Cricket Soup for the Soul

When it comes to cricketers and commoners, the compare and contrast Venn diagram looks more like a hen diaphragm and in desperate need of some quick 20-20 Pilates. Even the Hawk-eye proves that the differences’ lie more on the offside whereas the 3^rd umpire has shown “the finger” to the similarities that have been stumped off their bales.

The comparisons between the ‘deities’ and their disciples instantly fizz out like a shaken Schweppes can and when we bring down our ear close enough, the sounds of sparkles doing the soda dance whisper to us the locker and live secrets.

Both cricketers and the stadium buffs love the lens. Those outside the circumference, act like they have spotted a rescue boat from a stranded island off the coast of Bermudas the second they find out they’re on the big screen. We see the KINGKONG chest beatings, tragic moonwalks, theatrical imitations of excessively raised eyebrows, wide eyes, open mouths and hysterical hand gestures which become more like clown-ical imitations. Why hold auditions for reality shows amidst all the tenseness and intense; stadium is the place! India’s really got talent!

Those lounging inside the white ropes are like schoolchildren who shush whispering about their math teacher as soon as she passes by. They giggle and gossip with one hand covering their mouth (in a manly manner of course) and hi-5 (which is more like a butt-5 for guys) about inside jokes. But as soon as they find out their dank and dreary faces are now enlarged on the super-sized screens for the stadium to see, they become hush puppies. They put on their serious game-face, bring their excessively, widely-spread V-shaped legs together and then in a failed subtle move, peek up from the corner of their eye to check if they’re still on. And probably complain to God at the same time. Because they still are.

The captain and his company show more nervousness than the finalists of The Amazing Race. They bite their nails like a loose drill machine, tap their toes more often than a pianist on his pedestal playing Bartók's Concerto 2, ruffle their hair each time the hand finishes ruffling through once, fidget with their sweaty hand towels and then wipe their face with the same.

But then again, same goes for the worshipers.

The lads and the ladies who come to watch the game make it an affair as similar as a VIP invitation to fashion week; with manicured nails and parlour-ed hair, their Pantas’ looning the big brands and sunglasses that may very well have the price tag on, they all look like the gentle men and the ladies.

The high tax-payers, on the other hand, sit with their team not in their Fair&Handsome or Mach 3 modes, their sweat making twists and turns and playing Need-For-Speed on their fatigued faces. The hand towels, just for the fidgeting faloolahs, lie wet and wasted on their thighs as the men use their tees for all necessary wiping, swiping and griping.

While the madness and the mischief is both sides, the hysterics from the fans are heard all the way to the Dead Sea while the shenanigans of the sports stars play on mute and mime as soon as the zoom zooms in on them.

But when the watcher and the ‘wooer’ are standing side-by-side, the only thing that will differentiate the two, is a jock strap.