Today cricket died a little.
The man that we all love, the man that took cricket from the arthritic fingers of the ICC and turned it into money, the man that made talking on two phones at once an artform, the man is suspended.
Suspended is tying it in a bow and getting a clown to deliver it. One way or another, Lalit is on his way out.
Lalit Modi is the man I have tried to emulate as much as I could. In bizzaro world I am him and he is me. We have an unspoken bond that would make the most lust filled teenagers blush. If you cut him, I bleed.
Right now I am bleeding as various people are following Lalit with Lawyer sharp machetes trying to cut him down for ever.
Behind him is a trail of shredded paper that says things about tax, impropriety, political favours, tweets, lawsuits, spot fixing and all those dirty little secrets that lots of people have suspected. All the good things in life.
Not all of it is his, perhaps none is, but the man has run out of favours, and when you have burnt as many bridges as Lalit has, favours are important.
Like all of the most maverick cricket administracrats, Lalit flew to close to the sun. We know that the average administracrat is a smooth talking, quick minded, angry, slick individual, but Lalit was so much more.
He tweeted. He smoked. He bullied. He improvised. He libeled (allegedly). He was the power, the throne, and the bump you hear in the night. His raw suxual mojo was too much for the stuffy shirt brigade and like Bettie Paige he was held accountable for being whatever every official wanted to be.
Now all we can do is cry while cricket has lost an Armani wearing gladiator, someone who showed us all that in cricket, the pen is mightier than the bat. While others sat around letting cricket just happen, Lalit got in there, replaced some organs, gave it a plastic surgery and bought it a sexy outfit. He was cricket’s prince Charming, nicer than Mr Darcy, more emotional than Edward in twilight, hotter than Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing.
While Lalit was around, nobody put cricket in the corner.
Without Lalit the IPL would have been a terrible waste of money, instead in the Aaron Spelling like hands of Lalit, the IPL is, well whatever the IPL is.
Losing Lalit leaves a whole of despair and isolation in my heart that may never be healed. Sure there will be other slicked back officials coming in and changing the game as we know it, but Lalit was my first. It was he whom I gave myself to, and as I lie here naked all I can think about is the great times we had together. Those whipped cream filled nights will be what I think of every night as my head touches the pillow.
Now that he is to be killed, and his body to be fed to other eager potential commissioners, I think the IPL should honour him from next year on.
Surely as much as some of you hate him, none of you would begrudge the IPL for having a “Lalit moment of success”.
As Elton John said, “Your candle burned out long before the legend ever did”.
Dance hard, my tiny little dancer.