Sometimes sport isn't fair – but that's OK, neither is life

Unpredictable, filled with strange rules and often not rewarding the truly deserving, there can be no better metaphor for human existence

England lifted the Cricket World Cup trophy on July 14 in London despite tying the final against New Zealand. Clive Mason / Getty Images

A few days ago, I found myself back in Mumbai for work reasons. There, as ever, the conversation centred around cricket. What was remarkable, however, was that it wasn't a discussion of the latest match that dominated – rather that of the Cricket World Cup final, which took place earlier this month.

This particular game continues to be discussed because it provides a timely reminder that – for all its obsessions with pernickety rules and tiresome regulations, video referees, super-slow-motion cameras, bails that light up and Ultra Edge microphones – cricket, and sport in general, is under no obligation whatsoever to generate outcomes that are just, fair or even make sense.

In that way, they are much like any other aspect of human life. Sport, the American television mogul Ted Turner once said, is “war without the killing”. For many of us, it is also life without the dying.

And, yet, many cricket fans were livid with the result of that match. Not because England won, either. Australia are perhaps the most widely reviled team in cricket. But at least the Australians support Australia. Compared to other cricketing nations, the England team inspires rather less passion on all sides.

The reason for people’s consternation was that England won the World Cup after tying with New Zealand during the regulation 50 overs – the tie occurring only after the England team were erroneously rewarded an additional run. Then, in the ensuing 'Super Over', both teams tied again, after which England were awarded the trophy for having scored more boundaries than the Kiwis.

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At first glance, this rule makes very little sense. Why should a team lift a prize that represents all-round cricketing excellence over several matches on the basis of having hit the ball harder and longer than another one? Why not on the basis of more wickets? Or more catches?

There are broadly three sets of problems with such thinking.

First, very little about cricket makes sense in any case. A sport in which matches take place on non-standard grounds, on surfaces that behave unpredictably, where the ball is materially affected by the weather and in which the toss of a coin can hugely dictate the end result has already embraced far too much randomness for fans to protest at a little bit more.

Second, sorting out the results of a tied competition is a hugely vexing problem in any sport. At least a Super Over has the potential to involve all the basic disciplines of cricket in reaching a resolution: bowling, fielding, batting, umpiring, confusion. A penalty shootout is so different from regular football as to be a different sport in itself. Suddenly, a team sport is, for reasons of expediency, reduced to the kind of contest you would see at a fairground or a primary school fete. And, yet, the greatest prizes in the game have been claimed in this manner.

Third, and perhaps most importantly, rejecting England’s win is tantamount to rejecting the vagaries of human existence itself. We can make all the rules we want, leverage the best technologies at hand, obsess over regulatory minutiae ad infinitum, and sport will inevitably find a way to confound our best-laid plans.

This is an experience not to be angry about, but to be savoured. Is not the inevitability of irrational outcomes the very essence of existence itself? Even as the unstoppable force of human ignorance continues to slam into the immovable object of political opportunism all over the world, the Cricket World Cup is a humble reminder that, often, things just don’t make sense. And that is perfectly fine.

Besides, if sport did not have a strong streak of resistance to rewarding the truly deserving, how would we ever get a story such as that of Australia’s Steven Bradbury? At the 2002 Winter Olympics, Bradbury qualified for the 1,000-metre short-track speed skating quarter-finals. Only the top two skaters qualified for the semis, and he finished third. But then one was disqualified and Bradbury was sent through to the semis.

With little to no chance of competing with the other, better athletes, Bradbury decided to hang back and let them fight it out. His strategy worked. Speed skating is a sport known for its spectacular human pile-ups, and all the other competitors crashed out. Bradbury duly qualified for the finals. Astonishingly, the same thing happened in that race. Bradbury hung back, the others skaters jostled and crashed out, leaving Bradbury to gently skate in for gold.

Later, he said his tactic had been deliberate. He knew the other skaters would be aggressive and take risks. So, he bided his time and let them take each other out. Some commentators pointed out that, owing to his lack of basic speed, Bradbury was the wrong person to win the event. The gold medal around his neck disagreed. And if that isn’t a life lesson, then what is?

Sidin Vadukut is an Indian author and historian who lives in London