Leather&Willow Blogs

There are moments in cricket that no script can ever capture. You can plan a match, set fields, talk tactics, prepare for conditions, but what actually stays with you often has nothing to do with the score.

That is why I think cricket is the greatest sport there is.
Not because of the noise around it, or the numbers at the end of the day, but because of what it quietly asks from the people playing it, and what it gives back to those who truly watch. This blog is an attempt to talk about those parts of the game. The parts that don’t sit well inside highlights, scorecards, or post-match analysis. The parts that live beyond winning and losing.

Think about what it takes to walk out to bat on a cold English morning, under heavy clouds, or on a dry, cracked pitch in the subcontinent. You know the ball might swing, seam, turn, or hit you. You know you’ll be tested physically and mentally. And yet, after all that, you’re still expected to face the next ball as if nothing happened before.
That is cricket.

It’s why Mohammed Siraj staying back in Australia in 2020–21, choosing to play on despite the loss of his father, meant more than the wickets he picked up. It’s why Rishabh Pant’s innings in Sydney and Brisbane felt different, because before all that, he had been dropped in the first Test. Those innings weren’t just about runs; they were about staying present when it would’ve been easier to disappear.

That’s when cricket stops being a sport and starts becoming personal.

I was four years old when I first watched a game of cricket. I still remember a poster of Virender Sehwag in my room, cut out from a magazine called Cricket Samrat. That’s one of the earliest memories I have, not just of cricket, but of my life.
From there, cricket slowly became something I couldn’t avoid even if I tried.
It was my first love.

Back then, I didn’t know what love meant. We didn’t define it or talk about it, we just grew together. And the strange thing is, I’ve never felt that love leave. If anything, it has only grown stronger with time. Yes, cricket is a beautiful sport. It demands skill, courage, temperament, and discipline. Anyone can fall in love with it for those reasons.But for me, there was always something deeper. Something you never see on the scorecard. Something you don’t hear in analysis. Something that exists far beyond talent or ability. I’ve loved cricket for the space it creates in every moment. Especially Test cricket. It feels like a small lesson in life, teaching patience when the bowler is on top, teaching restraint when survival matters more than dominance, teaching clarity when everything around you feels uncertain.

But for me, there was always something deeper. Something you never see on the scorecard. Something you don’t hear in analysis. Something that exists far beyond talent or ability. I’ve loved cricket for the space it creates in every moment. Especially Test cricket. It feels like a small lesson in life, teaching patience when the bowler is on top, teaching restraint when survival matters more than dominance, teaching clarity when everything around you feels uncertain.This blog exists for those moments.
For the stories cricket leaves behind quietly, long after the last ball has been bowled.

This blog exists for those moments.
For the stories cricket leaves behind quietly, long after the last ball has been bowled.