David Johnson’s death and cricket’s depressingly inglorious uncertainties

A few years back, unable to bear the sudden silence of his post-retirement life at his home at Meerut in Uttar Pradesh, a clinically depressed former India cricketer Praveen Kumar decided to end it all. On a winter night, with his wife and children fast asleep in their warm quilts, he snuck into his car, carrying with him his licensed gun, resisting the urge to take one final glimpse of his family.

When on the highway, the magical fingers that hid the rare art of moving a cricket ball the way he willed placed the weapon on his own temple. Just in time, just before he shut his eyes and plunged into eternal darkness, he saw the picture of his smiling kids on the car’s dashboard.

PK these days is seen in studios talking about mental health. The Jaat boy from UP scoffs at the misplaced machismo of bottling troubled emotions and extols the virtues of sharing one’s vulnerabilities with the world. PK’s sermon was simple: It was okay for nations’ superheroes to be humans. Many from the cricketing community would follow PK’s path, share their close brush with depression and self-destruction. But sadly, not all.

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The passing away of the 90s India speedster David Johnson in suspicious circumstances – Bangalore police suspect it to be suicide – proves there are many who have been hiding their pain. Some might even be screaming for help but those pleas are either not being heard or just being ignored. Worryingly, there are many on the edge and these are the much loved, celebrated household names.

About a year after PK’s confession, another pacer from UP, Mohammad Shami would speak of how injury, marital discord, media glare and a near-fatal road accident had driven him to the brink. His parents, he said, would not leave him alone since he thrice attempted to take his life in that period.

Even the strong are weak

Later, even the most-successful batsman ever, the game’s top-earner Virat Kohli went on to say that at one point he too thought “it was the end of the world”. There was also the ever-smiling opener Robin Uthappa opening up on the darkest phase of his life. A seasoned pro, he said he would often find himself sitting on the couch of his living room fighting the brain constantly pestering him to jump off the balcony. “Somehow, I stopped myself,” he says. If the police are to be believed, Johnson, like Uthappa, couldn’t stop his legs from taking the leap of death.”

In Bangalore, his friends, in hushed tones, talk about his financial troubles. Police have hinted at his alcohol addiction treatment. The tearaway erratic bowler – most famous for that one rank bad ball that induced a terrible shot from Michael Slater but became memorable because of Mohammad Azharuddin’s stunning one-handed catch above his head – didn’t seem ready for the real-world problems outside the stadium.

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He wasn’t the first. Actually, cricket can be called the suicide capital of the sports world. It’s a claim backed by statistics. No other sport has as many players embracing death willingly as cricket. In his seminal book on this subject – The Silence of the Heart – cricket writer and historian David Frith lays out the figures and also dwells on the reasons. As against the British national average of close to 1 per cent, the suicide rate among English cricketers was close to 2. Firth, in the book, deals with the complex question about the game. “Does it (the game) gradually transform unwary cricket-loving boys into brooding, insecure and ultimately self-destructive men when the best days are past?” he asks at the start of the book.

In an intriguing argument, he psychoanalyses the players of the heartless sport that doesn’t give one a real second chance. Golf has 18 holes, tennis has five sets, football has a second half, in cricket just one mistake can make a player hors de combat, he urges. “.. it is not just batsmen who wait and wait. Bowlers have seized up, taut mind and sinews playing grotesque havoc with length and direction. It may be that the very combination of the passive and the active during drawn-out cricket matches and careers imposes a strain on the nerves which is unique among sports … prolonged periods of boredom interspersed with acute tension can be corrosive,” he writes.

Pangs of uncertainty

In his foreword, England’s brainiest captain and trained mind guru Michael Brearley writes: ” … uncertainty of cricket is not always glorious or exciting. It can be disillusioning and anxiety-creating. Many ex-cricketers are likely to feel that what follows a life in which one’s work is doing what many do for a hobby and involves living in some style, in the public eye, is a severe come-down.” The book has a telling quote from Test player Sam Palmer on a cricketer’s life after hanging his boots – the kind PK was leading in Meerut. “The trouble with making a game a profession is that you’re at the top too young. The rest of the way is a gentle slide down. Not so gentle sometimes. It makes one feel so ruddy, useless and old.”

Though written with English context, this is true of the Indian cricket ecosystem too. Since the BCCI has a well-structured age-group system, cricketers from their early teens get used to being among the lads. In the company of pals, financially independent, they travel the world, doing things they like. They don’t have parental restrictions for long periods and are thus free of all domestic rules. Air tickets, hotel reservations, passport renewal, aadhar update – they have people to take care of the common men’s chores. Once retired, the perks and the Men Friday disappear. Those starting the day with the team hotel’s complimentary breakfast and ending it with room-service meals aren’t equipped to deal with maids, plumbers, electricians and guards.

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This explains why retired cricketers dearly hold to their commentators job and also the popularity of the veterans tournament. It pays them well, keeps them on the circuit and lets them live the life they love. Those lacking the stature or the fame to get these plum jobs are grounded at home. With too few jobs and too many ex-players, the average retired cricketer finds himself at the deep end with no swimming skills or life jackets.

Firth’s book doesn’t cover India. “Since India’s toll is somewhat speculative (and either way slight by comparison) it has not been calculated,” he writes. A deep dive in the newspaper archives, throws up depressing news hidden in obscure corners.

Do the names Amol Jichkar, Shivesh Ranjan Majumdar, Karan Tiwari and PK Dharma ring a bell? They wouldn’t. These are state and club level cricketers who ended their lives by hanging themselves. Cricket didn’t give them the returns they expected. Google their names to discover the stories of a retired first-class cricketer’s unwise restaurant investment, a young IPL player’s heart-break or a cricketer dreamer turned alcoholic. Johnson’s death throws the light on the game’s less-romantic side. Cricket isn’t a funny game for the ones who play it.

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