There was a time when Cricket commentary was an art.
It wasn't about who could shout the loudest, crack the most jokes, remind us every thirty seconds that they knew someone in the dressing room, or make themselves the stars of the show. It was about helping us appreciate greatness.
I grew up listening to Australia's legendary Channel 9 commentary team. Richie Benaud, Tony Greig, Ian Chappell, Bill Lawry, and later Geoffrey Boycott, David Gower and others didn't simply describe cricket—they elevated it. They respected the game, respected the audience, and most importantly, knew when to speak and when to remain silent.
The finest example for me will always be Kapil Dev's famous assault against Eddie Hemmings at Lord's in 1990, when India needed 24 runs to avoid the follow-on. Kapil simply decided to get them all in four balls.
Richie Benaud's commentary that afternoon was poetry in motion. He didn't compete with Kapil for attention. He didn't scream into the microphone. He didn't manufacture excitement. He let the bat do the talking and simply complemented the moment with a handful of perfectly chosen words. The commentator became part of history without trying to become the story.
If you've never watched it—or if it's been a while—do yourself a favor. Spend five minutes watching it and, more importantly, listening to Richie Benaud. It remains a masterclass in sports commentary. Gavaskar was with Richie when this happened and one would have thought Sunny could have picked a hint or two from Richie.
🎥 Kapil Dev's Four Consecutive Sixes at Lord's (1990)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gfbm3NIX1-Y
After Kapil deposited the fourth ball into the crowd, Benaud calmly remarked:
"I suppose it's only logical. If you need 24 to save the follow-on, why wouldn't you get it in four hits?"
One sentence.
No shouting.
No screaming.
No "Look at me!"
Just pure class.
Gavaskar was with Richie at the commentary box and one would have thought Sunny could have picked a hint or two from Richie from when to be silent and let the moment shine.
Sadly, somewhere along the way, the commentary box forgot its purpose.
As India's commercial influence over cricket grew, it also took control of the commentary room. Somewhere during that journey, the focus shifted from explaining cricket to promoting personalities. Every match slowly became "us versus them." Objectivity quietly packed its bags and left the stadium. Commentators gotta play neutral. Period!
The game deserved analysts.
Instead, we got cheerleaders.
The lowest point for me came when Sunil Gavaskar repeatedly called Rishabh Pant "stupid, stupid and stupid" on live television.
Criticism is part of sport. Every player deserves to be questioned. But there is a world of difference between analysis and humiliation. Great commentators explain why a decision was wrong. They don't reduce a player to a schoolboy insult.
Ravis Shastry did start well, but somewhere along the way some one told him to be scream like a cat that was stamped and use works like, " Timber" for clean bowled and "thats half a dozen for a six hit". It sounds real childish.
Harsha Bogle, i will let you all decide! He is all about himself and his appeareance he has started waering a pathetic wig to look better on TV!
Then came regional commentary.
Tamil commentary somehow discovered that discussing cricket was optional.
Between endless movie references, comedy routines, celebrity gossip, mimicry, political jokes and shouting contests, the actual cricket often became background noise. Every over started sounding less like a sporting event and more like a morning FM radio show that accidentally wandered into a cricket stadium.
Nothing captured this decline better than watching RJ Balaji sitting alongside Kapil Dev.
At one point, Kapil himself appeared to plead with the panel:
"Can we focus on cricket?"
Imagine that.
One of the greatest all-rounders the game has ever produced had to remind a commentary panel that their job was... to talk about cricket.
If Kapil Dev has to ask for cricket to be discussed during a cricket match, we've officially lost the plot.
My own relationship with cricket had already suffered years earlier during the match-fixing scandal.
That episode broke something in me.
Cricket had been my first sporting love. I trusted it. When that trust disappeared, so did a part of my passion.
Friends often encouraged me to give cricket another chance. They reminded me how often I used to call it:
"Cricket... lovely cricket."
So I tried.
I switched on a few matches.
Within minutes, the commentators themselves convinced me that this game was no longer meant for me.
I then thought, "Fine. I'll simply mute the television."
That worked...
...until the cameras kept cutting away to the now-familiar collection of ICC officials sitting in expensive suits in the VIP box.
Even on mute, they somehow managed to remind me why I had walked away.
That was the moment I said,
"Enough is enough. I'm done."
Don't get me wrong.
I still love sports.
Today my weekends belong to the NFL, and right now I am thoroughly enjoying the FIFA World Cup. Football commentators, for the most part, still understand something cricket seems to have forgotten—they are there to serve the game, not themselves.
The players remain the stars.
The match remains the story.
The microphone is simply a guide.
My only hope is that I never have to watch these cricket-style commentary panels—or the parade of self-important administrators—finding their way into a FIFA World Cup final.
If that day ever comes, I may lose another sport I love.
Cricket gave me some of the happiest memories of my childhood. It introduced me to heroes, unforgettable summers, friendships, transistor radios, black-and-white televisions, and voices that became family members every winter.
Every now and then, I go back and listen to Richie Benaud.
Within a few minutes, I'm reminded of what sports commentary once was.
Elegant.
Intelligent.
Humble.
Timeless.
And then I realize...
I don't miss cricket as much as I miss the way cricket used to be.
Oh, Cricket... Lovely Cricket.
How I miss you.
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