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Kohli didn’t leave because he stopped loving the game. He left because the game stopped understanding the kind of love he gave it.
There was a time: before hashtags and hostilities, when cricket on this subcontinent belonged to purer minds. I was lucky to grow up in that Karachi. A city where cricket was not a proxy for politics but a portal into grace, grit, and genius.
Our coaches didn’t teach us whom to cheer based on flags; they taught us to revere
Sunil Gavaskar
if we wanted to learn the art of attrition, and
Gordon Greenidge
if we sought the fury of a square cut in full bloom. We were taught that genius bowed to no border. Which is why, today, I feel no conflict in mourning
Virat Kohli
’s exit. In times like these, when vitriol comes easier than virtue, this piece is not written in protest or praise. It is written in remembrance. For the game we once loved.
And the way we were once taught to love it.
There are English summers, and then there are English summers that contain
Rohit Sharma
and Virat Kohli. The former are pleasant; the latter, unforgettable. This year, the roses will still bloom, and the Barmy Army will still sing. But the air will be thinner, the echoes fainter, because this is a summer robbed of its lords. First, Rohit Sharma stepped away — quietly, gracefully. And now, so has Virat Kohli.