Let’s face it, friends, neither cricket nor the administration thereof strikes us (historically) as any kind of springboard for revolution. Not typically. (@StoneDunk may have a view on this; no doubt I’ll be hearing from him, shortly). But as I sit and write – 7th March 2023 – it’s difficult to escape the sense that everything’s gone next-level radical and colorific. As though high-octane reds and yellows are being catapulted over the barricades and all of us have fallen into a single, vituperative mode of exchange. Some folks find the fact that we’ve been #hashtagged sexy and invigorating: others park their banners only momentarily in delirious confusion, before hoisting their Shield of Incontrovertible Truth. Either way it’s unhelpful: The Horn versus yaknow, The Sacred.

To zone into my own, immediate experience, picture an I-pad, a fresh, understated but also zesty West-Walian café, a Sky feed from India and the best women players in the world – Lanning/Shafali Verma/Kapp, etc, etc – flashing their blades in the cause of… erm… Delhi Capitals. Meaning, amongst other things, cricket of a very high order and at an intensity unthinkable last Wednesday week.

The dawn (and endless re-dawn?) of ‘short-format/franchise/white-ball/baseball/circus’ cricket is swarming all over us, whether we choose to wallow in its stirring brew or fight it off like some pesky wasp. I get that it’s precisely this that challenges and indeed troubles many on the side of Counties and tradition. Is the world not dumber and less patient, more fraught and more bought – and less (not more) wonder-full – with the advent of the Age of Boom? Is that not our suspicion? I get that. We love cricket and that love is deep and complex and loaded. But how do we appreciate all things and avoid naff oppositionism? More difficult still: how do we do that when our crown-jewel-equivalents, our non-negotiables are apparently unseen, by them on t’other side?

I’ve seen the word ‘symphonic’ to describe whackin’ a cricket ball abart. I’ve heard the word ‘soul’, repeatedly, movingly linked to this leather on willow thing. I was there when Jimmy-Jimmy and Monty kept out the 400-year assault from our Antipodean brethren, at Cardiff. I saw Bob Croft clamber up the stairs at Glam for that final time. Part of my sexual-political-philosophical education shunted forward, in a good way, when I watched Anya Shrubsole bowl in an Ashes double-header at the same venue.

The essence of this cricket stuff is rich and nourishing and gloriously multi-dimensional, so god knows, we are entitled and even likely to be ‘precious’ about it. The hinterland of feelings and patience and faith-through-the-downpours is not reducible.

Having worked in Cricket Development for many years, I have some knowledge of the machinations of Corporate Cricket and a bundle of enthusiasms and opinions for and upon the game. Only some of these can I share, prompted by cricket on the tellybox – well, i-pad – right now this minute. What I’d like to do briefly is note to the universe some urgent thoughts, in the hope that this can in some way contribute to intelligent discussion: this may throttle back some of my own partisanship and even rage. What it probably won’t do is reinforce the allegedly binary nature of things.

(A pre-emptive strike: the next wee chunk, despite appearances, is *still about cricket*).

Many of us are neither conservatives nor free-market ideologues. We may both accept some things had to change and resent the direction, process, content, language and apparently narrow destination towards which we were suddenly being corralled. Despite being ‘all about growth’, this bright new colourful future might have felt weirdly fascistic and force-fed. As per the august world of politics, much has depended on whether us heaving masses were in a position to believe the guys (mainly) at the top.  (Just me, by the way, or do we sense some movement, on this? A more conciliatory approach? Or more respectful?  It’s a welcome development: the entrenchment into ‘betrayers’ and ‘visionaries’ was never a good look).

With that polarisation in mind, here’s a starter for ten, in the University of the Open View. With no conferring, how does the following land with you? (Because I was conflicted but this next sentence is, or feels true): today I saw quite possibly the finest gathering of female players ever – or certainly the most dynamic – going head-to-head, as the pundits probably said… in the WPL.

Okay. On a scale of one to furious, where are you?

