FEBRUARY 1 — Every generation of cricket believes it has been appointed custodian of the game’s soul. 

And every generation is convinced that the next format will finally destroy it.

They said it when cricket stopped being timeless and started being timed.

They said it when whites gave way to colours, when floodlights replaced sunlight, when bats grew thicker and bowlers were told to entertain instead of intimidate.

They said it — loudly — when the 50-over game arrived.

In the 1970s, limited-overs cricket was treated as a novelty at best, heresy at worst. Purists insisted it would trivialise technique, compress patience into recklessness, and turn cricket into something vaguely unseemly. And yet, some of the sport’s most myth-making moments were born precisely because the clock was ticking.

In 1983, Kapil Dev smashed 175 not out against Zimbabwe in a must-win World Cup match — an innings that would not exist without the pressure of a limited format. India went on to win the World Cup, and cricket’s centre of gravity shifted permanently. That tournament didn’t dilute cricket. It detonated it — commercially, culturally, globally.

One-day cricket didn’t kill Test cricket. It paid for it.

This time, the outrage was operatic. This wasn’t cricket, critics declared. It was fast food. Pop music. A betrayal of craft. And then the games began — and so did the numbers.

Australia piled on 434 for 4 against South Africa in 2006, only for South Africa to chase it down. A score once thought obscene became merely provisional. The world watched, stunned, not because the game had lost depth — but because it had gained jeopardy.

At the sharp end of the format, legends were born. MS Dhoni turned finishing into an art form. Chris Gayle redefined power. And in the 2016 World T20 final, Carlos Brathwaite struck four consecutive sixes to win a World Cup — four balls that generated more global attention than entire Test series.

T20 didn’t erase history. It underwrote it.

Broadcast revenues exploded. Franchise leagues emerged. Players from smaller nations became full-time professionals instead of part-timers with second jobs. Women’s cricket found audiences, sponsors, and prime-time slots. Boards that once relied on gate receipts learned how to monetise attention in a digital age.

Which brings us — predictably — to the current anxiety: the 10-over format.

Once again, we are told this is the end. Too short. Too loud. Too shallow. Cricket reduced to a highlight reel. But this fear confuses nostalgia with economics — and reverence with relevance.

People love to confuse heritage with entertainment, as if age automatically equals value and reverence guarantees relevance. Sometimes — on rare, beautiful days — they can be woven from the same cloth. But they do not carry the same commercial weight, nor do they command attention in the same way.

Heritage is something you protect. Entertainment is something you pay for.

Cricket was born in an era that respected waiting. Lunch breaks. Long shadows. Sessions that unfolded slowly enough for thought to catch up with action. But the modern world doesn’t wait. It scrolls. It swipes. You have two seconds to matter before the thumb moves on — and advertisers know this better than anyone. Money doesn’t follow sentiment; it follows eyeballs.

And eyeballs have always loved compression.

They loved tied one-day internationals. They loved last-ball finishes. They loved chases won with one wicket standing and one delivery to spare.

Drama thrives under constraint. The fewer the overs, the higher the stakes. Ten overs doesn’t remove nuance — it concentrates it. There is nowhere to hide. Every ball matters. Every mistake is terminal. It is cricket stripped to consequence.

The financial story is unambiguous. Every time cricket shortened itself, it grew richer. Shorter formats did not siphon money away from the game — they created it. That money now funds academies, domestic competitions, women’s leagues, and yes, the longest format itself.

Resisting change sounds noble. Almost heroic. But history is merciless to those who try to freeze time.

Formats don’t kill heritage. Silence does.

A 10-over game is not a betrayal of cricket. It is an entry point. A gateway. A sharp, violent, distilled version of the sport designed for a world that consumes entertainment quickly, visually, emotionally. It does not replace the five-day epic any more than a short story replaces a novel — but it keeps people reading.

Cricket has never been singular. It has always been plural. Different rhythms, different audiences, different needs. The future does not belong to those who guard the past with folded arms. It belongs to those who understand that survival is not about resisting time — but staying legible to it.

The game was never meant to be a museum piece. It was meant to be watched. Argued over. Loved.

And — like it or not — paid for.

If the future of cricket includes ten overs, history suggests this much: we have heard this funeral speech before. And every time, cricket has walked away not diminished — but louder, richer, and very much alive.

* This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of Malay Mail.