The thing about Pakistan is that great cricketers can be found anywhere, you just have to have an eye. Their former players don't have any airs about them. So if you haven't seen them before, there is a chance you may not know that roaming amongst us, chatting, looking after things, are some of the interesting characters of the game. One such player is Rashid Khan - the original wrong-foot bowler from Asia. He actually bowled off the wrong foot, as opposed to Sohail Tanvir, who gives an optical illusion to that effect. Rashid got Viv Richards out for a duck in his debut ODI, and puts it down to being wrong-footed. That should be incentive enough for a host of youngsters to put their wrong foot out.

What was Rashid's incentive, though? "Nothing, I never realised for a long time. I used to think my action was very good.

"And in those days, around 1976, very few matches were shown on TV. When I went to watch a match between Pakistan and Australia, we saw Max Walker bowl. A friend of mine said, 'Your action is just like Walker's'. I said, 'No chance. My action can't be like his.'
"But when I went back and saw the highlights of the match in news, I realised for the first time I actually bowled off the wrong foot."

After one sentence of resistance to talk about "pre-historic" things, he realises he is holding back a story that is a kid's favourite. And then he narrates it in detail. "I wouldn't even have played that match against Australia in Hyderabad. Imran Khan had just come back from England, and hadn't acclimatised enough to be playing this match. So I was called up at the last moment. And I flew from Karachi to Hyderabad. I had never done that before.

"After Australia had got a good start chasing 230, we had pulled things back with three quick wickets. Then I got Allan Border's wicket, which wasn't a part of the hat-trick. In the evening, Hyderabad starts getting a similar breeze as Karachi, and that helped my swing. In my seventh over, Rodney Marsh went for a big drive and missed my natural out-swinger that came into him and bowled him.

"In the Karachi Test later that year, Imran was on a hat-trick, and the batsman coming out to face the hat-trick ball was Dilip Doshi. Now Imran had taken him out first ball for the last two-three times, and as recently as in the first innings of the same match. He was very confident and was ready to bet he would take the hat-trick. We were so scared he would do it that none of us took the bet. But Doshi managed to survive three balls.

"Coming back to my hat-trick, I bowled a big in-swinger to Geoff Lawson, who is also Pakistan's coach now, and it somehow found the slightest gap between his pad and bat. We realised only the next morning that it was the first hat-trick in ODI cricket."

A coincidence it is that Lawson was the last victim in his hat-trick, and Jalal-ud-Din till not long ago was the only Level 3 qualified coach in Pakistan. He runs his own cricket academy now, which runs in co-operation with the PCB, and works at developing both home-grown coaches and young talent for Pakistan. Shahid Afirdi has associated with them to popularize one of the coaching programmes. Mohammad Sami, Hasan Raza and Fawad Alam are some of the famous players to have come out of his academy. "But it is not just the immediate results that we are looking at," he says. "We have been working scientifically, have taken help from outside Pakistan whenever we need, and have looked to develop cricketers from grass-root level."

As he explains what all he looks for in a young pace bowler – natural pace, fitness and build, action and alignment, and attitude in that order – it starts becoming easier for someone who has not seen him bowl to believe he was a pace bowler and took the first hat-trick in ODI cricket.

Suresh Saraiya's voice, for a long time, had been the link between the Indian fans and their cricket. With Saraiya here in Karachi for a commentary stint, one finally got to add a face to the voice. He is what your typical commentator would be: not short of an analogy, or a story to go with it. He has a storyteller's voice, and a storyteller's eyes, which gleam anew every time he starts a new story.

On the silver jubilee of India's World Cup success, he has an interesting tale to tell of the days India, in one-day cricket, were respected as much as Bangladesh or Hong Kong are today. "As you can see Hong Kong here hanging in [they had at a point reduced Pakistan to 161 for 7], trying to justify their place here, but nobody takes them really seriously. India were much the same before the 1983 success.

