No handshakes and gentlemen's Cricket Died

Once upon a time, cricket was “a gentleman’s game.” White flannels, polite applause, handshakes at the end of battle. That, dear reader, is history. What unfolded at the Asia Cup was not merely a match, it was a spectacle of power, pride, and political point-scoring that left the game gasping for its last breath.

The stage was set: India versus Pakistan, the match that television executives call “the world’s greatest rivalry” and ordinary fans call the match of nerves. But this time, the drama wasn’t in the scorecard. It was in what didn’t happen after the final ball was bowled.

When the game ended, Indian players turned their backs, walked away, and refused to shake hands with their Pakistani counterparts. Cameras caught the cold shoulders, the awkward pauses, the looks of disbelief. For a sport that prides itself on courtesy, it was a moment of theatre — but of the cruelest kind.

Western commentators, never slow to find irony, had a field day. “So much for the spirit of cricket,” one pundit chuckled on air. Twitter and TikTok lit up with split-screen comparisons: Joe Root shaking hands after a fiery Ashes Test versus the Indian squad walking away like spoiled heirs.

Behind the scenes, whispers grew louder. This wasn’t just bad manners; it was a message. Rumours in Dubai’s hotel lobbies claimed Indian officials had “agreed in advance” to avoid handshakes, framing it as a political stance against Pakistan. Fuel was added when skipper Suryakumar Yadav dedicated the win to India’s armed forces. Cue the headlines: cricket as a proxy war.

Old gossip circles in Colombo recalled another infamous handshake snub: when Sri Lanka refused to shake hands with Bangladesh after Angelo Mathews was dismissed timed-out, the first in international cricket history. But that, many insisted, was a heat-of-the-moment protest against a bizarre and unsporting appeal. India’s move, by contrast, looked deliberate, premeditated, and dripping with political intent.

Meanwhile, the International Cricket Council sat mute. In Colombo tea houses and Karachi coffee shops, fans asked the same question: if the ICC is so quick to fine players for slow over rates or the colour of their shoes, why no word about a blatant breach of sportsmanship? “Because,” the cynics say, “the ICC is run from Mumbai boardrooms.”

Money talks. The Indian Premier League, richer than the coffers of most cricket boards combined, now sets the tone. Pakistan’s players are barred from the IPL, their names erased from its billboards. When India plays Pakistan in global tournaments, the rivalry is hyped as the “world’s biggest,” but in reality it is the world’s most lopsided: India calls the shots, Pakistan plays the role of foil.

Sri Lankans, no strangers to India’s heavy hand, have their own gossip to share. Why was Chamari Atapattu, one of the world’s finest batters, frozen out of the Women’s IPL? Not talent, say her supporters — politics. She found dignity instead in Australia’s league, while Sri Lankans muttered that India has turned cricket into a private property venture.

So when the handshake snub happened, many here nodded knowingly. “It was coming,” one veteran journalist sighed. “This was the night cricket died.”

And maybe it did. The spirit of the game, once kept alive by small courtesies — the handshakes, the pats on the back, the smiles through gritted teeth — was smothered under the weight of money, politics, and ego. Cricket has not just lost its innocence. It has lost its manners.

The gossip conclusion? Cricket is no longer a gentleman’s game. It is a marketplace of power plays, where even a handshake can be weaponised. Unless someone dares to give India and the ICC a reminder that cricket belongs to the world, not to one nation’s pride, we may all have to admit it: the game we loved has been replaced by something colder, harsher, and uglier.

It was the night cricket died.