This and that

It has been terribly long since I wrote something here. The last post on the showdown with the moronic restaurant owner (he was wrong and I was right!) seems silly now. I write something just so that that post gets pushed down.

Much needed rains have finally graced the Bay Area. Wet earth, black tarmac, wipers, the pitter patter, misty mornings and grey skies. This is my fourth fall here but this is the first time that I’m consumed by the elaborate show that nature has been staging.

Fall, in all its fiery hues, is here. A riot of rich autumnal colors. The street looks different with each passing day. Short-lived it may be, but each tree is now a seductress with her own charm and allure. Can death be any more colorful? The last, beautiful vestiges of life falling down to the wet earth from where they had sprung from. Giving back unto the earth what was taken earlier. They owe not anybody. Their only sin, perhaps, leaving the trees unclothed against the enveloping winter. The wet dark trunks and the unadorned arms left awaiting a faraway spring. Can life be any starker? The timeless show of the cycle of life and death. Now playing at every window.

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When I first read about it, sitting across the world, I was expecting Phil Hughes to recover from his blow. This is what happens when a batsman cops a nasty snarler: they recover. Well not this time. Death itself is not rare. But when it happens on the field of sport, it feels somehow different.

Hurl ball, block it. Hurl ball, whack it. Shorn of the inherent potential for injury as soccer or the gore of the pugilistic sports, cricket is a beautiful, elitist game. There is room for individual brilliance and for collective excellence. While adding layers of beauty to the sport, the wizardry of the practitioners has managed to veil the danger lurking beneath each delivery. The possibility of injury or much worse has been diluted by the craft of the masters. So when something unfortunate happens, it is a rude jolt. A cruel twist to an otherwise sedate narrative.

Chin music, I must admit, was groovy. The bouncer aimed to level the playfield for an even contest between ball and bat in a game that has become lopsided for the batsmen. I have enjoyed watching great willow wielders duck and weave. Or hook and pull. It should be interesting to see how the bouncer will be used going forward.

More interesting will be to see how sledging will change, if at all. A batsman has enough going on his mind already in trying to negotiate fast projectiles. Adding to the clutter in the name of “mind games” may not be wise. A cold glare, a smart quip and let’s get on with the game.  

Phil Hughes, rest in peace.