"And we ourselves never took the one-day game seriously. Nineteen eighty-three just happened. Even AIR didn't consider it worth sending a commentary team to England. We were supposed to go, but just before the tournament we were told we were not going."

"I said on air, 'Bedi has dropped Lloyd when he went for a return catch and hurt his…' and then I stopped. I said the same thing again and stopped. I was growing conscious of holding the listeners up, but I didn't know then what the little finger was called. In Gujarati schools, they
don't teach you the human anatomy beyond eyes, ears and nose. I asked Ravi for help, showing him my little finger.

"Ravi said, 'Okay you go, I will handle it.' How could I tell him that I wanted to know what you called it, and that I didn't want to relieve myself? In the end I said, 'Bedi has dropped Lloyd when he went for a return catch and hurt the smallest of the four fingers on his left hand.'"

Saraiya remembers vividly when he made his debut in 1965; he had Vijay Merchant and Dicky Rutnagur for company then. "It was like bowling your first over on debut to Sachin Tendulkar and Sourav Ganguly." Manjrekar and he went back a long way. "There was a Shetty restaurant, 'Alankar', near Merchant's office in Bombay. They had a blackboard for the daily menu, but when a Test match would be on I would go and listen to the commentary, maintain updated scores along with my own comments. Manjrekar liked what I wrote, and my remuneration would be one plain dosa and one filter coffee for the day's work."

Commentary, for him, is like playing cricket: you need to know the game inside out, and you need to have the right technique, which is a good voice, clear thoughts, and the play of phrase. Saraiya must have had all that, one can tell that – because when he tells a story he generally has your attention, and doesn't leave you disappointed by the end of it.

Tickets can't be booked from Bangalore. Find journalist contacts in India. Find journalist contacts in Pakistan. Unresponsive Ministry of Interior. Be told how difficult it was for Pakistan journalists to get Indian visa for the tour last year. Early-morning flight to Delhi. Pakistan Embassy. 9am. Visa agent on the way. Press Secretary. Reception outside Pakistan Embassy. Window No. 5. Queue. Question the visa concept.

9.30am. Visa agent still on the way. Overhear at reception of Embassy, "Janab we have been sitting outside since 4am, and there is not even water here." Damn the visa concept.

Call Pakistan International Airlines (PIA). There is enough time to either make the booking or reach the airport. Indira Gandhi International Airport. A locked PIA office. A flight can either be taken in 90 minutes or after 48 hours. At the airport gate without a ticket. Call PIA again. Helpful lady answers. But passport has been forgotten in the cab. Call the driver. Get the passport back. Good man. Ticket at last. Sleep on boarding. In-flight lunch. In-flight information. A Delhi-to-Karachi map. A "disputed territory" just under Himalayas. Jinnah International Airport. Posh. Call a colleague. Go over to the National Stadium. Realise, for the first time in three days, it's cricket I’m are here for. Drive around Karachi with a colleague. Forget the pains of the visa concept.

Today, however, was different. The final didn’t require a reserve day so I had some time to loaf around the city and, after a late morning, head off in the opposite direction from the stadium. There are four modes of public transport – buses, cabs, auto-rickshaws (aka CNG) and cycle rickshaws, whose peddlers have no regard for which side of the road they are riding on, or where they are crossing. Their attitude seems to be, “you hit me and my family will come after you.” There is a fifth mode of transport too, an intermediate form or motorised cycle-rickshaw which is covered like an auto and it was one such contraption that we, another journalist and I, got into.

From languages as diverse as Bosnian and Arabic, countless Bollywood titles, old English classics, the latest Hollywood releases and music concerts, you were spoilt for choice. One of the shopkeepers said that when the Australians were here in 2006, the market had to be closed to the public for security reasons while some players spent a couple of hours and left with 600 DVDs. Determined to think of titles that they might not have, I was surprised to find that the “How I met Your Mother” television series was nowhere to be found. When I asked for “Green Street Hooligans”, he said with a smile that he had only the original and it wasn’t with him at the moment.

