How the sixer epidemic is making cricket ugly

From an elegant narrative worthy of exquisite prose, cricket is rapidly becoming a slinging match deserving of rap limericks. Foremost to blame is the fast-forward genre of T20, the IPL thankfully departing for a welcome exile.

Within this debilitating format, the sharpest criminal is the cult of hitting sixes, a robust treat now reduced to a painful ulcer. Let me explain, lest you think that the heatwave has further eroded my borderline sanity. You see, the act of clearing the ropes was equivalent to the unleashing of the showstopper in a multi-faceted ensemble, an exceptional superlative that spray paints a solid structure. Quite like the biryani in a wedding feast, the drut gat or Tarana in Hindustani Classical music, the finale car chase in a gangster movie, the winning smash in a tennis duel, or perhaps, the revelation of the murderer in an Agatha Christie whodunit.

In the absence of a robust build-up, compelling detours, spells of pensive lull, moments of dismay, or simply a sensible flow, the superlative moment is simply not influential. Imagine a momentous six-course meal where every item is a mutton biryani, sans the dal, salan, and sundry valiant accompanists. Perhaps a music concert where the performer operates at express speed all evening denied the celestial build-up of the glorious raga. Else, a crime thriller where somebody gets shot in every frame or a Titanic remake where the entire movie is about the encounter with the iceberg, in 100 differing angles.

Just as ridiculous as all of the above is a cricket match where every batsman is trying to hit a sixer off every possible delivery and the entire ecosystem, bowlers included, is geared towards aiding or preventing that occurrence. Including the trapeze-like fielding stunts, solo or duo, at the boundary rope, and the systematic tampering with the playing arenas to influence the sixer. Even spectators are being conditioned to this narrow, albeit sensational, narrative as the game loses its organic flow, being reduced to petty gladiatorial combat. To reiterate one more sporting analogy, it is as ridiculous as a tennis or badminton game without rallies, where every shot must be a point maker.

The collateral damage of the IPL, both aesthetically and logically, is crippling, and let me just mention a notable few. Batting is rapidly becoming a demonstration of muscle responsiveness, the superhero willows further reducing the need for genuine skill. Bowlers are forced to shed their natural aggression and focus instead,  on not being demolished. Fellows who would not last ten seaming minutes at Headingly are commanding marquee rates, diminishing the morale of the true artisans. Most crucially, every innings is losing its structural narrative, that teasing blend of ebbs and flows, which is essential to the character,  of both the game and the player.

Exactly why we revere the six-hitting maestros of yore from the larger context of their innings architecture, as an ally of fundamental worldview. Ravi Shastri's test match hundreds would be replete with painfully pokey singles and twos, but after every milestone, the celebratory sixer would appear a rather Nehruvian approach. While the ever hospitable Ganguly was habitually prone to welcoming every slow bowler with his trademark over-the-top rendition, as was Navjot Sidhu in his second avatar. Sehwag was more certainly more spontaneous, securing the maximum gratification at will, quite like a spoilt brat with a limitless chocolate cabinet. The maestro Sachin always seemed intent on building masterpieces, the strokes unfurled subject to the script's demands. While for many a robust tailender, this shot is the short-lived transit visa to much-aspired batting citizenry. My point, most simply, is that the sixer was always a blue-eyed element of the ensemble, but never the entire orchestra.

Now look, this is not meant to be a retro lover's paean for test cricket, as even the 50-over version packs in a solid substance. Great cricketing knocks, over history, are built like ably crafted novels, with a definite beginning, a diverse flow, and a sketchable ending. This is also the foundation of elegance, as these stories lend themselves to inspired expressions, from commentary to writing to spectator emotions. Without this rambling sequence, the game loses its famed integrity and the obsession for the sixer must be ranked as public enemy number one.

But then cricket is big business and the rules of customer-centricity sincerely validate this sensorial atrocity, as youngsters seek quick turnaround gratification, bombarded with mechanical alternatives. I do realise that the game will get uglier with every passing year of the IPL, but nobody really cares as long as it gets richer.