Resident discontent

Bummer. Resident Evil 5 will only be out in 2009. If you haven’t played RE4, do so right now. I mean right now. Drop everything else.

Somebody has to be in control

There’s a pretty good profile of George Clooney up at the New Yorker website. Here’s one delightful passage:

…he has taken the trouble to think his way into the mind of the person inching up to his restaurant table for an autograph, or the friend of a friend who has become a little dizzy in his presence. (“Your job is to find the best way for those people to hold on to their dignity,” he explained to me. “For a second, they have thrown it out. They got what they came for”—the autograph, the handshake—“but then they’re standing there feeling, God, that horrible taste in their mouth: ‘What now, how do I walk away?’ ” As Clooney described it, they have to be shown a path back to their normal selves.)

I mean, you really, really should read it. THe piece has an oddly poetic headline: ‘Somebody has to be in control’.

Why Sony should be scared, and national interest nonsense

This follows Prem’s post on the issue.

If I were Sony, I’d be very scared of this information and broadcasting ministry. The IPL is due to start on April 18, which is just over three weeks from today. In this time, the ministry could decide that the IPL is a matter of national importance. Perhaps (heh) the second half of the tournament - the bit where Sony execs see advertising rates hitting over 5 lakhs for ten seconds - could be of national importance. And there won’t be any warning. Just like last time, when on October 19, exactly two weeks before Pakistan played in India, the Test series was deemed to be of national importance. So I’d wrap up my advertising deals pretty quickly, and make sure they were darn watertight. 

Anyway, I had heard from an official at Doordarshan that it makes no money on cricket. In fact, it loses money. She wished the 75-25% deal with Nimbus didn’t exist (for those who don’t know, while Nimbus gets to keep its own advertising revenue, DD has to give 75% of the ad revenue it earns to Nimbus in return for taking the feed).

Now here’s an interview from 2005 (by Anjan Mitra of Indiantelevision.com) with KS Sarma, who was then CEO of Prasar Bharati:

Revenue generation seems to be the latest mantra in Prasar Bharati. Is that why the organization lobbied hard with the government to have laws favouring it where sports content, especially cricket, is concerned?
Why not ? Prasar Bharati’s reach amongst the masses, which is the target for the government, is maximum amongst all broadcasters present in India. And, what’s the big issue with cricket? That cricket is a big revenue earner for us is a big misconception. Moreover, the laws that you are referring to have been enacted by the government so that a huge chunk of the population that does not have access to cable and satellite TV gets to see quality sports, which may include cricket.

He goes on to say:

However, cricket helps DD in retaining viewership for other programmes. The chances of a viewer sticking around after a cricket match to check out the programme following it, is high. Feedback from TAM has indicated this and we are trying to capitalize on this.

Perhaps it hasn’t struck him and his colleagues that cricket isn’t just a loss leader for Doordarshan. When Sony promises hundreds of millions, it expects to barely break even. What it knows is that the “chances of a viewer sticking around after a cricket match to check out the programme following it, is high”. You make money on the edges.

But here’s another thing to think about. However you do the math, you can’t really make money off Indian cricket. It’s not a new trend. While it speaks about another country, here’s a bit from a 2003 edit, titled “Sports broadcast rights may head back to earth”:

The old economic model for TV sports is dated. The strategy among execs used to be that if they couldn’t recoup their investment in broadcast contracts, they could always use the games’ huge audiences as a one-of-a-kind opportunity to promote their prime-time lineups and other network programming. But today, the people watching sports are mostly men, and the people watching prime-time shows are mostly women. “Begrudgingly, executives are beginning to realize that sports is not a loss leader anymore, either,” says Richard A. Bilotti, a media analyst at Morgan Stanley. He estimates that sports losses wipe out about 40% of all profits from prime-time programs.

This is why you find fewer companies bidding for cricket rights. 

And here’s something handy for you to throw at government when it next talks about other countries making it mandatory for sporting events to be shown on terrestrial television. The other countries it is likely referring to have more than one terrestrial network, and they bid for rights.

Besides this, Nimbus’s grouse is perfectly valid. It’s been a year, and the signals have still not been encrypted. What this means is that this signal goes out to Pakistan, Sri Lanka, perhaps even the middle east and south east asia - all markets where Nimbus has sold broadcast rights. It also means, in a way, that DD’s DTH platform (subscriber base of over four million), regardless of where its subscribers live - city or countryside - will receive the broadcast. So this goes against the I&B ministry’s line that this is for people who don’t have access. Secondly, because it’s available on DTH as a free-to-air, why would anyone want to carry Nimbus’s Neo? If you’re Neo, you buggered. The DTH guys don’t want you, the cable guys sure as hell aren’t going to pay you. You’re so buggered.