Our next destination was a cricket academy where a team was practicing on a centre wicket. The field was so small that even a child could hit the ball over the walls onto the square boundary. The cost for such an offence, however, is your wicket and the offender has to run twenty laps around the field.

I’ve always wondered why kids in Pakistan and Bangladesh play galli cricket with a tape ball while in India, we only use a normal tennis ball or a rubber ball. The taped ball zips through the air faster, swings more than anything else I’ve played with in India, and if you’re good enough to connect, the ball travels faster off the bat than a normal tennis ball. The art of taping the ball with electric tape looks easy but to get an even covering needs deft hands and experience. Mithun, a batsman at the academy, did it in seconds.

While we were sitting around discussing the final between India and Pakistan, Nadir Shah, one of the umpires in the match, strolled into the ground. In the middle of an extremely entertaining conversation, I tried to sneak in a few umpiring-related questions. What was the logic of a leg bye? Why should the batting team be rewarded when the batsman fails to make contact with the ball? I haven’t received a satisfactory explanation before and I didn’t get one here either.

A day after a comprehensive victory over Pakistan on Tuesday, the majority of the Indian team chose to relax at the team hotel. Only six squad members – Yusuf Pathan, Robin Uthappa, RP Singh, Ishant Sharma, Pragyan Ohja and Manpreet Gony – turned up at the Shere Bangla Stadium along with the support staff.

Uthappa, who was benched against Pakistan, and Yusuf, who made just 3 on debut, batted for a considerable time in the nets. Towards the end of Yusuf’s stint, Prasad set an imaginary field and laid down the equation: ten runs off eight balls. Yusuf pushed the first towards the off side, missed the second from Ishant and played the third back towards Gony. He failed to connect with a few more and it came down to eight off two balls.

Yusuf then drove Robin Singh hard towards cover. Prasad, the stand-in umpire, shouted four but reduced it to two after Robin protested. With six needed off one ball, Yusuf struck Ishant flat and hard towards cover but with no elevation to clear the boundary.

Over at another net, Gony practiced catching off his own bowling. He would run in and deliver a ball towards Prasad, who had a bat and another ball in his hand. He would let Gony’s deliveries go through to mental conditioner Paddy Upton, who was keeping wicket with a baseball mitt.

The moment the ball passed Prasad, he would hit the one in his hand towards Gony, who’d attempt to take the catch. He took several sharp ones during the session but then again he was expecting every ball to come back at him. The key will be to carry that expectation into every delivery he bowls in a match.

After the bowlers had also had their batting practice, Upton put on pads, gloves and grabbed a bat. However, instead of heading into the net he jogged out of the gate and returned dressed as a riot policeman. He was wearing a thick protective jacket - I’m not sure whether it was bulletproof - and a motorcycle crash helmet. Now unafraid of bodily injury, and to the amusement of several watchers, Upton played three deliveries off the middle of his bat.

One person wasn’t amused though. The security guard, presumably whose jacket Upton had borrowed, was urging the cameramen not to shoot - he feared he would get into trouble for lending his jacket for such a purpose.

The Indian team landed in Dhaka early this morning and were greeted by dark skies and the omnipresent chance of rain. Not that it made a difference, as their practice session was at the indoor facility at the Shere Bangla National Stadium (SBNS).

They were scheduled to leave the hotel at 2.00 pm and with the start of the tournament opener between Pakistan and Bangladesh being delayed due to intermittent showers, some of the journalists trekked along the outer circumference of the stadium to watch them practice.

The indoor facility had three practice pitches, with a surface that resembled a hard court used for tennis. The area was as wide as a tennis court, but longer, and into this space trooped 14 squad members plus the support staff while we watched from a viewing area on the first floor – too many journalists and cameramen in too little space.

The players warmed up with short runs along the length of the pitches before disbanding into three groups. One bunch did reflex catching along with Gary Kirsten in one net. Robin Singh conducted pick and throw sessions in another, while Venkatesh Prasad and Paddy Upton tested both catching and direct-hit skills in the third. After the players had done a bit of each, Kirsten indicated it was time to pad up. “Let’s get into 50-over batting mode boys,” he called.

