In 2003, my world was measured on laser-printed A4 sheets. I remember the smell of fresh ink and the static on paper as I cycled through my neighborhood, slipping the ICC World Cup schedule into my friends’ mailboxes like a secret scout. We were not interested in the central revenue of the International Criminal Court or the diplomatic standoff in the subcontinent. What mattered to us was whether Sachin could handle Shoaib’s pace and whether the underdog Kenyans could actually pull off a miracle. Fast forward to 2008: the dawn of the IPL. I remember my parents’ frantic pleas to upgrade our DTH box because the free-to-air channels weren’t enough. We were desperate for every ball, every boundary. Back then, cricket felt like an inheritance – a pure, unadulterated joy that belonged to us, the fans.
Looking back, the desperation seems innocent, almost romantic. Cricket tournaments weren’t events you just watched – they were things you prepared for. You were counting the days. You argued about squads before they were announced. You’ve been imagining head-to-head matches long before the ball was rolled. Excitement was experienced not only in the games themselves, but also in the waiting.
Somewhere along the way, that feeling changed.
Like The T20 World Cup begins on Saturdaywith twenty teams lined up across continents, cultures and cricketing history, it should be one of those moments again – a global festival, raucous and unpredictable, full of stories yet to be told. Instead, the air surrounding this tournament is heavier than it should be. The conversations leading up to it weren’t about young players chasing impossible dreams or teams daring to believe for the first time. They were about who wasn’t playing with whom, who didn’t travel, who pulled out and why.
Cricket, once so good at uniting rooms full of strangers, now finds itself trapped in headlines it never wanted.
I think about how the tournaments used to come. The World Cup didn’t knock politely – it invaded everyday life. School schedules were adjusted around the matches. Families negotiated access to television as if it were a diplomatic summit. Neighbors who barely spoke to each other suddenly shared opinions on opening combinations and death bowling. Cricket had that power. It did not ask permission; it required attention.
TOO MUCH OUTDOOR NOISE?
Today the ICC tournaments arrive and are preceded by press releases, clarifications, rebuttals and political footnotes. Long before the first over, the narrative is already cluttered – not with cricketing possibilities, but with administrative explanations. It’s hard to build anticipation when the loudest voices are off the field.
The dominant storyline was Pakistan threatens boycott their match against India, Bangladesh’s withdrawal and the familiar geopolitical fog that seems to settle over cricket every time a global event approaches. It’s exhausting in its predictability. We’ve been here before. In fact, we barely left.
The shine didn’t just fade; it has been worn down by the relentless cycle of off-field considerations that increasingly define the sport’s greatest moments. This reality could not be ignored during the 2023 World Cup in India, when the focus shifted uncomfortably off the pitch.
The pattern continued with Champions Trophy 2025 and the creation of what came to be known as the “hybrid model” – a solution shaped less by sports logic and more by geopolitical reality. With India unable to travel to Pakistan and the ICC deciding to keep the tournament intact, the matches were split between the countries. The arrangement ensured that cricket continued, but at a cost. The host nation was deprived of the traditional arch of the home tournament, including the symbolic right to host the final on home soil. What was gained in compromise was lost in atmosphere, leaving the competition fragmented despite the quality of cricket on offer. The handshake row marred the Asia Cup last year.
Already simmering tensions came to the fore during the 2025 Asian Cup in an episode dubbed Handshake-gate. After a high-pressure match in Dubai, habit the post-match exchange between India and Pakistan did not take place, with the Indian players expressing solidarity with the victims of the Pahalgam terror attacks. The image of one team leaving the pitch while the other was briefly stranded became a talking point far beyond the boundary rope. It was an uncomfortable moment – not because it stemmed from personal animosity, but because it reflected how external reality can interfere with even the most enduring of cricketing rituals. When geopolitics seep into the smallest gestures, long-held ideals of civility and shared respect are inevitably tested.
Even the players themselves weren’t always insulated from this attitude, and it was disappointing to see moments provocations in the field by members of the Pakistani partyespecially in a climate where the situation was sensitive following terrorist attacks that claimed lives across borders.
The symbolism lingered long after the final whistle. When Mohsin Naqvi, Pakistan’s interior minister and head of the Pakistan Cricket Board, left with the Asian Cup trophy at night, became another image charged with significance beyond cricket. What should have been a straight-forward celebration of the continental tournament instead carried echoes of everything that surrounded it – strained relationships, heightened sensitivities and a sense that administrators would inherit far more responsibility than the sport itself.
