In the early 2000s, the turf of the world’s most storied cricket ground was set to be replaced. Those running the show at Lord’s realised this was not simply a maintenance task, as it might be at any other venue. This turf, rarely referred to without being called ‘hallowed’, was special not only to those who scripted sporting history on it; generations grew up tuning into radios to listen to stories of this ground—this mystical place in the middle of London, steeped in history and seemingly in no hurry to acknowledge the present or contemplate the future.
So, the smart move was to sell the turf. Some people bought a square foot of soil and turf so that they could be close to cricketing divinity in their backyards. Others had big slabs encased in glass as tabletops in boardrooms. The less wealthy, such as itinerant cricket writers, settled for a small sphere that could sit on a desk as a daily reminder of sporting mystique.
If you grew up a cricket nut, especially in one of the British colonies, it was difficult to have a neutral view of Lord’s. You were constantly told it was exclusive, not for everyone. You were reminded that scoring a 100 or picking up five wickets to get your name on the honours board there meant more than achieving exactly the same feat on any other ground. You came to believe, even with no real proof, that Lord’s was special.
Naturally, this sparked widespread devotion; but it also set a flame under the more cynical. Here was a place that represented snobbery and elitism, where only some could come to worship. Naturally, this group decried the obsession with bacon-and-eggs and beige suits, the innate highhandedness and all-round sexism and ageism of the staff, and similar slights, real and perceived, that existed around the venue.
As an Indian, it was even more straightforward. After all, our very own Sunil Gavaskar had once been turned away from the ground when he had a valid pass, and felt the cut so deeply that he refused membership of Marylebone Cricket Club—which owns the ground—when it was offered. Such shoddy treatment of Indian cricket royalty simply could not be overlooked.
Having been fortunate to have covered matches at the ground since 2002—Tests, one-day internationals, grand tournament finals and even an Ashes Test—your writer can safely confirm that everything you have heard about Lord’s—good, bad and in-between—is true and none of the lore does complete justice to the actual experience.
Even though this is a spot where cricket is put on a pedestal like nowhere else in the world, it’s also a place where those who have nothing to do with the game flock to. The Lord’s Test match is a London fixture as much as it’s a cricketing one. Months in advance, the city’s wealthiest put it on their calendars and turn up in their Sunday finest, because it’s where unexpected deals are struck. Solicitors and bankers, musicians and actors, doctors and architects—you’ll see them all at the summer Test, nibbling on gourmet lunches, sipping champagne, and barely watching a ball of play, but having the time of their lives.
You’ll also see the long queues outside St John’s Wood tube station of those who have tickets in areas without fixed seat numbers, hoping to claim the best vantage. It’s still one of the few grounds where the paying public can take in food and even a bottle of wine.
To be at Lord’s on an English summer day—and those of us who live in tropical climes can never understand the British fascination with sunshine—is to feel alive in a very specific way. The smell of the freshly mown grass, and the sight of white flannels and cherry-red Dukes balls set off against the carefully-curated shade of green can set the heart aflutter. It’s like your body instinctively knows it’s summer, nature’s season for growth.
Cricketers will tell you that nothing prepares them for their first outing at Lord’s. Most recently, the South African team was taken on a tour of the venue, with a guide explaining the ground’s history and geography—the full touristy spiel—just so that they would not be overwhelmed when playing there, as had happened to hardier men before.
Cricketers will also tell you they feel the love that a collective group of humans can feel for a sport, that true and pure spirit of the possible, when they are out in the middle of the ground and a packed house waits with bated breath.
For generations, Lord’s was a venue Indians loved to hate. But as they took greater pride in their own country and their great cricket venues, an uneasy peace was reached. There was no need to hate Lord’s to love the rest of the cricket world.
Today, India’s cricketers see the names of Vinoo Mankad and Dilip Vengsarkar, Mohammad Azharuddin and Jasprit Bumrah on the honours board, and can immediately be a part of history without feeling like outsiders. K L Rahul’s ton on Saturday will be up there, too.
Even if the game’s beating heart is as much in Kolkata and Sydney, Lord’s—often called ‘the home of cricket’—can be claimed by all those to whom this game is special. Don’t tell the old-timers at MCC, but the ownership of the ground’s greatness is no longer their sole preserve. It now belongs to all those who love what’s good about the game.
(Views are personal)
Read all columns by Anand Vasu
Anand Vasu
Journalist who has covered more than 100 Test matches over 25 years