While the Indians practised inside, fans streamed into the SBNS with the weather beginning to clear and we could gauge what was going on as frequent roars accompanied the removal of a cover. The loudest cheer came at around 4.30 pm, an indication that Bangladesh had won the toss.

It was time to head back and we walked to the media centre unhindered through the inside of the ground, keeping just outside the boundary rope, something inconceivable in Indian stadiums with an international match about to get underway in less than 20 minutes.

The pilot’s announcement that we would be landing in Dhaka shortly woke me up. Peering out of the window to catch an aerial view of the city, the element that dominated the landscape was water. The skies were grey and heavy and the numerous water-logged areas were impossible to miss.

It was raining when we stepped out of the plane. There had been regular showers over the last week and a weather website says “chance of precipitation is 100%” for three of the next five days, while it’s above 50% for the other two. Unlike New Delhi, where unseasonal rains have eased a scorching summer, the weather in Dhaka should surprise no one: it’s the beginning of the monsoon and one wonders why a cricket tournament was scheduled at such a time.

“Do you think we’ll have even one game?” asked a journalist after alighting. “No, we’re on holiday,” replied another.

There is a brighter side, though, and it is the drainage facility at the Shere Bangla National Stadium in Mirpur. There was plenty of rain ahead of a practice game on June 3 but the Bangladesh squad was able to get a full game in, and today, Pakistan were able to practice despite heavy showers.

The stadium, which also houses a furniture market, was buzzing with activity. If the drainage can hold, who knows, some of the Bangladesh players might make the IPL franchises wonder why those across the eastern border were overlooked.

During the two weeks I was in India, from Mumbai to Calcutta to Gandhinagar, it was the Superbowl every night, even when the Deccan Chargers played. At my grandmother’s bungalow in Gujarat, my in-law’s flat in Borivli, to my hotel room in Kolkata, the television blared Sony Max telecasts every evening. Even when other obligations prevented me from watching first hand there was always a mobile phone update or a FM transistor radio to keep me up to fresh about every score and wicket taken. Never had I seen a sporting sensation pervade the social fabric of a society the way the IPL has spread its tentacles around the Indian household. Of course, I’m no sociologist, but it’s utterly obvious that when your wife’s nearly deaf grandmother asks for Mumbai’s run-rate then something surreal this way comes. I finally had to throw up my hands up and use that perennial Mumbai phrase, Aila!

Thinking I’d be alright to handle the topsy-turvy thrills of another IPL match I convinced my wife and her brother to go with me to the first semi-final in Mumbai between the Delhi Daredevlis and Rajasthan Royals. The newspapers reported the day before the match that tickets had increased, some seats nearly quadrupling in price. I had to get my tickets fast. We went to my brother-in-law’s accounting office and tried to book tickets from there, only to find out the website wouldn’t process my credit card. We had another source. Apparently, tickets were being sold at some gas stations. So, we drove to another section of the Mumbai suburbs and bought our tickets. But it turned out that my earlier apprehension was totally misguided. The next morning ticket prices were slashed. I had paid 2000 rupees each for my tickets. Now, I could grab them for just 500 rupees. I made sure to hide the paper from my wife that morning.
The cashier at the gas station told us to be at the ticket window by four p.m. so we decided to rent a car and drive the one and a half hour drive to proper Mumbai. My brother-in-law was the first to spot Wankhede Stadium as we drove along Nariman Point. Even at the early hour hoards of police and scalpers were scattered about. We dropped my brother-in-law off to pick up the tickets. He came back to the car a little while later with a huge grin on his face. I asked him what he was smiling about. In his hand he held a wad of cash. Apparently, we were refunded for the tickets.

