Indian cricketer Rishabh Pant played on to his wicket at 99 in the Test match at Bengaluru against New Zealand. It was a devastating moment for him and the fans, especially after a fabulous display of strokeplay – under pressure – marked by several sixes including one out of the ground off Tim Southee.
The 99 in cricket is an unusual experience in sport at large. A batsman gets out, the crowd is in shock; commentator Ian Smith speaking through the moment at the stadium after the delivery from Will O’Rourke said “thousands become silent”. Pant walked off with a wistful expression borne of familiarity, this was his seventh dismissal in the 90s. But there was also a hint of satisfaction, a glow of wry contentment in a whirl of despair.
Come to think of it, this is all batter’s privilege; bowlers have no access to such moments. There is nothing in cricket that is the equivalent of 99 runs for a bowler – an experience that combines heartbreak and heroism, an event in the game and a slice of time that fortifies the connect between the crowd and a player, and inscribes a memory for good.
A bowler’s life cannot generate a comparable moment. A five-wicket haul is usually rated as equal to a century. Bowlers can bowl great spells and get four wickets but that is not same as a 99 is it? A catch dropped or a good leg before shout turned down when a player is on zero does not provoke as much anguish in a crowd for a bowler, like a batter’s failure at 99 does.
The game does not even have a long established tradition of marking a bowler’s achievement as a spectacle. Batsmen have been raising their bats to applause after reaching hundreds perhaps since the game began, but bowlers raising the ball to the crowd after a five-wicket haul is a more recent custom initiated by Glenn McGrath, according to the writer Gideon Haigh. One surely cannot imagine Imran Khan waving a ball in expectation of affirmation from a crowd. We will remember Sarfaraz Khan’s joyful run and wave after his maiden hundred but it is tough to recall many images of one’s favourite bowlers after reaching milestones as fifers.
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Bowlers depend on swagger, endurance, skill, movement and celebrity to build a fan base in a game designed against them – they have to contend against humungous bats, largely friendly pitches, small fields, unfavourable laws, and a T20 format contrived to relish their slaughter.
Cricket seems a game that builds up legends about bowlers to set up their conquest by batsmen, a feature without which the game wouldn’t survive as a business. And therefore by design or social contrivance – bowlers do not have a 99-like experience dedicated for them, where their toil, nerve and skill impress all and are yet robbed at the cusp of attainment. They don’t get to have a lasting moment of tenderness with the crowd.
Perhaps the way the game is played is responsible for this. Batsmen are at the crease and in the spotlight for two or more sessions if they are going well. Bowlers bowl in spells and are often out of sight. Heck, they bowl only six deliveries at a time and disappear for a bit while another player gets a turn at the other end. In tennis, a player can come back from match point and win, the loser can lose and be much loved all the same because they’ve been in the game all the time. A bowler in cricket does not have the luxury of uninterrupted visibility, an enabling condition for producing empathy in sport.
Batters provide fans the raw thrill of vanquishing a foe who has been set up to fail. That high obscures a view of other elements in the game. It makes it easier to channel one’s emotions through a batsman’s ups and downs rather than relate to the ‘hidden injuries’ of those running in to bowl.
Sushil Aaron writes on politics and foreign affairs. A version of this piece was originally published on his Substack. He posts on X @SushilAaron.
