The introduction of Hawk-Eye revolutionised cricket, bringing modernisation, precision, and investment to the game – a new global spectacle. Yet, this commercialisation has torn the game away from the village green, the local pavilion, the stern but fair umpire, in favour of investments, franchising, and billion-dollar media deals. But Hawk-Eye only revealed the true culprit of the changing game. Capitalism.
The age of the digital umpire
Hawk-Eye is a computer-assisted visual tracking system, invented by Dr Paul Hawkins of Durham University in 1999, that brought the game of cricket into the 21st century. Hawkins hung high-definition cameras equidistantly along the roof of the pavilion (or somewhere similar), so that the ball as it left the bowler’s hand and arrived in the wicketkeeper’s gloves, could be followed from several angles. Its trajectory was thus measurable and analysable.
The first law of cricket used to be that an umpire’s decision was final. I was taught so at school and kept it in mind as I moved through the middle levels of village and club cricket and into retirement. However much you grumbled back to the pavilion, you did not challenge the man in the white coat. You would gain the reputation of being a bad sport.
One county and test umpire, Dicky Bird, gained such a reputation for fair-mindedness and good humour that he was granted an OBE, and a pavilion in his name at Headingley. Hawk-Eye is meant to help such an honourable man. If, however, his decision is demonstrated to be wrong across three TV channels of highlights, it is difficult for the impartial observer to retain the same respect. Fair play is one thing. Facts are another.
From tradition to television
Hawk-Eye was developed at Roke Manor in Romsey, Hampshire, and tested at the local grounds. In 2006, the patent was sold to Wisden, the cricketer’s bible, for £4.4mn, and sold again, five years later, to Sony in Japan for an undisclosed sum, but analysts estimated its value at £20mn. Such bold investment required a new business model. With the help of Hawk-Eye, the cricketing public was not to be found on the deckchairs, but in the pub and the front room. The many millions watching on television could make up their own minds as to whether the umpire had made a mistake.
The laws of cricket could be largely digitalised. It could get rid of many human errors. This opened the prospects for sponsorship, world promotions and new ways to gamble. The game itself had to adapt. Some county matches ran on for four days and still ended in a draw, the ruination of any TV schedule. The new public wanted results, sixes, breath-taking catches, and fast bowlers, whose speed of delivery could be measured in MPH.
From gentleman’s game to global asset
The image of cricket had to change as well. It was no longer the gentleman’s game. In the limited overs leagues, it borrowed a few marketing tricks from our American cousins, colourful tracksuits with commercial logos. “I am Her Majesty’s dog at Kew,” wrote the 18th century satirist, Alexander Pope, for a royal canine collar, “Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?”. In the Twenty20 competitions, teams displayed the arms of their owners, from insurance companies to betting and soft drinks.
Each franchised side consisted of between 18 and 25 players, of whom no more than eight could be acquired from an international pool of star cricketers, whose services were bought and sold at public auction. The bids for popular names vastly exceeded the wages for most professionals.
Internationally, Twenty20 became an astonishing success. It dispelled the idea that cricket was a minority sport. It is the world’s most viewed Indian sports event. In 2022, the Indian Premier League (IPL) sold its media rights to Viacom 18 and Disney-owned Star India in a US$6bn deal. Today, it is among the top sporting leagues at an estimated worth of US$20.6bn, second only to the US National Football League’s (NFL) value on a per-match basis. Its example was followed by South Africa and the Caribbean Premier League (CPL).
A new era for English cricket
In England, the response was more cautious, nuanced, what you will. In 2016, ‘The Hundred’ was conceptualised by Sanjay Patel, chief commercial director of the England and Wales Cricket Board. It was organised along similar lines to the IPL. There were eight franchised sides for men, eight for women, bearing local names with heroic sub-titles, such as the Trent Rockets and Manchester Super Giants. The Hundred simplified the laws of cricket further by getting rid of six-ball overs and, like the IPL, allowed the franchised sides to bid for overseas star names.
The Hundred joined three other competitions: the centuries-old County Championship, where matches could stretch over three or four days, the One-Day Championship, and the Twenty20 Blast. Deloitte, the management consultancy, estimated that it should raise £27mn annually, but the early years were disappointing. In rivalry with commercial channels, the BBC showed some matches live to air. Although this was intended to establish The Hundred in the public mind as a national event, it meant that the revenue from advertising may have suffered. In 2023, Marvel Comics came to its rescue. The Hulk and Iron Man joined its cheerleaders.
Capitalism is the name of the game
Around the country, cricketers still played in whites, with club ties, and batted for local or county teams. Few grounds could afford Hawk-Eye or digitalised umpiring. The prizes to be won in franchised cricket were way out of the ground, twenty million, two billion, twenty billion!
Such sums bore little relationship to the game itself. Live umpires taught us to behave. Team spirit was nurtured in the pavilion. The Duke of Wellington was wrong to say that the Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton. It was won on every village green and county ground. Such activities bind us together as a country.
Franchised leagues are more of a lottery, where prizes walk hand in hand with losses, and the poor outnumber the rich, many, many times. But that is the problem not with cricket, but with capitalism.
More from John Elsom
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