We took our places and waited in the queue. Lines seem to work backward in Mumbai because we continued to get pushed back instead of going forward. Of course, the source of this problem was a small gap that was open just enough so any streetwalker could easily sneak in. The police didn’t seem to mind. But soon we were through and into the stadium. We found a section that gave us a decent place to observe, but it still made us see through the prism of a barbed chained linked fence. My brother-in-law enjoyed the experience and it was amazing to find out this was his first time to a professional cricket match though he lived the sport his entire life. When the match began we stood up and joined in the ruckus. Rajasthan had quite a solid fan base I thought, but under careful inspection it was obvious that the rowdy applause was for the cheerleaders. Men would quickly whisk out there mobile phone cameras and film the girls every time a sixer or boundary occurred. Even as I began to see families sprinkle throughout the audience I couldn’t help but feel like those poor cheerleaders were like those dancing bears that perform on the side of roads.

The crowd increased to the point where we couldn’t move. I reached the threshold of my tolerance when a guy out of nowhere nearly pushed me from behind. This time I shoved back and told him to move. He tried to stare me down. And that belligerent American side in me looked back at him furiously. My brother-in-law calmed me down and the man went about his way. Then that dreaded Delhi belly I tried to wash away with mass medical prescriptions returned. My brother-in-law told me to just wait till the top of the hour to leave. I couldn’t. Go to the bathroom in the stadium? I wouldn’t even go at work. We left early once again. When we got home Delhi was performing miserably at bat. I was feeling bad physically, but even worse mentally. Though my brother-in-law said watching cricket was better on television I couldn’t help but feel he wanted to stay for the duration of the match. And I, the spoilt, sick American brat had prevented him from doing so.

We watched the second semi-final at my in-laws flat and when Shaun Marsh unexpectedly exited after having played fantastically so far, we all cried in disappointment. My brother-in-law didn’t hold a grudge against me. We shall repeat this again he said. It will be even more fun. I agreed whole heartedly as I sprinted to the bathroom. Aila!

An hour before the Kolkata Knight Riders and the Rajasthan Royals were to face off, I found myself in a wedding hall in southern Calcutta discussing floral arrangements. As my sister-in-law, her future husband, and his father discussed the merits of marigold over roses, I continued to nudge my wife about the time. Here I was, the American firangi (foreigner) in the land of Rabindranath Tagore and Rani Mukherjee performing the part of proper jamaya (son-in-law), a role I was about to play brilliantly to hide my more devious intention of attending an Indian Premier League match. Now, my entire façade was melting as I got trapped with the familial responsibility of matrimonial minutiae. Choosing the right bouquet for a Bengali-Gujarati wedding confused me more than explaining the nuances of cricket to a baseball fan. Wait, maybe, it’s the other way around.

My sister-in-law, sensing my growing impatience, took mercy on my circumstance and made her choice. On the way out the door, my wife slapped me in the back of the head. “It’s my sister’s wedding,” she said. “And you’re ruining it with your stupid matches.”

I wondered if she would still accompany me to Eden Gardens or whether I would have to make the pilgrimage myself as the lonely English speaking, Bengali-bereft tourist lost in the City of Joy. I’m sure the price of the taxi ride would be tripled as soon as they heard my northeastern American accent. But she acquiesced and soon we were in an Ambassador heading up Chandra Bose Road in a caravan of clanging horns. Along the way we passed billboard after billboard of Shah Rukh Khan and his beloved Knight Riders. I desperately wanted a jersey from the Reebok store we passed by, but I’d have to wait. My obsession with collecting jerseys began in childhood when I, along with an entire generation of school kids, donned our NBA garb. I had graduated from the American sporting scene and started religiously wearing my sky blue Sahara India jersey when I fell in love with cricket 20 years later. My wife, of course, dismissed my fandom on account of mental derangement. “Only an idiot would wear a jersey with his last name on it,” she said. “Are you so dumb you forgot your surname?” The King Khan #12 jersey would be mine soon enough.

