the percussion mallets do their mambotango and you can’t help but do a little jiggywiggy. 

There’s no bad hair day here or crazy color choice of capris because in the IPL, the toon-er the better! With the wildest wigs and ferociously funny face paints, flufflery ruffles and boas, sombreros and shades, boxers with shirts, everyone picks their color and everyone flaunts it in all ways!

The cheer girls flash more than their pompoms and the drooling audience: the boys and the bachelors, slobber over those damn metal nets that seem like the prohibited Indo-Pak border; while the housewives tug on their husbands to look elsewhere. 

“Marry me, Mitchell!” or “Camera Please!” are those lucky posters that manage to zoom on themselves that forlorn frantic fame of five seconds. And while it pans over that one rightful owner, another 100 gladly join in to give their best, bright, beaming smiles with the V of victory and the D of desperation that makes them the hero of that second that they will brag about for the rest of their lucky lives. 

Which nail art the team’s owner is showing off, or who’s talking to Bollywood’s who’s who, that’s the glitz and the glam of this cricket maniac mania. Yes, this is the time when the television will air cricketers as cooks and cops and caterers and classic cons. They will reign in advertisements, and on those posters that are glued on the movie poster glued on another movie poster. They’re on walls and halls, buses and bulletin boards. They’re modeling for cars and clothes and detergent soaps and TV soaps. They will give advice on insurance premium plans and how to make your home smell nice. 

From Peterson bowling to Pieterson, the fan-wave seems to be continuously going round the rounded stadium. One day it rains Raina as the commentary turns to moody for Tom Moody. The girls do their hysterical shrilly screams and girly giggles in misery for a morsel of Morkell. There are days where Mascarenas does a little Macarena when he catches hold of that almost-six. Where the Ferguson of Soccer is as pokerfaced as he tries to be, the Ferguson in cricket gives a clench of euphoric achievement with his century.  Bravo to Bravo as he scores single after single and the fielders tiredly dodge Hodge with his four upon four. The bowler tries to woo and boo Du Plessis when he gets going but is equally happy when Ten Doeshate goes out with just ten. The dew never seems to set on Fogg and the levy is nailed and tight on Richard Levi. 

This is the league where the Indians (and the non) premiere their show.