For a generation raised on restraint, technique and white flannels, it’s astonishing how completely the IPL has swept us off our dignified feet, writes Harsh Goenka
The Indian Premier League (IPL) was not designed for us. The music is too loud, the jerseys are too gaudy and a match ends at midnight. And yet, here we are, absolutely hooked. Let me confess something. Last Tuesday at 11:47 PM, I was standing in my living room in my pyjamas, pumping my fist in the air like a twenty-two-year old watching the batsman hit a six off the last ball to win a match. My wife looked at me from the doorway with the expression she usually reserves for when she is about to say ‘we need to talk’.
IPL is our generation’s guilty pleasure. We came of age watching five-day Tests where a draw was celebrated like a victory, where the phrase “building an innings” was a moral philosophy. We were raised on the gospel of Gavaskar which is patience, technique, respect for the crease. And now we sit watching a man reverse-scoop a ball over his own head for six and our first instinct, after the initial cardiac episode, is: “My God, that was beautiful.”
We grew up with cricket as a religion. IPL turned it into a nightclub. And somehow, against all odds, we still showed up.
Then and Now: A Study in Contrasts
Consider the great Sunil Gavaskar. The man scored 10,122 Test runs with the calm, unhurried authority of a retired judge writing his memoirs. He wore white. He appealed rarely. He once batted through an entire day without once appearing to perspire. Now consider your average IPL opener: tattoos, blue streak of hair under a fluorescent helmet, a walk-in song that could wake the dead, and a brief that says ‘score 50 in five overs or we’ll find someone who will.’ Same sport. Different civilisation entirely.
We seniors are the original purists. We remember when a dot ball was not a failure but a declaration of command. Today, dot balls are treated with the alarm usually reserved for medical emergencies. Commentators gasp. Twitter erupts. The batsman looks apologetically at the dugout as if he’s knocked over a priceless Ming vase.
Cricket as we knew it: five days, possibly a draw, no refunds; white flannels, the colour of dignity; playing for the crease, the country, posterity; a fast bowler who ran in 40 overs a day; a crowd that applauded a fine cover drive; captains who thought in sessions, sometimes in days; commentary that said ‘and he’s played that with great restraint’; retirement at 35 considered premature.
IPL as it is now: three hours, result guaranteed, cheerleaders included; neon jerseys, the colour of a Holi party; playing for the franchise, the auction, the brand deal; a fast bowler who bowls four overs, earns ₹12 crore, and does a protein shake ad; a crowd that does a Mexican wave during the bowler’s run-up; captains who think in deliveries, sometimes in DRS reviews; commentary that screams “WHAT A SHOT! ABSOLUTE CARNAGE! SENSATIONAL!”
How We Watch It: The Senior’s Survival Guide
Here is the truth about how seniors actually watch IPL, and it is gloriously different from the marketing fantasy of young fans in their team jerseys. We watch it in armchairs, often with the volume at 40% because someone in the house is asleep. We watch with a glass of warm milk or, for the braver among us, a single malt nursed across two overs. We pause it to use the bathroom and feel no guilt whatsoever.
We fall asleep in the 17th over and wake up in the 19th and, here’s the beauty of T20, we have missed absolutely nothing that can’t be understood from the scoreboard. Nobody needs to know. We recalibrate in seconds, assess the situation with the practiced calm of a man who has survived many corporate crises, and immediately have a strong opinion about the field placement.
We also watch it with superior knowledge. While the twenty-five-year-old in the next room is impressed by a bouncer, we are comparing it to Marshall’s action, Lillee’s intent, and Kapil’s wrist position from the 1983 World Cup. Our commentary, delivered to nobody in particular, is richer, deeper, and significantly more accurate than anything on Star Sports. Our spouses disagree. We are right anyway.
The young fan sees a six and claps. The senior sees a six, and talks about its entire genealogy going back to CK Nayudu.
What We Can Still Teach Them
For all its carnival energy, IPL desperately needs what our generation carries in its bones: context. When a young commentator calls a 160-run chase ‘impossible,’ we smile. We were there when Kapil Dev hit four sixes in a row at Tunbridge Wells with India at 17 for 5. We know what impossible looks like. This isn’t it.
When a batter gets out attempting a ramp shot and the studio panel dissolves into analysis, we shrug. Recklessness dressed as innovation is still recklessness. Some things don’t change. And when a young fast bowler sprays three wides in the death overs, we don’t need Hawk-Eye to tell us what went wrong. We have watched enough cricket to diagnose a problem with our feet up.
The greatest gift our generation brings to IPL is perspective. We have watched enough cricket to know that talent is common and character is rare. We can spot which of these young men will still be playing at thirty-five and which will be forgotten by the next auction. The ones who run hard between the wickets, who set their own fields quietly, who walk back to the pavilion without theatrics- we know all about them.
The Joy of Being Here For It
Somewhere along the way, we stopped being resistant. We learned to enjoy the sixes even if we mourned the dot balls. We learned to appreciate the athleticism even while we missed the artistry. We downloaded the Hotstar app with some help from our grandchildren, who found our confusion hilarious and our eventual mastery of the pause button genuinely moving.
And here is the thing about being a senior watching IPL in 2025- we have earned this. We paid our dues across rain-interrupted Tests, scratchy transistor radios, and black-and-white television sets with antenna adjustments between every over. We are the ones who kept cricket alive in the lean years, before glamour and sponsorship money arrived to make it fashionable. Cricket owes us a good time. IPL, with all its noise and neon and spectacular excess, is delivering on that debt.
So this season, settle into that armchair. Pour whatever suits your doctor’s advice. Let the cheerful chaos wash over you. Argue with the television. Compare every young spinner to Bishan Bedi and Lance Gibbs and every young batter to Vishwanath and Viv Richards and refuse to be told you’re being unreasonable. Cheer loudly for the older players still in the mix- the men who, like us, refuse to acknowledge that their time is past.
And if you fall asleep in the 18th over and wake up to find your team won, do celebrate. You were there for the whole thing. Just not necessarily awake.
