By Rajababu

The Bowler canters up in tense concentration;
Sweat streaming from all the corners of his face, consternation,
One of the longest run-ups he has in this game.
He has a haul of over 200 scalps to his name.
Legs twisting, the ball speeds through the humid air.
And it misses the leg-stump by a strand of hair.
The batsman grimaces,
Some think he is making faces,
Others see it as a silent cue,
To the bookies, the hated few.
They, who seem to have a grip hold on every match,
They seem to dictate every dismissal, every catch,


Is a century a leniency by the opposing side?
Or a tribute to the batsman, who is his own guide?
Who are these players, who are mixing,
Commerce and sport, in the name of match fixing?
Who are these, who reach out for a mobile?
Rather than honestly applaud the defendant's guile.


Is the jump from 180 to 210 so damn difficult?
Or is it someone paying obeisance to the match-fixing cult?


Let us stop this dirt before it hits the roof;
Let us try to keep the sacred game aloof,
From the marauders of commerce and cash.
Let us prevent this sordid crash;
Let not people smirk when someone takes a wicket,
For this is not WWF, for heaven's sake,
This is good old cricket.
So let us unite and preserve the sporting glow,
Of this supposedly tarnished, this fixed willow.


-A poem by Rajababu.