Despite how frequent cricket tournaments are these days —five World Cups, yearly IPLs, the Champions Trophies, and the Asia Cups — I have lately been missing the immediacy and intimacy I once felt with the game. A trip to the balcony presents a clear reason: Gully cricket is dead.
For many in my generation and before, the alley game was never an evening’s “light recreation.” It demanded a special devotion.
A wall was carefully chosen, as was the stone to draw wickets on it. Team compositions were passionately negotiated. There were special rules too: Only grounded shots, no leg before
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