Anyway, good luck to Sony. This is one messed up ministry.

Wrote it, lost it

Hate it. Hate it. Hate it. Aargh.

Blackmailing Doordarshan

From the Rajya Sabha debate archives: 

SHRI DINESH TRIVEDI: I support this Bill. I was always opposed to politicians being in sports unless they themselves are sports people. But I have to change my views by seeing the contribution of so many people here. I think, only the people’s  representatives will take care and support whatever is good for the people and this particular Bill. I would like to compliment Hon’ble Minister but I would like to take this opportunity also to mention that this is a wake up call for the Government. I am not against the private sector but they can blackmail at the last minute the way the Hon’ble Minister mentioned about the West Indies game.

The debate was over a bill making it mandatory for private broadcasters to share certain sporting events with Prasar Bharati (that’s Doordarshan and All India Radio). It took place in March last year, when Nimbus refused to share its live feed of the India-West Indies games. This was the blackmail the minister spoke about - that a private broadcaster refused to toe the official line. Because of the bill, Nimbus was in serious trouble. Of course it didn’t help that Nimbus bid $612 million for the cricket rights, especially when they knew what the second-highest bid was. Now they’re up for sale, apparently.

Postmortem

Later today I’ll put up a few thoughts on the ICL. How it could work, and why it could still fail.

Well, this feels uncomfortably familiar

…Mrs Redmond remarked to her husband, “Mr Strange is going to be a magician, my love.” She spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world, because to her it was.

“A magician?” said Henry, quite astonished. “Why should you want to do that?”

Strange paused. He did not wish to tell his real reason - which was to impress Arabella with his determination to do something sober and scholarly - and so he fell back upon the only other explanation he could think of. “I met a man uder a hedge at Monk Gretton who told me I was a magician.”

Mr Redmond laughed, approving the joke. “Excellent!” he said.

“Did you, indeed?” said Mrs Redmond.

“I do not understand,” said Henry Woodhope.

“You do not believe me, I suppose?” said Strange to Arabella

“Oh, on the contrary, Mr Strange!” said Arabella with an amused smile. “It is all of a piece with your usual way of doing things. It is quite as strong a foundation for a career as I should expect from you.”

This is from Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, a book I had the good fortune to discover earlier this week.  I imagined it would take powerful magic for me to read fiction again.

Sachin’s recommendation

In a remarkable story that completely misses the point, Sharad Pawar says something quite surprising. Here’s the relevant bit: 

Pawar said that it was on Tendulkar’s advice that youngsters were given an opportunity in the Twenty20 squad, which went on to win the World Cup in South Africa last September.

“I was in England when we were playing them. Sachin met me and suggested ‘I know you don’t interfere with the team selection but you please tell the selectors not to include players of my generation in the Twenty20 squad’. He said ‘my generation is not fit for Twenty20, so give opportunity to the youngsters’,” Pawar said.

This seems like a bit of legend-building by Pawar. If it isn’t, what’s Tendulkar doing recommending that selectors shouldn’t pick him, Dravid, and Ganguly? It completely contradicts what Vengsarkar said last year:

“I got a call from Rahul today morning who said on behalf of all the three players that they were opting out of the Twenty20 World Cup,” Vengsarkar had said.

And in an interview with the Hindu, Vengsarkar said:

“Rahul did not give any particular reason, but I presume they want a break and be fresh for the home international season and also for the tour of Australia,” Vengsarkar told The Hindu.

So was Tendulkar acting after speaking with Dravid and Ganguly? Or was he acting alone? If he was, this is shocking behavior. Pawar didn’t really have to talk about it, but as Prem suggested over an email, it might have something to do with the fuss over Dhoni’s comments about team selection (Fuss here. Dhoni’s comments here). Whatever it is, I think Pawar has inadvertantly put his foot in it, and got Tendulkar involved in a needless issue. Anyway, this should be fun.

And by the by, would you trust a chief of selectors who didn’t know exactly why three of his top players were sitting out a world cup, and would only presume they wanted a break?

When cricketers worried about the market

My piece appeared on Rediff.com yesterday.

