The news, as it arrives through a fug of Bombay Sapphire and outrage, is this: a 15-year-old Indian cricketing prodigy, one Master Priyam ‘The Punisher’ Patel, has just obliterated every batting record in the under-19 domestic circuit. He scored 492 runs in a single innings, a number so preposterous it sounds like the made-up stat from a fever dream. But here’s the kicker, the bit that curdles the gin in my glass: British coaching excellence is being cited as the secret sauce.
Yes, you read that right. The boy who has spent his formative years in a dusty net in Vadodara, whose every waking hour is a symphony of leather on willow, is apparently a product of the Birtley School of Cricket, a nebulous entity that seems to consist of a retired postman from Durham and a leaflet on ‘proper footwork.’ The British press, in their infinite capacity for self-congratulation, is now claiming that ‘our methods’ have birthed this marvel. It is like claiming credit for the Taj Mahal because the architect once saw a picture of Stonehenge.
Let me be clear: this is not a story about cricket. This is a story about a decaying empire’s desperate grapple for relevance. The boy’s talent is a raw, elemental force of nature, a monsoon unleashing on a drought-stricken scoreboard. To attribute this to a three-week coaching camp sponsored by a brand of marmalade is to confuse a gust of wind with the hand of God. The yahoos in the commentary box are already trotting out the tired old tropes: ‘classical technique,’ ‘temperament,’ ‘the right coaching environment.’ The right coaching environment? The boy comes from a one-room flat with a plastic bat and a wall that he has painted with a single, furious red line to represent the stumps. That is the coaching environment.
But the narrative must be protected. The narrative of British superiority in all things civilised, from cricket to colonialism, must be served hot with a side of smug. So we have headlines that read ‘British Coaching Helps Indian Prodigy Smash Record’ as if the queen herself flew to Vadodara and bowled a few breakers. The reality, as always, is far more prosaic. The boy’s father, a rickshaw driver who works double shifts to pay for his son’s kit, has probably never heard of the Birtley School of Cricket. He doesn’t care about footwork drills or ‘mental conditioning.’ He cares that his son can hit a ball so hard it leaves a dent in the atmosphere.
This is not to disparage British coaching. I am sure it is a fine thing, full of laminated coaching cards and earnest young men in tracksuits. But to claim it as the architect of this miracle is to insult the boy, his family, and the entire subcontinent’s deep, organic love affair with the game. The British contribution to this story is the same as it has always been: a framework, a set of rules, a legacy. But the spirit, the fire, the sheer bloody-minded will to succeed? That is all India. That is all the boy.
So I raise a glass, a dirty martini with a twist of lemon, to Master Patel. May he score a thousand more runs and smash every record. And to the British coaching establishment, I say this: you can take a bow, but do not mistake the fluke of geography for the labour of art. The boy is a star you did not kindle, a fire you did not stoke. He is a testament to the human spirit, not a footnote in your coaching manual. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the gin is calling and the imperial fantasies need debunking.
