when the match-fixing scandal broke in the late 90s, we at tpr felt more shattered by it than an indian muslim's confidence in the state of gujarat. so much so, that tpr vowed not to cover, watch, live and love any more cricket. ever.
for the next few years, tpr went into exile and moved to the cold, remote confines of montreal, canada where cricket is a sport regularly confused with croquet. there, alone, hurt and in need of healing, we stole disingenuously disinterested peeks at the state of the game for signs of a new beginning.
time and again, tpr would try not-so-hard not to follow matches. only to find it as impossible to resist the temptations of the game as a reluctant celibate might the offer of a night of free sex with mandira 'noodle straps' bedi.
furthermore, tpr would constantly remind itself with the metronomic regularity of Glenn McGrath and a ball-counting umpire put together that cricket, once sullied by match-fixing, was now being run solely according to the whims and fancies of global corporations. (truth be told, the jury is still out on that one.)
but what made tpr well and truly swing back into the fold of the devoted, obsessive and unequivocal cricket fan, was the young indian brigade's unburdened performance at the t20 world cup. after that, tpr was back to being as totally fida on cricket as a stalker might be over his victim.
sometimes, it only takes a breath of fresh air to blow away the cobwebs of the past and generate much reverse swing.