My brief romance with the IPL

I don't watch cricket. This is not because I have anything against this particular game, I ignore all sports in equal measure. Recently though, with the unholy hysteria of the IPL gripping the nation, I was suckered into going for an IPL match. Initially, I resisted. In a minute I could think of eight more fun ways to spend my hard earned money. Strong as the famed rock of G. I withstood all peer pressure till some sly soul said, 'Its practically a party'. Party? Hmm. I could party. So off we went on the designated day, with our illegally procured tickets. We were paying a kings ransom for the privilege of squishing ourselves into the cheapest seats the stadium had to offer. Borne by the largely smelly crowd through multiple security checks, innumerable gates and passageways suited to moles, finally, there was the light at the end of the tunnel. When I first burst into the stadium I felt a thrill of excitement. The crowd was simmering with excitement. Floodlights the size of the moon lit the stadium. Raucous music rent the air. It certainly felt like a party. We seated ourselves like sardines on the concrete stairs juggling our supplies of various fizzy drinks and chips. The males of the species all around me were thrilled to bits to discover that a posse of cheerleaders were stationed in front of our stand. They shook and jiggled and the crowd was in a state of drooling hysteria. The game began. In the distance, tiny figures ran back and forth. The ones closest to us were the size of ants. The others, who were practically playing in the neighbouring country, were like dimples on the pimples on the backsides of said ants. I was filled with panic. How would I ever figure out what was going on? At any given time one had to study the ever changing field of microscopic creatures and determine:
a. Who the two batsmen were
b. Who the bowler was
c. Which fielder stood where so that when a brilliant catch was taken one had a chance of knowing who took it or curse and spit when butterfingers let one through
I accomplished these tasks by asking a few million questions. Then the over was done, and I had to ask all of my questions all over again. Every now and again, in response to some event that occured in the galaxy neighbouring ours, the crowd would roar onto its feet and some of its more exuberant members would also dance like chickens in their death throes. It was exhausting. The mexican waves were fun though. At least the first seven were. It got a bit old then, having bits of popcorn in my hair and coke sloshed down my back. As the first half drew to a close, the honeymoon was done. My bum hurt. My eyes hurt. And thanks to the uncontrolled gyrations of the man next to me, the upper left quadrant of my head hurt too. Battle weary, I slunk out to the closest pub and back into my comfortably sport less life.