The sound of music: Stadium edition
Broadcasters can now offer viewers a fine, nuanced soundscape, impossible to get with large crowds
Empty stadiums will be the new normal for sports. I hope broadcasters will take advantage of that and offer viewers a fine, nuanced soundscape that is otherwise impossible to get with large crowds. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be able to snoop in on what athletes are saying to each other on the field through the duration of a cricket match, for example, instead of being fed little treats from the stump mic?
Talking of stump mic conversations, I remember one from a few years back when India were playing Australia in a Test, and MS Dhoni was keeping to Ravichandran Ashwin. “Sahi hai, kauwa uda (correct, let the crow fly)!” Dhoni says, and Ashwin loops it up for a dot ball. “Badhiya hain! Kauwa ko thoda aur udne de (that was good! Let the crow fly a bit more)…” Dhoni says, and Ashwin give his next ball even more flight. The batsman goes on the front foot to meet the ball, gets a big edge, and is caught out. Let’s get Dhoni back in the team just for his unique chatter!
I would love to be privy to more such conversations from the field, instead of the clamour of crowds—to hear the clear crack of a sweetly timed shot, the dull thunk of a ball hitting the stumps, or the rustle of a batsman’s shoes as he shapes up to play a delivery.
This desire for the “pure” sounds of a sport comes from having some experience with watching athletes at work with no one else around—one of the privileges of being a sports journalist.
In 2016, I was in a boxing gym in Manchester with Vijender Singh, who had just turned pro. It was afternoon, and there was no one else in the gym. In fact, there was no one on the street outside, lined with identical single storey houses — it was a ghost town, a lockdown experience before that became ubiquitous.
Vijender punished the heavy bag, and the sound experience was incredible. Sitting in a corner of that dimly-lit gym, it was the first time I really felt the power behind an elite fighter’s punch as it crashed into the bag. There was the squeak of his shoes on canvas as he moved; the laboured bursts of breath, a loud “huh” as he followed up a jab with a fullblooded swing…and his muttered words of motivation to himself. It was music.
About a decade earlier, I stood at a corner of a football ground in Delhi, watching Bhaichung Bhutia practice curling free kicks all by himself. The rest of the Indian team had finished training and trooped out for their shower. Bhutia lined up the ball, ran up, and kicked with a resounding, short, thud. If you have not heard that sound from up close, it is difficult to grasp just how hard a ball can be hit. The ball swerved through the air and hit the crossbar, and there was another thunderous report, a metallic ringing that echoed across the ground.
Last year, I discovered my dream football stadium. It was a pity I only got to see it on TV. France was playing Andorra, a very tiny country buttressed into the Pyrenees mountains. Their national stadium reflects the size of the country. It has just two stands. One end shares a boundary wall with an apartment complex. Another end is basically the jagged rockface of a looming mountain. The cameras hovered almost uncomfortably close to the action. And every sound—the hard thump of a shot, the swoosh of a long pass, the hushed dab of a pass received with a cushioned touch, the constant call-and-response between players (ici! allez! rapide!), and the anguished scream of a player brought down by a bad tackle—could be heard with breathtaking clarity.
It was music.