The evening was surprisingly cool, but the Calcutta humidity still left rivulets of perspiration falling onto my brow. The noise and hubbub of a city drifted by us. Finally, on the other side of the horizon I saw bright flood lights shining from a gigantic pole. I stared agog through the window. I hadn’t felt like this since I was seven and saw the Shea Stadium (the home ground of the New York Mets baseball team) for the first time. My wife shook me from my enchantment. I thought we were stuck in traffic, but I realized the cab had stopped. Time to get out and walk. I paid the driver. As my wife and I joined a cavalcade of Knight Rider fans on a trek to the stadium we could hear the loud echoes of “Om Shanti Om” (a popular Bollywood song). People were now sprinting. The match was about to start.

	"When Sourav Ganguly came to bat I don’t think I’ve ever heard such adulation from a crowd for a performer since Hanna Montana" © AFP

Police were everywhere - on horseback, in giant SUVs. I thought I was at an Obama rally. I stared at my tickets. My future brother-in-law had procured them for us the day before, but when I asked him to come with us he declined due to family obligations. You know that wedding thing. His loss. My gain. In line, men, children, and a surprising number of women tried to rush through the gates only to be stopped for security checks and frisking. I had brought a camcorder with me to record our experience failing to realize the strict edict the IPL had in place. When my wife opened up her purse, they saw the device. We had to convince eight security personnel to give us our tape back resorting to pleading that our honeymoon footage was on there. We lucked out.

I had been told by a number of people that Eden Gardens wasn’t the most fan friendly of stadiums especially after reading Soumya Bhattacharya’s cricket memoir “You Must Like Cricket”. When my wife and I finally located our seats we saw that the entire row was full. We would have to split two feet for sitting space between each other. The row above us was empty and we joined the ‘sit anywhere you want’ phenomenon and took a seat on a dirty stone slab bench. Eden Gardens was feeling as old as the Roman Colosseum. Our vantage point was along the long-off boundary hardly the ideal place to get any true appreciation of the game. That was one thing that I noticed right away was that I couldn’t get a sense of the game, the sounds of a bat smashing a ball, nor the body language of a fielder. Seemed much easier just to stare at the jumbotron and watch the action there. The stadium was far from full, but the fervour of the fans undulated. I couldn’t help but be swept up in all the hysteria.

Near us through the barbed fence were the infamous cheerleaders that I heard so much about prior to coming from India. I couldn’t understand the fuss. The Rajasthan cheerleaders so eerily resembled the cheerleaders from my high school in Orlando, Florida that I was having a sentimental remembrance of an old crush. When the teams were introduced the crowd went berserk like at a WWE match. And when those around me were dancing I couldn’t help but join in. My wife was already clapping and roaring. When Ganguly came to bat I don’t think I’ve ever heard such adulation from a crowd for a performer since Hanna Montana.

With the match underway, I noticed a bevy of police officers everywhere. I asked my wife why that was the case. Before she could answer I heard a voice from behind me. It was for Shah Rukh. Decked out in his Knight Rider jersey was 12-year-old Vihaan Hada, obsessed cricket nut and international political expert. Through the remainder of the match, Vihaan would school my wife and me about the IPL fever in the country. The first thing he did was offer me this observation about our botched seats. “Indians have no civic sense.” He’d been to a number of IPL matches and sat near Shah Rukh Khan in his previous visit. He was as curious about American sports as I was about cricket. As I tried to explain the dimensions of a baseball diamond, someone knocked a sixer and Vihaan and his friend Siddharth both stood up in their seats and waved their ‘sizzling six’ signs. Another Shah Rukh tune burst through the speakers and everybody was dancing again. Later in the match, Vihaan would ask me who I preferred, Hillary or Obama.

My first IPL encounter resembled a strange, surreal amalgam of various American sporting experiences. At first, I felt the familiarity of attending a college football game with all the Kolkata Knight Rider jerseys around me and the collective feeling of a unified city. Then something happens - a fight breaks out in the crowd and the police rush in and I’m at a baseball game at Yankee stadium. When a boundary is made and a ‘fundo four’ sign is thrown up I find myself at an NBA Slam Dunk contest.

