“If you don’t have an Indian name your won’t get a ticket. So we gave ourselves Indian names. And we got tickets.”
Sunday Times
TELFORD VICE in London
CONSPIRACY and corruption were, apparently, rudely alive and worryingly well on the 06:33 from King’s Cross to Nottingham on Friday, which was dotted with West Indies supporters amid the swollen ranks of Pakistan fans en route to the World Cup match at Trent Bridge.
The Caribbean crew were older. And stoic — perhaps channelling their inner Linton Kwesi Johnson, perhaps trying to come to terms with the sad truth that one of the brightest parts of the future of the game in the islands had bowled up a storm in an England shirt at the Oval the day before.
Jofra Archer hit not only 150 kilometres an hour but also the grille of Hashim Amla’s helmet, rendering the South African colossus unsteady and sending him in search of concussion tests.
“Inglan is a bitch, fi true,” you could feel the greybeards thinking behind their yellowing eyes, just like Linton sang a long time ago; when Viv and Clive and Garfield could do anything. And did.
As the maroons among us dozed to the gently bumping rhythm of train on track, unbothered by the syrupy sunshine melting through the windows, the green machine crackled into lively conversation.
All was affable until the discussion turned to that bastardly International Cricket Council (ICC) and the lengths it goes to to gaurantee a steady flow of what makes cricket go round: money.
One fella, young and punchy, had it sussed: “It’s all controlled by the Americans, innit? American banks.”
Another man, in his 40s — the type who knows everything, even things he doesn’t — saw the younger’s bid and raised him.
“So what they do is, they reserve the majority of the tickets for Indians. If you don’t have an Indian name your won’t get a ticket. Simple as that.
“Me and my friends couldn’t get tickets. So what did we do? We gave ourselves Indian names. And what do you know — we got tickets.”
Clearly, he was casual enough about his crookery. Just as clearly, his story was received with smiles and nods, perhaps by those who had done the same thing or were prompted by him to attempt it.
All had enough interest in cricket to put up with the inconvenience of an early train. They were also united by their readiness to believe anything that cast aspersions on India’s bullying and those bloody Americans, and a hankering to cheat the system.
There’s no condoning the latter, but it deserves to be understood. Do not be fooled by the pretty pictures on your television: the World Cup is a monster of rules and management that would eat your children if it could sell the rights.
The good people of the ICC — and there are many — work hard to make things happen seamlessly. The volunteers, or “cricketeers”, are a joy to deal with. The six-week circus will rattle along like our train because of their efforts.
But the damage has long since been done in souls bought and sold by grey men in grey suits in grey boardrooms making grey decisions about what should be cricket at its most colourful.
A World Cup featuring only 10 teams is a world away from a global event, and even if you support one of the competing sides it’s no fun walking around the ground and having all sorts of tat you neither need nor want shoved at you in the arrogance that you will buy it because it’s in your side’s colours and accordingly branded.
Cricket is the supermarket at the back of this mall, where everything is on sale at prices that cannot be serious.
Can we blame the fans if they do not respect a system that refuses to respect them?
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