The game of "glorious uncertainties, " is now a game of"inglorious certainties", with the entry into it, of folks , who really do not know what sport means.
Betting, Spot fixing, game espionage, spurious signalling, power games and lies, have brought such disrepute to the game.
I feel bad for the two original members of the game.
The Bat and the Ball .
Can you imagine what must be going through their minds. ......
Born of a willowy mother
in the Kashmir valley,
she grew up
in the shade of
a veil of leaves,
descending down around her
as if to
protect her innocence
as she imbibed,
by observation
and practice
some tough grains of life.
Stauesque,
stately,
polished,
waxed protectively
at the ends,
and with facials by Linseed
she aged well
and became
an outsanding Bat of her times
with the aid of some
helpful handles,
and a firm grip on things.
He , born a Ball,
of Tehsil Cork,
in Meerut,
grew up
in the little alleys,
a disinterested flat fellow,
suddenly hammered into
a well rounded personality,
hung out to dry
an learned to face
the elements.
A protective
fine leather cover,
tailored just so,
skin hugging
above a tight wrapping
with affectionate woolrope
with the necessary 6 seams
running across
a blood red central midrif.
They would meet often
and
he and she would
actually indulge
in a fling.
Sometimes, she would
with a great sesne of humor
reply in kind;
sometimes,
she would flick him away
and he would pretend
to race
to the boundaries
of his imagination;
sometimes ,
she would actually duck
and miss
allowing him
to spend some time
with the fellows
who always stood behind her;
and sometimes
she would gloat
as she saw him go sky high,
sometimes to get caught !
Proudly walking out
with the openers,
the entire stadium applauding,
and she would watch
in great anticipation,
as he twisted,
got scratched and spat on
and even oiled
as he piruetted
in some magical fingers,
before taking off to meet her
in a magical arc
But alas.
Like in Bollywood,
there is a villain in the story.
Someone
who fills ideas
in the mind of Mr Ball....
saying
"Look!
She spends
so much time
with other fellows
in the Kitbag,
you need
to divert yourself
away from where she waits for you,
and doesnt matter
if she still scores.
No need to
always fall at her feet;
its OK to bounce up once in a while,
and never mind
if you get swept off
so long as you properly fall
into someone's hands".
Its difficult for Mr Ball
but he has no choice.
Some folks
simply cannot tolerate
the Pitch magic,
and the Howzzat band
that always plays,
when he and the Bat lady meet.
Life has become difficult.
Instead
of feeling secure
with the players paraphernalia,
and chit chats with
the pointy stumped fellows,
back in the pavillion,
they both get flung into a corner
as some folks immediately
get on their phones.
Folks dont realize
that Mr Ball and The Bat lady
both have ears,
and have some
sensational stuff in hand.
A lifetime
of being friends,
they want
to now spend their days together,
perhaps watching from the pavillion,
or even
being on the field
when
Rahul and Sachin play.
What do you do
when the villain
continues to misguide ?
Mr Ball, and the Bat lady,
watching
the field violence,
erroneous fingers up,
glares, bad mouthing,
towels used to signal
rather than clean....
Perhaps.
It is time
to return
to the Willow Woods
via Meerut
