Circus Maximus at the Eden

So far, so good. But passion is a double-edged sword; love turns to hate in the split second of a goal conceded or a goal missed, a wicket lost or a catch dropped. It happens everywhere. Ask the galacticos of Real Madrid, who oscillate from heroes to villains several times in the course of a season. If they were shown white hankies — the traditional expression of disgust — after being beaten at home by Barcelona, they know the ‘ole-s’ will reverberate round the same stadium when they turn on the style. That is all part of the contract they have with their fans. Two seasons ago Ryan Giggs, the darling of Manchester United supporters, was given a slow handclap off the ground when he was substituted during one bad performance. The relationship was frosty before the warmth returned.

The problem starts when sport becomes entertainment. The rules of engagement are changed in two ways. First, it subverts the natural order of sport, the basic rule that you win some, you lose some, it evens out in the end. When sport becomes entertainment, those who are being entertained don’t find it very funny when they back the losing side. They want to be entertained, dammit, not learn lessons in philosophy. Result: Tolerance levels drop, the public gets increasingly restive. It’s a throwback to the first scenes of public ‘entertainment’, the Circus Maximus. Who cares whether the gladiators have wives and children, let them kill each other. In a country with an expanding middle-class, where suddenly you can have everything — phone, car, pizza, cable TV — on order, why can’t you have your cricket team winning on demand?

The other change is that the nuts and bolts of sport — the through-balls and dot balls, the graft and the grit — cease to matter because they are less sexy. That’s why Test cricket was dying before it was reinvented — by the four-runs-an-over Australians — as five days of one-day cricket.

There is, though, a far more serious fallout, and it hit home all of last week as the sad story of George Best was coming to closure. Best was the forerunner of today’s Indian cricketer, talented, wealthy — and totally in the media’s control. To the tabloids he was a godsend, only too happy — too drunk, perhaps, to notice — to oblige with a quote, an interview, a full story. Not much of it about football, mind you, more about his private life. They fed him and fed off him. Then hung him out to dry.

The story has changed a bit in 40-odd years. Cricket is the most emotive public activity today. Anything remotely connected with it is fair game for a story. In effect, all of India is the Fan Club, passionate, fickle, demanding. The more cricket on display, the more is demanded by the public. Sometimes it’s cricket, often it isn’t and usually few know the difference. It’s a vicious cycle that on occasion becomes literally so, such as the attacks on Mohammed Kaif’s house in the last World Cup. From there to Eden Gardens 2005 is a short, inevitable road.

Can you blame the fans? They lined up for their tickets, paid their fee and waited for their entertainment. They have the right to boo or applaud, to walk out if they want — whatever gives them paisa vasool without actually breaking the law. It’s all part of the game. If Dravid will never be jeered at an Indian ground as he was on Friday, he will probably never be as warmly applauded as he was at Eden Gardens in March 2001. Only a fool would bet against a successful Dravid being cheered the next time he plays here.

What is the solution? There is none. This is India, this is cricket, this is passion. It’s a malleable commodity that can be shaped by anyone who has the means to do so. Today one TV channel runs an SMS poll on whether Ganguly should be in or out. Tomorrow another will air replays through the day of Chappell and his finger. As long as Ganguly is in the national team cricket will be divided into Kolkata vs The Rest; once he’s out there will be other issues. There’s a new gameshow in town: everyone’s invited.