Hansie Cronje did err, but.....

Raju Korti

Lest anyone jumps to conclusion, I must clarify at the outset. This is not holding a brief for the late Proteas skipper Wessel Johannes Hansie Cronje who had overstepped the fault line on more occasions than one ever since the first known case of match-fixing surfaced in Nagpur in 1996. But somehow, like the vividly sketched negative characters in James Hadley Chase novels, even a vilified Cronje begs my sympathy.
I will not stir up history to recall the murkier aspects of that match although I was present at the Vidarbha Cricket Association ground on that day when not only spectators were taken for a ride, even the so called gentleman's game took a beating. What had impressed me during the pre-match briefing of the rival skippers was Cronje's impeccable manners. His demeanour was befitting an international statesman and if I can recollect correctly, very uncharacteristically of me, I had extended a hand at him which he shook with a genuine smile. He just nodded his head in acknowledgement when I wished him. To cut the long story short, there was something about the man that instantly appealed to me. Cronje was then just 26 but a hero to the cricketing fraternity, including the two non-Whites Herschelle Gibbs and Henry Williams who "nailed" his role in the match fixing.
Sixteen years hence and almost more than a decade later, after Hansie died unsung in a plane crash, Williams is battling a stricken conscience. Williams told Sunday Times that it was on the advice of their lawyers that he alongwith Gibbs gave false testimonies against Cronje before the King Commission of Enquiry in 2000 to make a strong case against the late captain.
Williams admitted that he and teammate Gibbs had lied about accepting an offer of $15,000 from Cronje to under-perform in the Nagpur one-dayer. He buttressed his falsehood with the argument that he was told he could be prosecuted if he came clean and therefore "pressured" into giving such a testimony. Williams said something to the effect that the controversy had been laid to rest and that he might as well speak about it since he "just wanted it to be put to rest and let go of it." On his part, Gibbs hasn't said anything new than what he wrote in his biography "To The Point": That although he was indeed offered a bribe by Cronje to under-perform, he had great admiration for his captain.
Mike Fitzgerald and Peter Whelan -- the lawyers denied Williams' allegations, saying the player told the truth once Gibbs had done so -- after unsuccessfully trying to lie their way out of the situation. "That's outrageous. Why would I give my own client a version that implicates him?" Fitzgerald told the paper. Whelan called the claims "fundamental rubbish".
The professional probity of some of the dramatis personae in the l'affaire Cronje, can come in for serious questioning even at this juncture. To begin with, can there be a hearing after the verdict? William's experiment with truth has come in much too late for even Cronje's guilty soul to feel any better. Cronje isn't alive to reconstruct the events in the light of this new development.
To be fair to Cronje, he did admit to his culpability in laisioning with the Indian and South African bookies. The man who was voted the eleventh best South African despite being banned for life for his devious role in match-fixing scandal, deserved a more sympathetic deal. Afterall, he was also the best captain the country ever had untill Graeme Smith outscored his records. But not only was Cronje's honest confession given a short shrift, his pleas challenging thre harsh life ban were dismissed. Would this have been possible in India where cricketers are pampered to a nauseating extent? Not one of the many Indian cricketrs whose names figured in match-fixing, came in for the kind of crucifixing that Cronje did. To the South African cricket authorities, reform wasn't an option at all. I am willing to bet that Cronje -- seen in tears during his cross-examination at the King Commission of Enquiry -- would have started on a clean slate. Even if they wanted to make an example out of Cronje, they could have rehabilitated him elsewhere in some other capacity. Nothing of the kind happened and finally Cronje died a broken man -- a tragic death in a plane crash -- when he was barely 32. To me, it was a case of punishment being way too harsh for the crime he committed and the subsequent penitence that he showed.
Theories that Cronje was murdered on the orders of a cricket betting syndicate flourished after his death. I wouldn't want to expend energies speculating on them, but Cronje certainly deserved one more chance. The man who deserved his place under the Sun, faded into the dark pages of history. And that's why my heart reaches to poor Hansie.

This is Christopher Martin Jenkins….