It is in no small part due to the ICL that a certain class of cricketer can now be concerned about the whimsies of the stock market. In a warm hotel room in Chandigarh, this is indeed what Dhruv Mahajan is presently worrying about. Mahajan is 28 and to be married in one month. Now he’s a member of the Indian Cricket League with the Delhi Giants, a world away from the Jammu and Kashmir Ranji side he represented since 1999, and even led for four years. “Aaj bhi bada dard hai,” he says, wrapped in a quilt. CNBC, on mute, has only bad news for him. “Now whoever puts his money in, bhool jaaye ek saal ke liye. I say thanks to ICL maine itna paisa uda diya iss pe.”

‘Paisa uda diya’ is an unlikely declaration coming from a domestic cricketer. To blow it, they have to have some of it first. The ICL struck at the very heart of this issue. Of course, of the several reasons players of any age choose to join the league, they will mention money least of all. It is a very good reason because Mahajan and other players like him, such as Abid Nabi, his roommate (and teammate from J&K) who is currently sprawled on the floor just listening, earn around Rs 25 lakh a year with incentives. “The first factor is monetary, but log apne mooh se nahi kahengey,” Mahajan says, lifting a finger to his lips. And he’s right. The other night, a player who participated in two world cups would only say, “I get to play with stars.” This he would say repeatedly, disregarding the actual question.

Mahajan, who averages 28 point something in first class cricket, and Nabi were sounded out by scouts soon after the ICL was announced in April. They were told of the league and its financial packages, and left to think about it. When it was decided that they were interested, Zee officials sent them a more complete plan. In months, the BCCI would announce its league and ban a raft of players. This posed questions for players: What were the repercussions, what did it offer, how did it compare with what they had now? Nabi considered staying back to play for his state, and weighed his options: Money, opportunity, exposure in one corner. No exposure, little money, and certainly no backing in the other. “Bahut sawaal aaye dimaag mein. I did think about it, but also thought that if I did not perform in the future, what would happen?”

“When we shifted here,” Mahajan says, “everybody knew they were taking a big step. There was no talk of amalgamation or this making up between the leagues. So everybody knew what they were doing.” He says it’s incomprehensible why the BCCI would ban players. “See, ICL players are not against Indian cricket. Nobody is. So I don’t know why…” He said he could have waited for the IPL to happen, but who knew what would happen if his personal form dipped? “A bird in the hand is better than two behind the bush.”

Mahajan and Nabi have heard – only heard, they insist – that their share of revenue for the 2006-07 season is being stopped. For J&K, that season ended in December 2006. “The check still hasn’t come,” Mahajan says. “Aur ab aayega bhi nahi,” Nabi adds. They laugh at this, unsurprised if no money comes their way. When you’re young, Mahajan says, you come in to the dressing room for the first time and it hits you that cricket comes with a lot of nonsense attached. In Mahajan’s retelling, they would travel by normal three-tier when they were entitled to beds in second-AC. They would be permitted a daily allowance of Rs150 when the rule book stated Rs500. The BCCI would ask them to take up the matter with the host association. Eventually the problem was solved when Niranajan Shah called up the association. “In announcing these things they’re very prompt. But not in giving.” Laughter.

“If you have financial security, you can focus on your game,” Mahajan says. “ICL gives you that. A common guy comes here, he’s financially secure. He can focus on his game. The pressure that exists in state teams is not here. If you don’t perform for two games in J&K, you’re out. Then you say that he had a bad year. He plays two in five games, and it’s a year for him?” His detailed stories of J&K are hair-raising. There are tales of team instability, selectors and coaches discouraging promising cricketers, and the lack of overall opportunity. It impacted earnings seriously, and neither would there be enough games to play. “Over here, you are yourself. You are your own boss. Only your own performance matters. That’s all you have to do.

“But this is how things should have worked in every state team. I’ll give you a very good example. Here, we’ve played three matches. First match we won, second match we lost one-sided. We were never in the game. If this was J&K, half the team would have been out. [Points and laughs ‘Nikalo!”] But we played the same team in the third match and won one-sided. Yahaan pe stability hai.”

Mahajan is animated about this, and as he goes about it, Nabi sits there like he’s heard it before. “Cricketer ko akhir sirf cricket chahiye. And, look, money matters. In Ranji, if you make a guy sit out for one game, he earns Rs 70,000 instead of Rs 1,40,000. Half the money is gone. It’ll keep playing on his mind. It’s human psyche. In ICL, if you’re sitting out, and if your team wins, you get an equal share. So you’re happy because your team is winning. In every way, ICL is better. Cricket-wise, money-wise, standard-wise. You can say “Country! Country!” all you want, but not everybody can represent the country. Those who couldn’t represent it came here. They have come here with a grudge, with a point to prove.”
It is his belief that the IPL is not for everybody. “Fine, both ICL and IPL are cash rich. But in IPL, the cash has gone to the rich guys only. What we’ve heard is that players like Mithun Manhas and others are being paid 20 lakhs.”