The IPL has often been compared with the English Premier League in its structure and formation. Sure it’s commercialized, filmi, splash, glitz, glamour, and that ever hilarious word I’ve been reading all over, razzmatazz, but by god, the tone and ambience is quintessentially American. Is that why I’ve been enjoying all the tamasha so far? I can’t say for sure. Though I kept trying to find an American counterpart to offer me a comparable subtext, I simply couldn’t locate one. The IPL was another experience all together.

My wife and I didn’t stay for the entire match. We left early not from boredom or the disappearance of Shah Rukh, but jetlag. Before we departed though, I heard further up the stands a familiar twang I’d become so familiar with, the confused American. I walked up and met a group of newly-arrived Americans working at a local NGO. I asked them about their experience with cricket. This was there first cricket match so far. Did they understand the game? Nope. They didn’t need to.

This diary entry feels slightly fraudulent. I leave India in the small hours of tomorrow morning and feel like my job here is barely a third done. Some Indian journalists have expressed envy that I am ditching a six-week tournament after a little more than a fortnight, and I’ve almost felt like apologising for doing what basically amounts to a runner.

“Nice of you to pop in” is the kind of ironic comment you can expect from English colleagues if you join a tour a week late (having given the all-important 14-a-side fiasco against the President’s XI a tactical miss) or depart, ooh, several weeks early. And I am prepared to take any comments on the chin. But the truth is I wouldn’t have missed this experience for the world.

I’ve covered cricket tours before, but nothing as hectic and, frankly, surreal as this. Yesterday, for example, reminded me that for all the luxury hotels the players get to stay in, for all the adulation from the Indian public, and – yes – for all the money they are stashing away for fast cars and maybe old age, it can be a strange existence.

I left for Jaipur airport in the north of India at 12.30pm and sat down to work in Bangalore in the south at 9pm. A piece I wrote en route for an English paper might have had three different datelines. Jaipur? Mumbai? Or Bangalore? It was a toss-up. In the end, I went for Jaipur, which is where the interviews took place and the first words were written. Hell, the piece was about the Rajasthan team anyway…

But this is the kind of itinerary the players are used to. And the ones who qualify for the final on June 1 have got almost another month of it to go: it’s almost enough to demand our sympathy. But not quite.

Reading that last paragraph, I can feel prediction time coming along. Yes, I know it’s a mug’s game, especially in the changeable world of Twenty20. But sport’s supposed to be fun, so what the heck. Each side has now played five games out of 14 in the round-robin league table, and we’re starting to get a sense of who means business, even if things have been slightly skewed this week by the departure of the top Australian and New Zealand players.

Even so, if a gun were held to my head, I’d plump nervously for Delhi Daredevils to take on Rajasthan Royals in the final: the competition’s best seam-bowling attack against its most inspirationally led underdogs. The Royals have been the story of the tournament, and I’m just sorry I won’t be here to follow their progress. Rest assured: the first thing I’ll do when I get back to the UK is subscribe to Setanta. Enjoy!

For Englishmen everywhere – or maybe just those of us in India – it promises to be a momentous afternoon in the IPL. Our presence until now has been limited to a hardy handful: Jeremy Snape (performance coach with the Rajasthan Royals), Mark Benson (umpire), Robin Jackman (commentator), several TV crew members, a smattering of tourists, and your correspondent (although not for much longer). If I’ve missed anyone, I apologise.

But today, if Shane Warne is good enough to pick him for the Royals against Kolkata Knight Riders in sweltering Jaipur, our numbers will balloon by one: step forward Dimitri Mascarenhas. He might have Sri Lankan parents; he might have been brought up in Perth; hell, he might speak like an Aussie. But he was born in Chiswick, west London, and he has hit several sixes for England. That’ll do for me.