Raju Korti

Coincidences can be dicey. They have this uncanny reputation of throwing perplexing situations at you. Hardly had I got over the mortification of writing a tribute-cum-nostalgia piece on the South African born, England captain Tony Greig, I was looking at the depressing prospect of writing another one – and this time, his co-commentator, the much revered Christopher Martin Jenkins – who I had mentioned in glowing words in that tribute.
CMJ, as the former Marylebone Cricket Club (MCC) president was affectionately called, grew on me for more reasons than one. As an integral part of the BBC Test Match Special, considered aptly as among Britain’s national treasures, CMJ was an instant hit. Like his equally illustrious peers, CMJ carried an endearing voice that he blended with his gift of the gab.
The BBC Test Match Special, a sporting phenomenon of the British Broadcasting Corporation, was born in 1957, the same year as I was and CMJ was inducted into this brilliant team of broadcasters in 1973, the year I matriculated and when my worship of cricket was – to use a cricketing phrase – peaking at the right time.
Before CMJ’s propensity hitched on to the commentary bandwagon -- a virtue monopolized by academically-minded giants like Brian Johnston, John Arlott, Alan Gibson and Robert Hudson – he was a cricketer-turned writer whose exploits with the bat were eclipsed by the fluency of his pen. As one aspiring to play big time, I had made it my cricketing philosophy to read Neville Cardus, CMJ, Jack Fingleton, E W Swanton and tune in to Test Match Special to hear Johnston, Arlott, Alan Mcgilvray, Dean Moseley and later, Henry Blofeld, wax eloquent on the mike. Not only the BBC was the first broadcaster to cover every ball of a Test match, it had in its line of duty the finest commentating brains who could keep listeners glued to their seats for hours even when rains robbed the day’s play.
The style and tone was set by the copious and racy Johnston who transferred his skills from the television to radio in 1970 and proved to be a catalyst for an upsurge in the popularity of the Test Match Special with his jocular narration. He complemented the brilliantly descriptive Arlott, who had an eye for every microscopic detail. Their greatness lay in the fact that they could be articulate without being verbose.
In those days, the Test Match Special was so immensely popular that smitten fans would send in cakes to the broadcasting team even as the broadcasting wavelength would often be the centre of a hot debate by politicians in the House of Commons. Even those who swore their loyalties to the more popular Rugby and Soccer, switched on to the Test Match Special just to hear them talk. The gritty Trevor Bailey and the fiery Fred Trueman tempered the team with a 26-year-long, enduring partnership whose expert comments could well be Voice of Prophecies.
CMJ was not an unknown entity when he enriched the BBC Test Match Special since he was already an established writer, but he was certainly a revelation as a commentator. A free-flowing narration without being garrulous, a remarkably sweet voice and a virtual encyclopedia of the game, CMJ carved a niche for himself. He didn’t have the ribald flair of Johnston ["There's Neil Harvey standing at leg slip with his legs wide apart, waiting for a tickle" or "The bowler's Holding, the batsman's Willey"], the acidic barb of Arlott or the precision of Moseley, but he had this unique flourish that would make the listener feel as if he was watching the match live. Ask any commentator and he will tell you this is no mean task. As the BBC's cricket correspondent twice -- first between 1973 and 1980 and then from 1985 and 1991 -- while also commentating on the network's television coverage between 1981 and 1985, CMJ had already perfected the art of holding large audiences captive with his articulation that was tantalizingly simple but effective.
I distinctly recall many Test matches in the 70s and the 80s when the broadcasters on Test Match Special would keep going without break even after rains washed out the day’s play. Such was their tuning and camaraderie that there would be an engrossing exchange of jokes, anecdotes, statistics and personal experiences that admirers hoped the play would not resume as the flourish of the commentators assumed a cutting edge in this interregnum. CMJ would often test his partners by asking strange questions or coming out with bits and pieces of some interesting observations/facts. It was a measure of the breadth his knowledge that he regaled his constituency for over 40 years with unfailing distinction.
CMJ was quite simply a cricketing institution. He had been an integral part of BBC Radio's 'Test Match Special' commentary team for more than 40 years as well as being an influential and highly respected cricket correspondent for two national newspapers, The Times and The Daily Telegraph, and the author of many books on the game which became his life's love.
As a person, CMJ was a man of great personal integrity and a thoroughbred gentleman. I caught a glimpse of those traits when I had a brief chat with him during the England series in 1982. As I walked up to him – then a journalist myself – and started to rustle up suitable adjectives for him and his co-commentators, CMJ just smiled. He was both pleased and amused at my school-boyish enthusiasm and praise. He was particularly elated that elsewhere in the world too there were fans that doted on the Test Match Special.
Summoning up the courage, I asked him if he could hand over a letter to Brian Johnston, my first-among-the-equals idol. “Yes, of course, CMJ replied with a smile that bowled me over. I could scarcely believe my luck that I was face-to-face with a gentleman whose skills at broadcasting will remain unsurpassed and whose voice was as mesmerizing as I heard it on the radio. The impeccably mannered that he was, CMJ waved me good bye with that bishop-like smile. It was an association that lasted barely two hours but as I like to put it now, I will carry it to my grave.
There were some regrets too. I was keen to see the Cambridge-educated man’s great talent for mimicry which made him an entertaining after-dinner speaker. More than anything else, I would have given my right ear to his radio commentary – it was detailed and meticulous, belying the affectionate reputation he built up on Test Match Special for absent-mindedness and lateness, trademark characteristics that he seemed sometimes to celebrate.
There is no doubt that CMJ, mentored by Johnston, excelled as a commentator though he had short but eventful stints as the President of MCC and Editor of the Cricketer magazine. But in his wisdom as a writer par excellence, he should largely be credited with bringing in a new trend that bordered on rambling and unscripted “eyewitness accounts”.
If you thought this genius was difficult to describe in words, his autobiography “CMJ – A Cricketing Life” should be apt enough. His line “This is Christopher Martin Jenkins taking you back to the studios” should be the last famous words in broadcasting.

