Obscured by Clouds

The thin line between music and noise is actually quite thick

The skies were steel grey as I stepped out from the Chepauk train station for the first day of India's Test match against Bangladesh. Chennai had been a preheated oven for the past week, but decided to play nice for the start of India’s cricket season. A gentle inward breeze from the Bay of Bengal kept the skin cool.

Bangladesh bowled first, bowled well, and soon had India reeling at 34-3. Chepauk, however, was breathing easy. It was too early in the day to nudge nonchalance into anxiety. We shuffled merrily between Kohli and coffee as the Indian batters struggled against the hooping ball. Suresh, sitting next to me, told me about his YouTube channel where he streams cricket content every day. Bala was sitting behind, fuming at the Tamil Nadu Cricket Association for not releasing day-wise tickets until the morning of the game. He had come with his father - a massive Virat Kohli fan who was contemplating going back home now that his favourite was out.

During a rare moment of lull, someone sitting a couple of seats to the right said, “I’m just glad I don’t have to hear the commentary, da,” sparkling chuckles all around us.

The quip was timely. Just a moment ago, we had been discussing Nahid Rana’s pace and Hasan Mahmud's accuracy with nodding heads and approving baritones. The change in topic brought a surge of energy and a lot of pent-up frustration. Names were discussed and tagged with uncharitable opinions. As we debated our dream commentary team - Nasser Hussain, Michael Atherton, Ian Bishop, and Isa Guha emerged as crowd favourites - it was clear that we would take anything but the regular fare.

For what is a detachable appendage to the experience of sport, commentary evokes curiously strong opinions. We’d like to go about our day without having to hear Murali Kartik wax eloquent about Ben Stokes’ forward defence even as the English batter fails to pick any of Kuldeep Yadav's first dozen deliveries. But then, in real-time, Kartik and his kind are our only bridge to the action. I am hoping that a former Test cricketer - and a decent one at that - would be able to educate us about the parts of Stokes’ body orientation and technique that are failing against Kuldeep. Instead, we are waterboarded with cliches, platitudes, and truisms.

I have written about commentary before, but that was more a lament - fine, rant - about a poignant moment ruined by poor commentators. The conversation about good and bad commentary has more layers.

Let's get some non-negotiables of commentary out of the way. Starting with the most important bit - knowledge of the topic. With ex-players taking up about 90% - conservative estimate - of all commentary boxes across sports, know-how is covered. A defender who played 300 games for Liverpool Football Club may be limited in some ways with the mic, but he definitely knows football. In fact, anyone with any experience at the elite level has a substantially greater knowledge of their sport than most of us viewers. That’s the safety net broadcasting companies go for when they hire ex-pros en masse.

Secondly, a good commentator should have a hold on their language. I think this too is well taken care of. On world feeds or regional language streams, you will find commentators to be extremely easy on the ears. Some like to quote Jack Kerouac, others have a booming voice that they ignite frequently to yell the current superstar’s name, but they are all comfortable speakers.

Are they all as comfortable with the mechanics of the spoken word, though? Are they as crafty with tone, rhythm, and the effect of a word as they once were with a red ball in their hands? Different question.

Before dissecting the stylistic elements of modern commentary, it’s worth taking a tiny diversion through history. The elements of style have changed with time.

Sports commentary was conceived for the radio. Commentators had to help the listener at home get closer to the game by painting a picture. Every small action needed narration, every dramatic incident needed a suitable reconstruction.

Television flipped the colour palette. The verbose narrations gave way to a form of storytelling that was, at least in theory, meant to complement rather than relay the visuals.

The first ever live broadcast of a football game happened as far back as 1937, when the BBC put cameras and antennae at Arsenal’s game against their reserve team.

Nearly ninety years later, we haven’t moved much. On Thursday, in an Indian Super League game between Bengaluru FC and Hyderabad FC, Rahul Bheke opened the scoring in the 5th minute. It took the commentators 30 seconds and 69 words to go beyond Bheke’s name, his position as Bengaluru’s captain, and the scoreline of 1-0. It was as if they were being paid by the word, each a valuable commodity not to be wasted on analysis or insight.

Just because television allowed brevity does not mean all of us believe in the economy of words. You will be surprised by the number of willing customers for this BDSM experience of hearing too many things at the same time and not really getting anything out of it.

Devotional music is the chart-topper amongst broadcasters and fans.

I mean, of course. Tell me more about why Virat Kohli’s beard vectors are the sign of someone in complete control of their game and stardom. I don’t care if he has just gotten out to a nothing delivery, playing a shot that a 15-year-old would be scolded for.

Pick up any memorable commentary from the last many years and you will find expert commentators, with decades of experience, ditching the context of the game and singing their hearts out to the great Olympian who has just conquered Everest. Kohli, Dhoni, Messi, Federer, LeBron - it’s the same script everywhere.

Contrast this with Richie Benaud in 1995, calling Shane Warne's over to Daryll Cullinan. I know three decades have passed, but humour me. In that over, Shane Warne first set up Daryl Cullinan with two loopy short balls, and then knocked back his stumps with a flatter and quicker delivery, showing dexterity and cunning as if he was a puppeteer controlling the ball on a string.

Benaud noted Warne's short ball dummy before clinically analysing the execution of the killer blow. In those ninety seconds, he gave Warne no more than a “beautifully bowled, very well done”. It is a masterclass in broadcasting, letting the visuals speak for themselves while providing just enough context to enhance the viewer's understanding of the moment.

