An open letter from a cricket ball to AB de Villiers
NOTE: This is a humour article and should not be taken seriously.
Dear AB de Villiers,
Hello. I don’t have a name, but people call me a cricket ball – or at least I was one before you decided to give me a new and ugly shape. I hope that you treat this letter with more respect than you treated me.
You might be wondering why a cricket ball would write a letter to you. Well, you will know why by the time you finish reading this.
A lot of wood-cutters rise up early in the morning and extract cork from trees. Those corks are put together, stitched and then finally, a piece of leather is wrapped around them to make what you call a cricket ball.
So you see, when you smash us the way you do, you not only smash us, but also the tireless efforts of thousands of wood-cutters who pride themselves on their work when they see us on TV.
Then come the people who stitch the cork. With a lot of diligence, they sew up the cork and make a perfect sphere. They don’t even take care of their children the way they take care of us. And you, ABD, spit on their love like the cold-hearted brute that you are.
And then the leather. By the time you are done, the leather doesn’t look like leather anymore – it looks like the face of Lucifer. Such is my outlook now that not even my parents want me any more, and obviously, I can’t be used in any matches because I don’t meet the requirements to be called a ball any longer.
When I became a cricket ball, I thought I knew exactly what I had signed up for. That great bowlers would hold me, caress me, kiss me, and then use me to release all their life’s frustration when they throw me at the batsmen.
And then I would be the subject of some glorious shots. Bit by bit, I would lose my beauty, but at the expense of some really classy soft-handed shots. I was okay with that – after all, not much pain would have been inflicted on me if that was what would have happened.
In Advaitic (non-duality) philosophy, it is said that the soul is indestructible. No matter what happens, the soul can’t be destroyed. But one look at me and people will know that this statement is false. You demolished my soul – and you enjoyed doing it.
It seems to me that you are not human. You are a mutant. Marvel have created comics on the subject of mutants, but they don’t have you as a character which automatically makes the comics irrelevant. If I was a writer at Marvel, I would have written a character named AB whose abilities include superhuman speed, strength and agility, genius-level intellect and strategy, and a bat for a weapon that only you – and not even Thor – can carry.
But I guess they don’t put real-life characters in comic books because that would defeat their purpose.
I know that people love entertainment – even if is at the expense of someone’s soul. After all, the Romans loved watching people kill each other for the sake of entertainment, and humans are all the same. But please, show some humanity on us balls. It is us that let you play cricket in the first place.
Right now I am desecrated, but I plead on behalf of all my kind that are yet to face the fire of your fury: be kind to us. Please play us with soft hands. Please show some mercy.
Some people label you as a God, and God is the personification of mercy. So please show people that you indeed are a direct incarnation of God.
A cricket ball