I hereby resolve...Nothing!

Raju Korti

Resolutions are like records -- meant to be broken.
The one regulation question that is usually asked of you is "What's your resolution for the new year?" and whenever I would be confronted with it, I would try to summon all my steely grit into my eyes and wax eloquent on what I intended to do -- or not to do -- armed with the experience and wisdom of the past. Over the years, I realised, and not to any chagrin of mine, that the resolutions that I pompously announced to whoever cared to listen, petered out faster than I had thought of them.
However, there was one saving grace in this fiasco. Most resolutions that I made were out of the box and my heart only played the role of a guest artist in those. So when my good intentions to bring them to effect couldn't see the light of the day, I had very little or no heart burns. Like most others, my mind and my heart would always be at loggerheads. I had wised up to my idiosyncracies better than I actually knew.
Although an acknowledged failure at sustaining my resolutions, I would never cease marvelling at my friends and relatives who would announce their resolutions with so much emphasis that often made me feel like a pansy. It wasn't untill that it dawned upon me that they were no better than me.
Most resolutions pertain to lifestyle changes. Let me list the usual verbal fluff.
1)Lose weight, exercise more, reduce drinking, and generally, get rid of old habits
2)Think positive, laugh more and, as far as possible, enjoy life
3)Save more money, get out of debts
4)Secure better job or set up own business
5)Study better and learn some new craft
6)Become more oraganised, watch less TV
7)Improve social skills, choose friends wisely
8)Spend more time with family
9) Get married and settle down
The beauty of these resolutions is they are so simple and yet so utopian. If I may be allowed to say, even contradictory. I have seen people eating gluttonously within minutes of saying that weight watch was their prime concern. Many lapsed into their harangues, without realising that it wasn't long ago before they had decided to make their faces more presentable with positive smiles. If you wanted to know how many started burning more midnight oil to get better grades, all you had to do was to log on to Facebook to see  the swelling number of people joining the "Let this year go, I will seriously study from next year." And  marriage rarely had anything to do with settling down.
Making a resolution seems to be a reflex defence mechanism to feel good in the face of the drawbacks we all have and desperately want to overcome. Some time back I read a sample survey which showed that 88% new year resolutions fail despite the fact that 52% of them swore to make them work in the initial stages. I am glad I belong to the elite category who has come to grips with the fact that resolutions are all steam and gas.
Except when pushed to the wall, I have never been able to garner the grit to stick to a resolution. As a kid I once tried to spring-clean my room by emptying the contents of every single cupboard and drawer on to the floor and then putting everthing back tidily. Halfway through, my resolve deserted me and I just shoved things back -- more untidily than before -- thinking my parents who thought their son was maturing, wouldn't notice. They did.
So this year, my resolution -- if you can call it that -- is as simple and as vague as it can get -- to make my life better. The advantage that obtains from such a resolution is the leeway you can exercise in realising it. Better still, I can reserve the superior right of doing or rather not doing anything that makes me feel happy. In fact, perennial self-improvement is a hobby in itself. And it takes up an awful lot of time, you know. A friend philosophises it succinctly: Boss, apna resolution ye hai ke apna koi resolution nahi." To his credit, I have never seen smile fade from his face. "Your biggest indulgence should be you," actor Dev Anand, whose hobby had graduated to what many believe was narcissism, once told me. I have taken a leaf out of his voluminous book.
I am my own hobby now and it doesn't need any resolve at all.