Betting for cover

The essence of the time-tested dictum that appearances can be deceptive never went beyond its accepted realms -- until of course, South Af...

The essence of the time-tested dictum that appearances can be deceptive never went beyond its accepted realms — until of course, South African skipper Hansie Cronje, whose name the cricketing fraternity uttered in reverential tones, upped the ante and breached public trust in an overnight stroke. From an "adorable gentleman" and an “ambassador of the game”, the man defiled himself and made mincemeat of his reputation, leaving lovers of the game gasping in disbelief. The moral of the story is crystal clear: there are black sheep in every profession, even in the gentlemen’s game where men like Cronje seem to carry themselves impeccably.

The most obvious question is, what makes this tribe so susceptible to the lure of greens when it rakes in the moolah via an unending stream of matches, endorsements and cash rewards? The answer just does not end in the oft-repeated argument that the lure of the money is irresistible to even the rich and famous. Human psychology is at the core perhaps. It forever pesters an individual to jealously guard his/ her position of power.

I had a first-hand disconcerting experience when I was a rookie in journalism in the late seventies. Then, I was overtaken by a sense of commitment and ideals that one so pompously associates with the Fourth Estate. Seconding for a regular sports reporter, I had just about grappled with a local cricket story and was reclining in my creaky, rusty chair when two seedy looking characters took charge of me. Feigning that they wanted the details of the match, they asked me how many runs one particular team had scored. I told them the figure, 237. Exchanging knowing glances, both betrayed it’s-too-good-to-be-true expressions. "You sure?" they asked incredulously, scarcely believing their luck. Clearing his throat, one then blurted out: "Well, we have put stakes on how much this team was going to score. And we had arrived at 235. We do not want it to be the proverbial so-near-and-yet-so-far case. If you can…" He left his sentence midstream. My reflexes weren’t so dull, and I realised what was coming.

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I decided to bide my time. "So what do you expect of me?" I asked. "It’s all so simple. All you have to do is to edit the figure suitably," he said, trying to look anywhere but at me. Wondering whether the two were toying with my sensitivity or driving a wedge in my honesty, I spent a few confounded minutes not reacting. But my good conscience was astir and I was mighty relieved that the next moment righteous indignation asserted itself.

Pushing my chair backward violently, I asked them to get lost before I succumbed to indiscretion. They eventually did, but not before they had dangled a luscious slice of cake at me. I won the battle of morals, albeit I was driven by an over-riding feeling of shame that someone could even take me for granted this way. However, I had not counted on a bigger shame that was to leave me scandalised for a long time.

After spending a sleepless night, I narrated the incident to a fellow journalist, who was all ears. He looked at me the way a father would look at a stupid child. "You squandered an godsend, friend," he said, well aware that I used to get peanuts for salary. "We all bet some time or the other in life," he philosophised. If such an opportunity comes along, grab it with both hands. After all, in our profession don’t we-the-holier-than-thou fix stories? Don’t we spike stories, he said. That convinced me that brevity was indeed the soul of wit. If I had not bargained for the two wagers, I was certainly not prepared to face this volley of bouncers. Still, I didn’t duck for cover.

He listened to my long sermon on professional ethics with a sneer that made me feel I was talking to a wall. Some baptism as a learner journalist! But the next day, when I looked at my reflection in the mirror, I realised I was smiling and why. I won’t tell you. You can get the answer from Cronje.