It’s been a strange spectacle, isn’t it?
Eleven men in blue who carry the hopes of a billion people on their shoulders, but when they walk the field in the Asian Cup, their behaviour reeks not of victors, but sulking losers. The scoreboard may tell us we’ve won, but the body language, the childish acts, the childish tantrums—tell a very different story.
A winning team doesn’t just win matches; they win respect. Remember cricket being called a “gentleman’s game”? Well, somewhere between the immature on field charades and the shoulder nudges, we seem to have misplaced the gentleman.
And then came the ultimate act of petulance—our players refusing to go up and receive the trophy because the chairman was from Pakistan.
If we were feeling so wretched about facing a Pakistani, then why on earth did we play? After all, whether it’s a game of cricket, a hand of cards, or even gilly-danda in the bylanes, only friends play together.
The very act of agreeing to play should’ve meant we were the bigger people.
Instead, what do we do? We behave like children in a playground fight: “I’ll play with you, but I won’t smile, I won’t shake hands, and I won’t take the trophy if you hand it over.” And the world, other than we Indians, watches in amused disbelief. “These,” they say, “are supposed to be winners?”
Now, let’s talk maturity. When we claim we’ve already “won the war” against Pakistan, isn’t that precisely the reason to behave with the quiet disdain of victors? The English, after defeating the Germans in World War II, didn’t keep heckling every German tourist who came to London. They raised their noses with aristocratic poise, poured themselves another cup of Earl Grey, and let the world know—without saying a word—who the winners were.
But us? We prance about like cartoons, flexing our muscles at anyone who will look. And in doing so, we don’t look strong.
We look insecure.
The tragedy is, the world isn’t blind. They see the same petulant antics. The refusal to accept a trophy with grace. And slowly, they start to treat us with the same scorn we dish out. That’s the cruel irony: in trying to show how much we’ve won, we end up looking like those who’ve lost.
Winners don’t need to shout. They don’t need to sulk. They stand tall, smile graciously, and let the scoreboard and the trophy do the talking. Losers, even with medals around their necks, leave people shaking their heads and muttering, “Grow up.”
So, here’s a thought: Grow up, India. Play your cricket like winners. Walk off the field like winners. Receive your trophy like winners. Because the truth is, if we don’t behave like champions, the world will soon start wondering if we are champions at all.
And that, my dear reader, would be the greatest loss of all…!
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