**The Moral Decline of Modern Cricket: A Fan's Lament**

Cricket—once a game of grace, grit, and glorious uncertainties—is now struggling to hold on to its soul. Once called the gentleman’s game, it was a sport where emotions ran deep, and players were revered not just for their skill, but for their integrity. Legends like Rahul Dravid, Sachin Tendulkar, and MS Dhoni were not only champions on the field, but flag bearers of humility and sportsmanship. But the tides have turned.

In the modern era, cricket is fast becoming a playground for brands rather than for dreams. Franchise leagues, ad deals, and media contracts dominate the conversation more than the spirit of the game itself. The roar of the crowd is being muffled by the sound of jingles. The bat does not speak anymore—it's the brand stickers that do. The sacred white of the jersey has been replaced by cluttered kits overloaded with sponsors, and the national flag is often overshadowed by a team’s commercial logo.

The true tragedy lies in how emotions of Indian cricket fans are being trampled upon. For millions in India, cricket is not just a sport—it’s faith. Every win is celebrated like a festival, every loss mourned like a personal tragedy. And yet, those who wear the blue jersey often walk away with padded paycheques while the fans are left with broken hearts—especially in crunch moments, like world cup finals and major knockouts. How many times have Indians cried in silence, staring blankly at the screen, watching dreams fall apart while the experts and brands move on within minutes?

There was a time when losing a match meant introspection and resolve. Now, it often ends in social media campaigns and brand management. The weight of the tricolor seems to be getting lighter in the hearts of a few, while the burden grows heavier for the fans.

Cricket is still loved, still followed, but not in the same innocent way. The child who once dreamed of becoming the next Tendulkar now dreams of being a trending influencer in a league team. The purity has been diluted. The morals of hard work, patience, discipline, and respect that greats once carried like a torch are being buried under the dust of glamour and money.

Yet, hope flickers. Somewhere in the dusty streets of India, a young boy still plays cricket with a broken bat and a burning passion. It is in these corners that the true spirit of cricket survives—unbought, unsold, and unbeaten.

Let’s not forget what made this game beautiful. It’s not the sixes or the headlines, but the silence before a delivery, the humble raising of a bat after a century, the pride in the national anthem, and the tear in the eye of a fan.

Cricket needs to return to its roots. Not for the sake of the game, but for the millions who still believe in its soul.

 

[Subiksha Anand]

Cricket—once a game of grace, grit, and glorious uncertainties—is now struggling to hold on to its soul. Once called the gentleman’s game, it was a sport where emotions ran deep, and players were revered not just for their skill, but for their integrity. Legends like Rahul Dravid, Sachin Tendulkar, and MS Dhoni were not only champions on the field, but flag bearers of humility and sportsmanship. But the tides have turned.

In the modern era, cricket is fast becoming a playground for brands rather than for dreams. Franchise leagues, ad deals, and media contracts dominate the conversation more than the spirit of the game itself. The roar of the crowd is being muffled by the sound of jingles. The bat does not speak anymore—it's the brand stickers that do. The sacred white of the jersey has been replaced by cluttered kits overloaded with sponsors, and the national flag is often overshadowed by a team’s commercial logo.

The true tragedy lies in how emotions of Indian cricket fans are being trampled upon. For millions in India, cricket is not just a sport—it’s faith. Every win is celebrated like a festival, every loss mourned like a personal tragedy. And yet, those who wear the blue jersey often walk away with padded paycheques while the fans are left with broken hearts—especially in crunch moments, like world cup finals and major knockouts. How many times have Indians cried in silence, staring blankly at the screen, watching dreams fall apart while the experts and brands move on within minutes?

There was a time when losing a match meant introspection and resolve. Now, it often ends in social media campaigns and brand management. The weight of the tricolor seems to be getting lighter in the hearts of a few, while the burden grows heavier for the fans.

Cricket is still loved, still followed, but not in the same innocent way. The child who once dreamed of becoming the next Tendulkar now dreams of being a trending influencer in a league team. The purity has been diluted. The morals of hard work, patience, discipline, and respect that greats once carried like a torch are being buried under the dust of glamour and money.

Yet, hope flickers. Somewhere in the dusty streets of India, a young boy still plays cricket with a broken bat and a burning passion. It is in these corners that the true spirit of cricket survives—unbought, unsold, and unbeaten.

Let’s not forget what made this game beautiful. It’s not the sixes or the headlines, but the silence before a delivery, the humble raising of a bat after a century, the pride in the national anthem, and the tear in the eye of a fan.

Cricket needs to return to its roots. Not for the sake of the game, but for the millions who still believe in its soul.

What a powerful, heartfelt reflection on the current state of cricket—this piece cuts deeper than just commentary; it’s a call to conscience.


Reading this felt like revisiting an old family album—each page rich with memories of Sunday matches, teary eyes during losses, and the unshakeable faith we placed in eleven men wearing blue. Cricket in India has never been “just a sport.” It has been a feeling, a ritual, a collective heartbeat. And yet, somewhere along the way, that sacred rhythm has been interrupted—not by defeat, but by distraction.


You’ve beautifully captured what many fans are silently feeling: that the soul of cricket seems to be slipping through our fingers. Once a game of silent grit, of respect for opponents, and of meaning beyond money, cricket today often feels like a mega-budget production—more lights, more noise, but less heart.


The transition from whites to glitzy, sponsor-laden jerseys is more than symbolic. It mirrors a deeper shift: from pride to promotion. From playing for the country to playing for campaigns. Where once the national anthem brought tears, today brand endorsements bring trends.


But let’s not reduce this issue to blind nostalgia. Yes, evolution is inevitable. Yes, players deserve to be compensated. And yes, leagues like the IPL have brought incredible talent to the surface. But the problem isn’t with change—it’s with what we’ve allowed to change.


What has suffered is the sanctity of representation. When a player dons the national jersey, he is no longer just an athlete—he becomes the embodiment of a billion hopes. So when that jersey becomes a backdrop for marketable personas rather than selfless warriors, the betrayal feels personal. Every heartbreak in a final, every lifeless post-match interview, every quick transition to the next branding shoot—they don’t just disappoint, they disillusion.


You spoke of Rahul Dravid, Sachin Tendulkar, and MS Dhoni—not just for their records, but for their presence. These were players who didn’t chase the limelight. They earned it with silence, sincerity, and substance. Their greatness was as much in their straight drives as it was in the way they carried themselves off the pitch. They made us believe in values, not virality.


And that’s what today’s cricket often misses—not skill, but soul.


But amidst this erosion, I found hope in your closing lines. That broken bat. That dusty street. That child playing under a dying sunset, mimicking his hero’s stance not for social media, but for the pure joy of it—that child is the last torchbearer of the game’s innocence.


So what do we do?


We demand accountability, not just applause. We remind players and boards that representing India is a privilege, not a photoshoot. We support those who play with passion, not just panache. And most importantly, we keep nurturing the game where it truly lives—in our backyards, in our gallis, in our hearts.


Let’s not abandon cricket. Let’s reclaim it. Not from money—but from meaninglessness.


Let the roar of the fans drown the noise of the jingles.


Let the game be played again in silence, in sweat, and in service.


Because cricket, at its best, isn’t about who hits the biggest six.
It’s about who dares to believe.