The scent of Linseed: A requiem for the beautiful game

T20 has destroyed the romance of the game.

I can still smell the linseed oil. It is a scent that defines a season's anticipation more accurately than any calendar. Before a new summer, a cricketer would spend hours in the garage, methodically feeding the willow, layer by layer. It was a private ritual of preparation for the grand battles ahead.

That romance, that deep and patient love, has evaporated. In its place, I find only the hollow, instant gratification of T20.My own love affair began not with the bang of a six, but in the slow-burning theatre of red-ball cricket. I watched South Africa's rebel test series against Sri Lanka, the West Indies, Australia and England.

I was raised on a diet of complexity and subtlety, a game for strategists and planners. In what other sport can a narrative reach its agonising, glorious climax after five full days? This was cricket as a novel, not a text message.

Then, into those hot summer nights at Kingsmead, came colour. The jingle was an incantation: "Come on summer, come on summer, come on summer, come on..." and with it, the Benson & Hedges night series. White ball, coloured clothing and heroes I could almost touch. Andrew Hudson and Kevin McKenzie.

The sheer thrill of watching Jonty Rhodes and Errol Stewart electrify the field with their running. I had never seen men run so swiftly with pads. Real legends walked the turf: Kim Hughes, Malcolm Marshall and the imperious Clive Rice. Then, finally, came my two great heroes, the fabulous all-rounders Zulu and Polly.

This was 50-over cricket and I adored it. It was a perfect middle ground, a short story that still demanded a complete narrative arc.

When T20 first arrived, I did not see it as a threat. I thought this is not so bad. I watched Brendon McCullum score a century for KKR and felt a flicker of genuine excitement. The early tournaments were studded with genuine greats of the game. Tendulkar, Warne, Kallis, Murali and Ponting. There was the novelty, a gathering of masters and the thrill of exciting newcomers like the Dutchman Dirk Nannes or the universe boss, Chris Gayle.

Unfortunately, the novelty has curdled into a monstrous, commercial machine. Too many leagues have sprung up, recycling the same ageing mercenaries. With respect, Faf du Plessis, Sikandar Raza, Imran Tahir and David Wiese are still plying their trade long after their time. Meanwhile the real geniuses, AB de Villiers, David Warner and Kevin Pietersen, have long since retired. Let us call T20 what it has become: pornography. It is nothing but a dopamine hit designed to be consumed and forgotten.

There is absolutely no foreplay, no tension-building, no trap that takes twenty minutes to set. It is just the climax, over and over, until you are left numb. I really can't stand it any longer. Unless it is a World Cup, a tournament with some genuine weight of consequence, I won't even watch. What is the consequence of this age of easy thrills? Abishek Sharma is the number one rated batter in T20.

I wonder how he would fare on a green-tinged track at the Bullring. Picture him facing Messrs. Rabada and Jansen with the new cherry and a five-slip cordon. The thought is almost laughable. The great technicians, the artists who could bat for an entire day just to ensure survival, are now but distant memories.

Laxman, Dravid, the imperious Lara and my own Hashim Amla. They are but the ghosts of a forsaken world. The instant gratification of T20 means players will no longer take the time to hone and perfect their techniques. The craft of building an innings, the art of leaving the ball and the sheer mental fortitude to survive when everything is against you are dying currencies. That symbol of devotion, the linseed oil, is the final marker of what we have lost. Why would a modern player need to care for a precious piece of willow with a season-long ritual? He now has ten bats, interchangeable and disposable. Just like the leagues and the memories they create.

The game I loved was for the patient, the strategist and the romantic. That game, once soundtracked by the whisper of oil on wood and the ripple of applause for a forward defence, is no more. I mourn it.

Taz Cassiem l Century View