Vinay Rao
There is a peculiar species that thrives in cricket administration — not outraged by wrongdoing, but deeply offended when wrongdoing happens without including them. Their moral compass doesn’t point north; it points toward access. Access to passes, positions, proximity — and, most importantly, perks.
For years, life inside the Hyderabad Cricket Association (HCA) ecosystem was comfortably predictable. Accreditation cards flowed like festival sweets. Free passes found their way into the right pockets. Seats at matches weren’t earned; they were inherited through familiarity. Lanyards carried more weight than credentials, and somehow, the same names kept appearing wherever there was visibility to be had.
Team tours needed managers — and what a coincidence, the usual faces were always available. Someone had to “serve the game,” after all. Tender committees required members, and again, the same circle of trust ensured decisions stayed within a comfortable ecosystem. Legal battles? Fought with the association’s money, often for outcomes that had little to do with the association itself. No one raised a fuss. Why would they? The system was working — for them.
And then there were the meetings — grand rituals of administrative theatre. Breakfast meetings that stretched into lunch. Lunch meetings that melted into evening sessions. Evenings that, for reasons never quite explained, required cocktails to “arrive at consensus.” Decisions that could have been taken over a phone call somehow demanded five-star settings and elaborate menus. The association paid, of course. It always did.
Resolutions were passed with flourish. Speeches were delivered with conviction. Plates were cleared. Glasses were refilled. Belts were loosened. Everyone went home satisfied. Except the resolutions — those stayed behind, collecting dust like forgotten promises.
Committees were formed but never convened. Anti-corruption units were announced but never seen. Audits were promised but never delivered. Minutes were recorded but never circulated. Time passed, quietly. The silence was not awkward; it was convenient.
After all, when the biryani is excellent, and the cocktails don’t stop flowing, why disturb the arrangement?
Then came the disruption.
The Telangana High Court, having exhausted its patience, stepped in and appointed a retired judge to restore some semblance of order. And suddenly — not because of the years of dysfunction, not because of the unanswered questions, not because of the systemic decay — but because the buffet might finally be closing, the ecosystem woke up.
Overnight, the well-fed discovered their conscience.
Articles began to appear. WhatsApp groups came alive. Statements were issued with dramatic urgency about the “soul of cricket.” The same voices that had remained silent through years of administrative indulgence now spoke with astonishing passion — a passion that, curiously, seemed to coincide with exclusion.
Those who travelled with teams now spoke about accountability. Those who sat on tender committees now demanded transparency. Those who sought positions under the new structure — until those positions didn’t materialise — suddenly raised alarms about external interference.
The timing is remarkable. The memory, unfortunately, is selective.
The operating formula, if one strips away the theatrics, is elegantly simple: when the buffet is open, cricket is “progressing beautifully.” When the buffet shuts, cricket is “in crisis.” Principles, it seems, are best served alongside dessert.
But beneath the noise, some questions remain stubbornly unanswered.
If decisions were taken, why were they never implemented? If the system was broken, why did so many thrive within it? If things were going wrong, why was silence the preferred response for so long? And most importantly, if reform is now the rallying cry, why is every attempt at correction met with resistance instead of cooperation?
The man appointed by the Court did not arrive to settle scores. He arrived because the situation demanded intervention. His presence is not the problem; it is the consequence.
Yet, in all this outrage — over positions, committees, access, influence — there is one figure conspicuously absent from the conversation.
A young cricketer.
He woke up before dawn today. Took a crowded bus across the city. Practised under a harsh sun. Played an innings no selector watched. Bowled spells no statistic recorded. Returned home with hope intact, if not entirely justified.
He is waiting — not for a pass, not for a position, not for a seat at a table — but for a fair chance.
No one mentioned him over breakfast. No one raised his name at lunch. No one remembered him over cocktails. He does not feature in committee discussions or legal arguments. He is, after all, just the reason the association exists.
And that is the uncomfortable truth.
The cards will expire. The travel will end. The committees will dissolve. The cocktails will stop. The positions will rotate.
But that boy will still wake up tomorrow, pick up his kit, and chase a dream that the system has long taken for granted.
It was always supposed to be about him.
Everything else was just the menu.