There is a hope among the one-man party of travelling British journalists that Mascarenhas’s presence will spark a rush of interest back home. Several of the UK papers sent out journalists to cover the fireworks provided by the Chinnaswamy Stadium and Brendon McCullum before and during the IPL’s memorable curtain-raiser 13 days ago; a few flew north the next morning to catch the game in Delhi; Simon Hughes of the Daily Telegraph was even spotted at the Wankhede on the Sunday evening. And then there was one. You’ll understand if the arrival of Mascarenhas elicits more excitement than it really should.

Or is it? Because as far as the English are concerned, the story has moved on. Having apparently swallowed any pride they might have felt at the prospect of being bankrolled by an American, the England and Wales Cricket Board might just have come up with a formula to silence the dressing-room moans about missing out on the IPL’s dollars. If the five matches against Sir Allen Stanford’s West Indians really do take place, the need to play in India might be removed.

As much as Man U v Chelsea, the start of the English cricket season (such as it is), the collective intake of breath over the state of Freddie’s ankle, the perception that this is no more than a glorified Indian domestic league, and the fact that not many have access to Setanta, who are broadcasting the matches in the UK – as much as all that, Stanford may explain why interest has been muted. Now, where’s Warne? I need to talk to him about team selection…

The IPL has done little to suggest that momentum is anything more than just another of those ideas which dressing rooms use to feel good about themselves. Take last night’s win for Mumbai Indians in Kolkata. The momentum argument dictated they didn’t have a prayer: four defeats in a row; still no Sachin; Harbhajan banned. But they bowled beautifully on a sluggish pitch and, after losing three cheap wickets, were inspired by the bat of Dwayne Bravo. No doubt they’re talking about the semi-finals already.

Only Chennai Super Kings (four wins out of four) have bucked the trend, although Rajasthan Royals have won three in a row since being thrashed by Delhi on the day two. Which probably means they will lose to Kolkata tomorrow night. So, the momentum belongs to Chennai, does it? Well, yes, except they must play their next match, on Friday, without Matthew Hayden, Mike Hussey and Jacob Oram. The momentum, if it exists at all, has to start almost from scratch.

What of Royal Challengers Bangalore ? In this morning’s Times of India, their wicketkeeper Mark Boucher writes: “The way we see it, there are 14 games to play, and if we win 11 out of 14, we have a great chance of making the semi-finals. Agreed, it sounds like a tall order, but Chennai have won four in a row, so a winnings streak is not impossible to establish.”

Well, maybe. But Boucher of all people should know not to get excited about dear old momentum. Back in 2003, he was part of the South African team that drew a five-Test series 2-2 in England in one of the least momentum-ridden encounters ever. After the drawn first Test , South Africa took the lead at Lord’s, surrendered it at Trent Bridge , reclaimed it at Headingley before finally settling for parity at The Oval.

That was Test cricket, where gentle ebb and flow comes naturally. This is Twenty20, where matches can change course in a couple of overs. If momentum struggles to stand up to scrutiny in a series lasting 25 days, what price does it have in three-hour cricket? And if Bangalore beat Delhi tonight before winning their next nine games as well, I can only apologise.

Since everyone has been up in arms about The Slap (and it’s only a matter of time before the words are followed by a little ™ and we can all buy the DVD), it’s tempting to wonder exactly whether many losers have actually emerged from yesterday’s hearing in Delhi. Harbhajan, sure, but let’s look, with tongue placed only partially in cheek, at some of the other interested parties…

Lalit Modi: Once he had gained control of the press conference, Modi came across very well: decisive, firm and with a good grasp of the facts. He has been insistent all along that the IPL should pay more than lip service to the fabled spirit of cricket, and now he has been true to his word. The happy-family poses for the cameras with Harbhajan, Sreesanth and Farokh Engineer felt a bit forced, but he has handled his first major crisis with aplomb.

The IPL: Only two letters separate it from the ICC, but the handling of Bhajjigate (I’m bored with The Slap already) was done in a language the game’s governing body will not recognise. While the ICC keeps having to answer questions about Zimbabwe and Peter Chingoka’s visa, the IPL has avoided accusations of a fudge by suspending one of its most high-profile players. And guaranteeing more front-page coverage in the process.