Modern batsmen – All cut from the same cloth?

This had been written in December 2011, but never saw the light of day. Its been put up since it would otherwise very likely be lost in the clutter of my gmail.

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Sachin Tendulkar has the second-most recognizable crotch grab in the world. And easily the most recognizable stance and technique to batting. Despite him being the most revered and copied batsman since the beginning of time, his batting stride can be easily recognized by anyone within a distance of 38 light years.

The same cannot be said for any of our next-generation, tweet-happy, tattoo-friendly line of modern batsmen. The likes of Virat Kohli, Cheteshwara Pujara, Manoj Tiwary, Murali Vijay all seem to have stepped off the same assembly line of 21st century batting droids. The tight, textbook technique, the big stride forward and the penchant to play in the traditional V all mark them out as very technically correct batsmen. Discounting the slight tilt to his head and the laidback elegance that comes from innate talent, you could throw Rohit Sharma into the mix as well.

The thought struck us as we watched Virat Kohli and Manoj Tiwary put together a 117 run stand in the final ODI against the West Indies in the recent home series. Without a second glance, it was virtually impossible to distinguish between the two and very easy to mistake one’s strokeplay for the others.

This recent phenomenon is a departure from tradition of sorts for a country like India, where batsmen have been renowned more for their individualistic style than strong technique. Batsmen have been, more often than not, self-modelled, and players as recent as Virender Sehwag, VVS Laxman and even MS Dhoni have techniques not recognized by any coaching manual in the world. Contrast this with a nation like England which has, thanks to its strong club-and-county domestic structure, churned out generations of well-coached, efficient batsmen. It is hard to recall any English batsman, David Gower apart, popular for a flamboyant or distinctive style of batsmanship. Jason de la Pena, in the post-match punditry session on Day 2 of the Melbourne test, could not have been blunter as he pondered whether Virender Sehwag would have ever even been allowed onto the international stage had he been English.

Interestingly, Sanjay Manjrekar broached a similar subject in his latest blog post, ‘In praise of the natural game’, on ESPNcricinfo. His implications were different, but the point made was the same; that modern coaching techniques might possibly be doing the game a disservice by weeding out the little idiosyncrasies that make up a intrinsic part of genius. And he drove it home for good measure by hinting at how much poorer the world would have been had someone corrected Sachin Tendulkar’s grip in his formative years, taught Brian Lara a straight, checked backlift or berated Virender Sehwag for his immobile feet.

Without doubt, the proliferation of coaching techniques is doing wonders for the game at the grassroots level, and standards are bound to be raised consequentially. Whether the touch of genius will be stamped out as a result remains to be seen as the next generation takes over the helms of the sport.

The emergence of the 4-6-0

It was inevitable. Circumstances conspired to finally give the world a first glimpse of a starting XI completely devoid of recognized strikers but it must be said with the current Spanish setup, it has been a long time coming.

Injury had shorn Spain of their sharpest finisher in David Villa, while the reduced stature of Fernando Torres meant the six players best suited to play in front of the back four were all midfielders.

That’s not to say Andres Iniesta and David Silva are not excellent forwards in their own right; but the fact remains that their vision and creativity supersede their finishing skills, making them arguably the best attacking midfielders in the world today.

One might argue that Barcelona have provided the template for this style of play, with the false number nine position (and they have), but their XI does include Lionel Messi and Alexis Sanchez, and on occasion Pedro, all of whom are decidedly forwards despite not playing in the archetypal centre forward position.

The definition of the forward that this system now dictates is essentially a wide player making diagonal runs to latch onto balls that the cerebral midfielders of Xavi’s ilk play through. This blurs the line between a winger, a forward and an attacking midfielder since any of Villa, Sanchez, Pedro, Silva, Iniesta, or even Fabregas, a central midfield player, can, and have, played the role.

Meanwhile, the same game also threw up an interesting and unexpected tactical change from the other side. Italy played a 3-5-2 formation that is almost unheard of in the modern game. Only Napoli has used it consistently to any degree of success in recent memory at the top level.

It worked against the likes of Spain since the Iberians lacked natural width down the flanks and hence the Italians could hold them at bay with stout defending in the middle of the park. One suspects that it may meet limited success, say in the Premier league, where out-and-out wingers like Bale or Valencia could make merry.

I am Jack’s complete lack of surprise.

I slept at 5:30 am yesterday. I was watching Fight Club. For the 62^nd time. That’s why I’m writing in Edward Norton’s dull, flat, monotonous voice. You could try reading this in that voice. You’d find it suits this perfectly.

Tyler Durden asks us to let the chips fall where they may. I applaud. Awesome dialogue, I say. And then I put up a poster of him on my wall. Committing the same lifestyle blunder Tyler asks us to avoid.

I have some sort of reverse-insomnia. I sleep like a baby for up to 10 hours, impossible to wake. It’s beautiful. It sucks. It takes time away from everything I want to do and have to do. This comes in phases for me, so I know it will pass. Until then, my mobile will just have to endure screaming the alarm, unheard, unheeded, as I snore on, blissfully unaware.

I woke up at 2 pm. Right now I should be in Philosophy class. The most interesting class this semester. But I’m not. I skipped it. I don’t know why.

I don’t know why I’m writing this.

I am Jack's complete lack of surprise.