One hand writing, one clapping

Am I a writer with a fan inside me or am I a fan who writes? When I started writing about cricket, I used to think that the real dilemma lay in switching from fan to writer, as if some neat line divided the two preoccupations, and that somehow the latter operated on a higher plane. Writers had fans in their essence, but I imagined they saw and wrote about things "ordinary" fans didn't pick up.

Three years later, the question remains unanswered. It has become broader, more complex, and has me racked with anxiety, insecurity, uncertainty, and even guilt when I write: how, if at all, am I any different from the millions of fans who follow the game? And extending it, why should what I write about a game hold any more value (if it does hold any in the first place) to those fans than the opinions and insights they exchange among themselves?

Leave aside ex-players turned writers, who by dint of their past as players are immediately assumed to provide a deeper knowledge than many. Most people, after all, have something to say about cricket; I am merely one of them. Most people who have something to say haven't played cricket at any serious level; I am one of them as well. Yet what I think or say is published, implying thus that my opinion often counts; whatever its substance, it carries some basic value.

The more significant dilemma, though, is in knowing when to stop being a fan and when to start being objective. It happens, for example, when writing a country-related perspective for a day's play on a site like Cricinfo. A team like Pakistan blow as hot as they do cold, so when they do have a good day, how much of it is their brilliance and how much the ineptitude of their opponents? When they fail, how much is it their crap-ness and how much the inspiration of the other side?

The extremities of emotion found in many fans - and particularly ones from the subcontinent - haven't passed me by; they do seep into the writing, though I have always thought otherwise. One particular blast at Mohammad Yousuf's lack of runs under fire was particularly venting in tone. Funnily enough, he's grown WG Grace's beard and Don Bradman's appetite for runs in all conditions since.

Two teams contribute to any result, but on a lopsided day it's easy to overlook that. Locating that balance between rationally critiquing a team you have followed, while acknowledging the opponent's performance - that is trying.

Other situations will arise that might be more than trying; of the kind that journalists faced during the match-fixing crisis, for instance. I know one who outed players here in Pakistan, was close to those involved, and soon after gave up writing altogether. To put aside a painstakingly built relationship with a player and then report a story that might end that player's career: conflicts between personal feeling and professional duty don't come more exacting. It will happen at some point. And knowing what to do in advance doesn't make it easier.

Do writers drift towards some form of benign partisanship towards their nationality? Maybe, though at least with Cricinfo, its very global nature provides a natural counter-pull to any such sway. Match reports, in particular, demand a rigorous balance; unlike with those in a newspaper, these pieces will be read, at the very least, by readers of both countries, and probably more. There is no room for slant - for, say, writing about a Pakistan-India game as a Pakistani; Indians will read it, as will Pakistanis, as might the English and Australians. There is no room, either, for ignorance. As a Pakistani, writing about a game between New Zealand and West Indies asks for a certain depth of knowledge, about players, about the form of both teams, about history and context. You have to know, lest you are found out.

I was switching channels recently when I came across the last over of an ODI between Zimbabwe and Bangladesh. Zimbabwe needed 17; Brendan Taylor the man given the task. Thrillingly, he succeeded, courtesy a last-ball six. It evoked the Bangladesh upset over Australia last year, the ensuing Ashes, and the 434-run chase by South Africa. As contests they were gripping and dramatic enough anyway, but because I didn't have to write about them, I didn't have to contextualise them or develop a theme to their tales; they became more memorable. These were games I appreciated only as fan, and as a bonus, a neutral one. I delighted in the results, their manner, and the unchecked adrenaline each one brought.

Perversely, on each occasion there was debate within. The quality of the contests, the situations and the results prompted a little urge to write - something, anything. I didn't have to, I just felt I wanted to (eventually I didn't).

It's a strange dilemma now. I watch matches in which I have no stake, and I find I can't do so without noting points I would if I were covering the games. Automatically themes come to mind, questions to ask at the presser afterwards, statistics to look up. Strange, though not altogether unpleasant.

This article was first published in the September 2006 edition of Cricinfo Magazine