It was all quite cloak and dagger last year in J&K. Only Mahajan and Nabi knew they were leaving for the ICL. It became an inside joke, and now their friends want in. “They tell us, ‘You’ve done your own work, abhi apna kaam bhi karva lo’.” They say a number of cricketers, grown tired of a poisonous atmosphere, would like nothing better than to move. This is where they come from: “Once, after we lost a game, this selector wanted to change the team. I told him to give me a chance with this team, and he agreed on the condition that if we lost, I’d do exactly what he said. I lost, and 22 players played in five one-day games. Twenty-two players! Where else does that happen?”

The list of complaints is rather long-winded, and you’ve probably heard it all before, like Nabi has. So we won’t go there. This is domestic cricket, and hopefully cricket as it used to be. Perhaps ICL was ill-conceived, and there’s a good chance it won’t catch on. But a domestic cricketer can now worry about his stock portfolio. Really, how cool is that?

Welcome to Hotel Ruby Tuesday

Where you can fill a feedback form once, but can never leave.

Last night was one for the ages. After a very good salad at Ruby Tuesday, a waiter asked me to fill a feedback form. Nearly everything was ‘good’, a few things were ‘awesome’, two were ‘average’, and two ‘needed improvement’. This waiter takes the form and heads towards the cash counter, but then freezes, like he’s seen something terrible. He hands it to the guy at the counter, who looks at it, mutters something to the waiter, and then smiles politely at me. He leaves his place behind the register and comes to me.

“Sir,” he says quietly (I suspect he doesn’t want to create a scene), “you have not filled in two circles.” I don’t know how I missed those.

“Alright, give me a pen.” I fill one as good, and the beverages as average. He looks at it for a moment and says, “On what basis have you said the beverages are average?”

It’s true. I don’t know why they were average. They just were. They felt average.

“Sir, may I ask, what beverages have you had here so far?”

On my previous visit, a beer.

“Sir, come on. A beer? You give us an average on the beer? Be serious, sir.”

“Nobody takes this seriously,” I informed him in my most learned tone. “Not even Ruby Tuesday in Mumbai.”

“Well, sir, as you wish,” he said, leaving me alone. But not for long, because his superior, the head waiter, appeared with the form. “Sir, kya aap apne mistake ko theek kar sakte hain?” he ordered, rather than asked, thrusting the form and a pen at me.

“Look, forget it.” I put a large cross over the beverages spot and the dessert spot (which I had also not had, but only because they did not seem enticing enough).

He thanked me for this, but said I had failed to initial the crossings. He said, “Delhi will think we did it, and they will want to call you to confirm that it is indeed you, but you have also not left your number with us.”

I initialed it but declined to give out my number.

“But you must,” he pleaded, “or at least an address!”

No, no, no, I told him. I would leave nothing but my name. At this he rose above me and sighed, “As you wish.” He walked over to another gentleman who looked gravely at my opinions, and faults, I realised. I recalled another instance where I was scrutinized this way - early one morning in an Oklahoma airport, I was suspected of knowing too much about Egyptian terrorists.

The grave man was the restaurant manager, and he came by and settled on his haunches beside me. This appeared ominous, for he had the air of someone about to make a case for himself, and go to any lengths to do it. He smiled and reasoned that “the people in Delhi” took this sort of thing very seriously. He would not say it, but implied that my non-cooperation would hamper several careers, most of all his own. “You have initialed here, here, and here, but do you know what they will think? They will think we have crossed these and put ‘RB’ everywhere. Sir, you should sign in their place.”

“Tear it up. Throw it away. Please,” I said, unable to stop laughing.

“I’m afraid we cannot do that,” he cried, showing me that every feedback form had a number, at which I laughed even harder. He was serious, “And no name? No phone number?”

“Please throw it away. They will not miss this.”

“No, sir, that is one thing we cannot do.”

“I will not sign.”

“You must.”

“I will not. Your Mumbai branch does not harass me like this.”

He would not give up. “You rate us on beer? On dessert? For what? And what starters have you had apart from garlic bread?” It was faintly unnerving to have the manager remember an item ordered ten days ago. “Alright,” he smiled finally, and got up. “We hope you had a good meal. And we will see you again,” he said, holding the door open.