THE STORIES WE DON’T HEAR
Wayne Madsen and JJ Smuts will be key for the debutants in Italy (Getty Images)
The tragedy of this circus is that it stifles the most beautiful stories that the 20-team expansion was meant to tell. As debate rages over hybrid models and safety protocols, Italy prepares to make its World Cup debut in a matter of days.
The Azzurri are a portrait of the modern game. Led by Wayne Madsen, their team is tight migration and opportunity – players like Crishan Kalugamage, who moved from Sri Lanka to Tuscany at sixteen, and Jaspreet Singh, the pacer born in Phagwara, Punjab, who now spearheads Rome’s cricketing dreams. This so-called Italian miracle is not created in academies, but in everyday life: migrants, pizza makers, school teachers who earn time to represent the country they have chosen as home.
These are the stories that should define the World Cup. Likewise, Nepal’s live comeback or the arrival of the United States should be eager to prove that their gigantic murderous acts of 2024 were not a one-off. Instead, such narratives are reduced to footnotes buried under headlines about retaliatory boycotts and security claims.
And it’s not just newcomers who are proving something. Even established powers come here with unresolved questions. India enter as the defending championsbut in transition – with no long-term mainstays of the format and led by a younger, fearless group aiming to achieve something no team has managed to do: defend the T20 World Cup crown on home soil.
Sensing the sport’s center of gravity shifting, Australia and England are equally determined to show that experience, tactical clarity and temperament in the big game still count.
South Africa and New Zealand once again inhabit familiar territory, labeled as dark horses but quietly dangerous. For the Proteas, the memory of the 2024 final still lingers, prompting a search for redemption. Anchored by calm leadership and adaptability, the Black Caps remain the side nobody wants to face as tournaments tighten and margins shrink.
And amidst all the noise, Pakistan arrives with both anticipation and defiance – former champions looking to let their cricket do the talking, relying on arcane spin and adaptability to navigate conditions designed to test patience and skill.
It’s all there: ambition, history, fragile hope. The World Cup overflows with meaning – only if we allow ourselves to look beyond the distracting elements.
As the 20 nations approach their host cities – from the electric hum of the Wankhede in Mumbai and the weathered grandeur of the Eden Gardens in Kolkata to the lush serenity of Pallekele in Kandy – the World Cup unfolds as a journey through places that have long served as the heart of cricket.
CAN CRICKET FIND US AGAIN?
I think of the kid I was, handing out printed schedules as if they were sacred – all I cared about was cricket, nothing else.
Today’s kids deserve it too.
They deserve to grow up associating the World Cup with excitement, not abdication. With anticipation, not anxiety. With cricketing heroes, not diplomatic statements.
As cricket prepares for its return to the Olympics in 2028, we are currently showing the world the exact opposite of the Olympic ideal. The Games are built on the premise that the world will put aside its grievances for two weeks to compete. Cricket, on the other hand, drags its grievances onto the field and lets them dictate the bowling.
And yet, despite everything, hope still creeps in. That’s always the case with this game.
Because once the first ball is bowled, cricket has a habit of reclaiming space. T20 cricket in particular does not wait for permission. It moves fast. Disrupts plans. It creates chaos. No-name dough can unfold a giant in 20 minutes. A team written off before the tournament can suddenly find itself in the spotlight.
This World Cup will have problems. This is always true. There will be moments that remind us why we fell in love with the sport in the first place – the magic of the unthreatened strike, the last-round collapse, the catch that silences the stadium. Strong teams will rise further as quality eventually takes hold, but they will be tested as they go.
And maybe, just maybe, the cricket will get loud enough to drown out everything else.
It is to be hoped that future tournaments will not begin with withdrawals and boycotts. That teams won’t be missing due to issues that have little to do with the game. That India and Pakistan, two nations whose cricketing rivalry once defined eras, will meet again where they belong – on the field, not in statements.
As cricket nears its return to the Olympics, it is ironic that the sport is trying to unite in its own backyard. But maybe this World Cup could be a reminder. Reset. The ability to let the game breathe again.
And somewhere, if we’re lucky, there’s a kid printing out the schedule, counting the days, and believing that the tournament can still look like magic.
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– The end
Issued by:
Akshay Ramesh
Published on:
February 7, 2026