Why cricket now needs its own communication coach

India’s clean sweep in Dubai wasn’t just about cricketing skill—it was a trilogy of calculated gestures, cooled tempers, and a rivalry redefined by silence and optics. As post-match controversies linger, a new specialist emerges: the communication coach, ready to keep the sport hot and the talk cool.

It wasn’t one night of drama or a stray flash of temper. It was an extended trilogy—three matches, three wins—ending 3–0 and leaving behind signals larger than the scoreline. India and Pakistan met in the group stage, the Super Fours, and then the final in Dubai. The cricket stayed tense, margins narrow, and nerves taut. Tilak Varma’s unbeaten 69 sealed the trophy in the last over, a crisp full stop to a month already pointing one way.

Instead of finishing with a podium picture, the evening ended with optics. India declined to accept the trophy from Mohsin Naqvi—Pakistan’s interior minister and PCB chief, also presiding as ACC head—and so Naqvi walked off with the cup. Cameras recorded not closure but chaos. “This will haunt them,” objected Shoaib Malik, the former Pakistan captain. Indian skipper Suryakumar Yadav’s quick line—“Trophy leke bhaag gaye woh”—traveled farther than any cover drive. Later, the BCCI clarified that a formal protest would follow. In this rivalry, no gesture is neutral; even silence speaks loudly.

Cricket as fast‑forward diplomacy

The series was thick with symbols. There were nights without handshakes, nights when the trophy lift was reduced to a brisk formality. Nothing felt theatrical. It felt like temperature management. In a neighbourhood as combustible as ours, understatement is not indifference—it is insulation.

Still, mini dramas kept multiplying: a jet‑plane mime, a gun‑fire celebration with the bat. Small gestures sprint faster than facts, hardening brittle moods. Soon sanctions and debates followed, and the story of the cricket itself risked being swallowed whole. A T20 lasts 40 overs; a meme can linger for weeks.

If international cricket is diplomacy in fast‑forward, then this Asia Cup was a compressed cycle. Protocols on the surface, improvisations underneath. Appeals and reviews—not just for LBWs but for lines, tones, and optics. Public sentiment around the matches swung from grief to pride, from Kashmir’s victims’ families questioning the staging to leaders holding the team up as a symbol of resolve. Agreement on these extremes wasn’t required to recognise one truth: clarity had become a duty.

The missing coach

Cricket has coaches for batting, bowling, fielding, fitness, analytics, even psychology. But what it lacked through this series was a different kind of specialist: a communication coach. Not a spin doctor or political minder, but a professional who reads stagecraft, semiotics, broadcaster pressures, and the simmering temperature of public mood—someone tasked with ensuring matches end as contests, not controversies.

Imagine the job. The mission is simple: keep the cricket compelling while keeping the conversation calm. Wins and losses in proportion. Skill, not temperature spikes, as the headline. This coach would begin by mapping the context: what postures heal, what gestures hurt, what provocations the opponent might throw in, and which players, by temperament or social‑media habits, are likeliest to react. The job stretches into the practical: anthem protocols, handshake choreography, podium sequence. Details that often look trivial until they aren’t.

The guidance would be straightforward. Ceremonies should be understated. Post‑match words should be short and factual. Victories can be dedicated, but never dramatised. Celebrations could be rehearsed from a pre‑cleared “safe pack”—the raised bat, the glove tap, the quiet huddle, the lap of thanks.

The “don’ts” would be equally clear. No mimed weaponry, not even in irony. No crash‑plane gestures. No podium pantomime staged for clips. And no impulsive hot‑take posts in the first 12 hours after a flashpoint. Ceremony flow would remain simple. Handshakes: optional but never theatrical. Anthems: eyes forward. The trophy lift: quick, dignified, and done—no memes in the making. In real time, the coach would manage sparks quietly—a code word whispered to the captain when tempers flared (“Umbrella” meaning, step into shade). Hot heads would skip late‑night mixed‑zone interviews.

And when tensions do spill over, the playbook would activate: a holding statement within 20 minutes, one authoritative voice within an hour, no expressive visuals for 24 hours. Calm, measured, cooling. Success would be measured not only by the scoreboard but by sentiment: fewer headlines about gestures and more about skill; broadcasters reporting clarity; players reporting calm. In short, this is not about policing emotion. It is professional emotional architecture for one of the world’s most combustible sporting rivalries.

Beyond the scoreboard

The stakes extend further. Whether fairly or not, cricket is now held as proxy for politics. That means framing wins and losses is not indulgence but necessity. Oversell victories and the first stumble feels like collapse. Undersell them and effort feels cheap. Framing here is not manipulation. Framing is public safety in a hot neighbourhood. For all the heat, the best snapshots of the trilogy were small and human: a bowler smiling to himself before his run‑up, a batter raising his bat without flourish, a captain speaking in one precise line. Even the mistakes—the plane mime, the rifle mime—may yet carry value by sketching the rules of what must be avoided the next time these neighbours face off. Play hot; speak cool. Let the cricket sing. Let the conversation hum in a lower key. Proportion is power, and proportion lets both victory and setback land with rhythm—loud enough to be felt, soft enough to let a country sleep.

(OP Singh is DGP & Head, Haryana State Narcotics Control Bureau.)