Random Ramblings of a Reluctant Blogger

I have a soft corner for cricket pitch curators. They get the brickbat for no fault of theirs. Making a pitch is no child’s play. And, yet, with all humbleness, I like to state that I have been a curator, once. Child’s play or not, we kids did once curate a perfect pitch. 

In a spur of a moment we once zeroed in on making our own cricket pitch. The ground, in Nariana H Block, where we regularly played was fairly big, maybe slightly bigger than the football field. In case you are wondering, it was sometimes in the mid 70s. Spaces were available.

None of us though, were geologists, we studied basic geography in school. And naturally, we weren’t into the soil or the science of it. We did not have the luxury of the all pervading AI and its DIY. Trotting it up to the library, physically and searching for a pitch-making book was too tedious a job. But why do through all that when we knew how to do it? The plan was simple. Dig up the area, and re-lay it.!

The raw material was there – the ground. And the implements were easily available as some construction work was going on nearby. 

So one Sunday we all assembled on the ground for our ‘Operation pitch’.

We managed to lay hands on basic gardening tools. Four or five shovels, a couple of wheel barrows, rake, a hoe, and a handful of spades and wicker baskets, all sourced from a nearby construction site. 

The first discord sprung up on where to lay the pitch. It wasn’t easy because we had to ensure that the pitch is so strategically placed that long hits do not crash on to someone’s windows. Though the ground was big, the rectangular shape meant we had to get our coordinates to the T. So we started measuring it, without tape, each using steps to measure the ground. The only hitch was we all had our own idea as to what the ideal space between each step was! After a lot of to-and-fros, we decided to go ahead with the place where we always played. 

Next the discussion was on if we should restrict the re-lying to 22 yards or extend it. Those arguments went further – was it 22 yards between creases or 22 yards between wickets. A lot of theories got murdered and were reborn. A solution emerged and we decided on a 26-yard pitch.

First the garden hose was put to effective use, attached as it was to a municipal source of water, and the area was flooded. A garden hose in the hands of any kid is a virtual fun gun. Soon there was melee as everyone wanted to lay hands on it and spray others. In no time we all were as dripping wet as the pitch. Before digging up the pitch we had sourced some chalk powder and very carefully, using a thick rope to get the line straight, drew the lines. Now, the couple of shovels and a single hoe had competition. Everyone wanted to use the hoe. With a bit of inky-pinky that matter was settled. 

The first strike went to one of the two brothers. The elder one sat on the ground, holding one end of the rope. And as the younger one was about to swing the hoe, some wisecrack remarked “aim for  the head”. The younger one was a laid back kid and ever ready to burst into laughter. And as he burst out laughing, even while bringing the hoe down, he just about missed cutting his elder brother’s fingers holding the rope.! We all  were yet to recover from the shock of what would have been a disaster, when we spotted the elder brother, hoe in hand, chasing his younger brother halfway, through the ground screaming “I will kill you”. Soon we all were in pursuit, to stop the elder ‘reaper’ brother. The younger one ahead, the elder, hoe raised and screaming, behind him and all of us following them. One could have been excused to think it was a relay race, except for the fact that one of the kids had a hoe and looked angry. Fortunately, better sense prevailed without any damage and ”operation pitch’ was back on, all hands and fingers on deck.

Soon we had dug up a hole, almost a foot, off the whole 26 yards. Mirth and dirt mixed well in equal proportions. We got in enough crushed pebbles and sand and filled it up and closed it again with the displaced mud. Now it needed flattening up. Someone suggested we use the round rcc cement rings that were kept there for construction. I put my foot firmly down. And with good reason too. Once we had used a thinner version of the rcc rings to replace the tyres for a game of hoop rolling. The roll fell  on my right toe crushing it. It was  only when I moved the roller did I see the nail just about hanging by a thin thread. The brain, which was slow to process all this, caught up eventually after seeing a lot of blood, and the pain hit the ceiling. My right toe, to this  day, stays firmly on the ground and requires some effort to raise it. With the rollers ruled out, we decided on a novel way. Each of us was assigned a spot where we used bricks as a bull float. 

The whole-day operation was broken with more-than usual waterbreaks and snacks breaks. 

Smoothed out and all ready, we seasoned it for a few days with water. Soon we had a good pitch. Our  amateurish efforts notwithstanding, the pitch played true. And did it have bounce!  Not sure if it stood the  test of time, as we all moved on. But ‘operation pitch’ was to a large extent a successful experiment.