There is a place and time for hype, of course. One of the most famous pieces of commentary of all time, one that is in every book and movie that remotely touches its subject, goes thus: “Maradona has the ball, two mark him, he touches the ball. The genius of world football dashes to the right and leaves the third and is going to pass to Burruchaga. It’s still Maradona! Genius! Genius! Genius! Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta. Gooooooooooal! Gooooooooooal! I want to cry! Dear God! Long live football! Gooooooooooal! Diegoal! Maradona! It’s enough to make you cry, forgive me. Maradona, in an unforgettable run, in the play of all time. Cosmic kite! What planet are you from? Leaving in your wake so many Englishmen, so that the whole country is a clenched fist shouting for Argentina? Argentina 2, England 0. Diegoal, Diegoal, Diego Armando Maradona. Thank you, God, for football, for Maradona, for these tears, for this, Argentina 2, England 0.”

This is an English translation of Victor Hugo Morales’ commentary for Radio Argentina, as Diego Maradona dribbled past half the England defence and scored his second goal of the 1986 World Cup quarter-final.

It is a remarkable piece. Translate that into the written word, or hear it as an accompaniment to the visuals, and it still pops out at you.

You can feel the soaring tone of Morales’ voice, starting with excitement as Maradona gets the ball, going to mild loudness as he dribbles past a couple of players, and peaking with utter hysteria as he places the ball into Peter Shilton's net.

Does it follow Benaud’s commandments? Not even closely. But, doesn't a moment of this significance, this much drama, deserve a similar tone in narration? Wouldn't the listeners at home have felt the same emotions as Morales? “Clenched fist, shouting for Argentina,” four years after the Falklands War? Come on!

Many years and World Cups later, Victor Morales was asked about his memories of that seismic afternoon in Mexico City. He admitted to long being ashamed of his commentary's excessiveness, struggling to hear the recording. He was a writer, after all. The lapse in control of his emotions made him cringe. Morales has since come to peace with the passage, accepting his contribution to football folklore. But he wishes he did it better.

Commentary may have been designed as spoken reportage - an objective, unbiased job - but commentators are humans too. They can be fans, and from time to time, their emotions will bubble up. It’s the frequent frothing over that I find just a bit, how does one say this without being rude, unpalatable.

Fast forward to the 2024 Paris Olympics, and the Indian men's hockey team's quarterfinal against Great Britain. As Rajkumar Pal scored the winning goal in the penalty shoot-out, commentator Sunil Taneja screamed, “BHARAT SEMI-FINAL JAA RAHA HAI!” He repeated it two more times, his voice cracking more with every word.

The footage from that penalty shoot-out is undeniably gripping, but for me, it’s even more powerful on mute. Without Taneja’s overwrought commentary, the visuals speak loudest: the tension on the players’ faces, the agility of PR Sreejesh as he flings himself across the goal to keep India ahead, and then the jubilation when the Pal’s shot hits the net. The images alone are enough to tell the story, to convey the weight of the moment.

Of course, not everyone agrees. Taneja’s outpour captured the mood of millions of Indian fans watching at home. He has become a minor celebrity post the Olympics, appearing on podcasts and talk shows.

I’m not a metalhead, neither do I seek out videos of car engines roaring in full volume, so the personal preference for a softer decibel level kicks in quite strongly in such situations.

For balance between drama and insight, I often go to Formula One commentary. Listen to David Croft call the first lap of a race and you will feel your heart-rate spike with the timbre of his voice. And once the race settles, he turns into a speaking dashboard on car mechanics and race strategy, while keeping us in sight of the larger goals for every driver and team. Even as the commentary is constant - part of the gig for such a dramatic sport - it never feels hyperbolic.

On day two of the Chepauk Test, Jasprit Bumrah sent back Bangladesh’s opener Shadman Islam in the first over of the innings. Expecting an away-going delivery after five similarly-angled aperitifs, Shadman left the sixth ball, only to find, a bit too late, that Bumrah had angled this one inwards. The stumps were knocked back; Bangladesh were one down.

Dinesh Karthik, on commentary, spent about five minutes deconstructing Shadman's dismissal. Karthik spoke about Shadman’s stance, his reaction to Bumrah’s release, a jump on the crease, and how such things can destabilise any batter.

Bumrah is a remarkable bowler, worth stopping everything you're doing just to watch him. It would’ve been easy to get lost in the sheer audacity and brilliance of his skill. In that moment, if Karthik went on a minor tangent about Bumrah’s importance to the Indian team and how is a gem carved by his own skill and ambition, the footage would’ve been cut into a short video and posted on Instagram. I am glad he resisted the temptation and told me more about an international batter’s quirks that I had no way of knowing.

The live mic is a tough medium, far more unforgiving than the pen. There are no backspaces, no editorial opportunities. You only get so many seconds to put your thoughts across before the next thing happens. Unlike the written word, where a writer sets the pace and rhythm, a commentator has to keep up with the pace set by the visuals. Boxed into this pressure-cooker environment, commentators make their own stylistic choices.

Good commentary, for the most part, is a matter of taste. In fact, there is no such thing as the perfect commentator. It comes down to whatever improves your experience of the event. You might prefer an endless rainbow of Navjot Singh Sidhu’s idioms over Mike Atherton’s surgeonesque analysis of a back-foot punch, and that’s cool. I prefer Seinfeld over The Wire, and I’d be damned if you came at me with YouTube dissertations on why The Wire is a masterpiece in writing.

There is such a thing as a good story, though. I don’t think broadcasting companies fully realise the potential of a good commentary crew in democratising sport. Sport shouldn’t be niche. Like recommending a good song or a movie, it should be as simple for me to ask a friend to watch Bengaluru FC play Hyderabad FC on a Thursday evening. But for that, I would need the background score to work. On most days, I get a Bollywood item number. And a Bollywood item number composed by Hans Zimmer is still, shockingly, a Bollywood item number.