(Note from the author: I mean the stuff about finest players; it may seem inflammatory but the athleticism, power and sometimes outrageous skill of the main protagonists was extraordinary. I had not set out to watch this fixture – for the record I virtually never watch the IPL – but from the first over it was tremendously watchable).

We can surely see (and surely say?) that this is good? Good that the cricket was about as thrilling as it can be – Ismail v Lanning; Ecclestone v Kapp – and that this monumental lurch, forward and up (in terms of cash and exposure, in the Women’s Premier League) may be triggering greater sport.

However… because this is something of a symbol, yes?

We all know that qualifications may be in order. The almighty powerhouse that is the WPL may or may not either be in itself sustainable, or support the women’s game more widely. Indeed – obviously – it may (may) patently undermine it, at both the international and domestic levels. Where there is unrivalled clout, there lurketh often the ‘brutal realities’ of capitalism. Good can be bad; answers can foist cruel questions upon us. Like this one.

How then do we stitch together the various needs, in the face of rapacious, diametrically-opposing competition… and in the Age of the Televised Auction? Are we, as some have speculated, watching separate games drift apart? If Those Who Govern are simply overwhelmed by Those Who Franchise does this leave the historic game fatally exposed? Might the fate of Kent really be contingent upon the good will of tycoons in Kolkata?

My ‘answers’ – responses might be a better word – are on the existential side: vague, perhaps. They come back to intelligent, generous, joined-up action: and I am realistic about this.

To bundle us forwards, let me throw you a curve-ball, or variation, because that word generous feels apposite and so do bigger abstractions. (In fact, re-reading, I am struck that live action on the screen stirred a minor revelation, which though it unsettles arguments for allegiance towards any particular format, needed to be in here. So sorry… and not sorry. Again we are going to be floundering around in territory that may stir the tribal within us. Look out).

It’s likely that the majority of you, my sagacious readers are drawn to Test Cricket – or should that be Test cricket? – and in particular to following England (and Wales). Me too. Whilst being massively conflicted about everything else, from choice of coffee to choice of barnet, I am refreshingly, reassuringly, spookily clear that there is somehow nothing quite like top-level five-day cricket. Even though I appear to be one of the dwindling number(?) of folks who also really love One Day Internationals… Tests are it.

This of course means that following your own tribe takes a kind of precedence – though fascinatingly, we may not be clear that what we might call the National Machismo is the sole driver, or even the main driver, for this. There are delicious complexities and possibilities in play, many of which contradict the notion at the heart of the following, bold statement: that there is nothing wrong with patriotically bawling your support for your own country. (Further note: qualifications are assumed). But…

Let’s get back to Sophie Ecclestone, and her side, UP Warriorz – yep, I know – versus Delhi Capitals. In a genuinely fabulous Capitals innings, one of the most striking things for me was the utter dissolution of national rivalries. The truly brilliant English left-arm-spinner could not have looked happier or have gotten heart-warmingly cuddlier than when her Aussie or Indian team-mates had their moment. Truth is, they (UPW) were getting battered around by Lanning in particular, but wickets were celebrated with notable, secular joy. This, surely, is good?

A world-wide audience – admittedly one paying for the privilege – was witnessing apex-predator-level sport shot through with colour-blind, one-world generosity. With full-on sisterhood. In an environment characterised and generated more by filthy lucre than political or cultural enlightenment.

Sport, we know, can do this. But challenging as it may be to our sense of pride and self-determination, we cannot – I cannot – escape my responsibility to etch into the cosmic tablet that the richness of this extravagant, heritage-deficient gathering may even have been exacerbated (not undermined) by the mix of nationalities on each side. Circus or no circus. The ‘Enemy’ or antithesis of (say) County Cricket can therefore deliver something profound (too).

Do I need to add that this is not an argument against either international cricket or our own, much-loved County format? Of course I don’t. Because you get that things, in their wonder and their many colours, are complex.