Was Santhakumaran Sreesanth involved in spot-fixing? We don’t know. That, in essence, is what the trial court in Delhi has said. And we don’t know because the investigation might have been shoddy; at any rate the case was shoddily presented.
Suresh Menon Two years ago, when it was decided that three players and 39 others would be tried under the Maharashtra Control of Organised Crime Act (MCOCA), the denouement was at once clear.
Not even Sreesanth’s worst enemies thought he was involved in organised crime or terrorism. In the larger scheme of things, taking money to alter a short-term outcome in sport cannot be the equivalent of blowing up a room full of innocent people. Spot-fixing has sometimes been characterised as a victimless crime; the victim is the innocence of sport itself. And it is for this very reason that those who sully that innocence pay for it. If not with a jail term and fines, then by being ostracised from the sport.
And that is why Sreesanth’s life ban imposed by the BCCI has little to do with the court verdict. The court needs evidence of a crime, the Anti-Corruption unit needs only to believe that, as one lawyer put it, “the balance of probabilities” is against the player. If the BCCI gets soft on the players, it would merely point to a lack of conviction in its own processes.
Doing good for the game On the other hand, if Sreesanth decides to sue to get his ban lifted, more skeletons might tumble out of other cupboards, some of them belonging to the cricket board itself. The churning might even do cricket some good.
But why MCOCA? Because, if some lawyers are to be believed, it starts with the presumption of guilt! Sreesanth has said that he was threatened and coerced into signing a “confession” two years ago.
But more importantly, MCOCA because legally, fixing a match is not a crime in India.
This, despite the trauma of former captain Mohammad Azharuddin and some teammates being banned for it at the turn of the century. There wasn’t a law then, and 15 years later, there is no law now. As confirmed cases of fixing grew, as suspicion hovered over players, as the game called out for legislation, our law-makers remained mute.
In 2012, the Andhra Pradesh High Court used the legal version of “unproven” to lift Azharuddin’s life ban. The BCCI did not appeal.
Charity suggests that every man deserves a second chance, but in Azharuddin’s case there was no apology, no sign of remorse for dragging Indian cricket through the mud at the turn of this century. Truth and reconciliation go together; you cannot have the latter without the former.
The Court did not say that Azharuddin was not guilty. It merely indicated that there was no evidence beyond reasonable doubt. This is not such a subtle difference even if Azharuddin himself — quite naturally — preferred to interpret the judgment as one absolving him.
Comprehensive law needed The reluctance of successive governments, therefore, to push for a law — the Prevention of Dishonesty in Sports Bill was ready in 2001 — has been mystifying.
“In view of the huge vacuum of law in this regard in the realm of law,” said the court in the Sreesanth case, “this court is helpless to proceed further under any of the penal statutes.”
Future courts might not plead such helplessness, however, if a comprehensive Prevention of Sporting Fraud Bill, now with the Union Sports Minister, becomes law.
When South African captain Hansie Cronje confessed to fixing matches, a letter-writer wrote in a newspaper, “He was adored. Now we know he was a fake. When we cheered he mocked us. When we suffered for his loss of form, he counted his money. Our hero was just another greedy man.” Sport has to play to a higher moral order than politics or business, because its very artificiality gives us a chance to inject it with purpose.
Sreesanth might have done more for Indian cricket than he realises if whatever happened in 2013 leads to a proper law.
