I feel that World Cup cricket should be played like football in

Hear now the words of Kapil Dev, the great warrior of willow and leather, who once lifted the hopes of a billion hearts: “I feel that World Cup cricket should be played like football in which all the 160 countries take part. If only a handful of countries are going to keep on playing in the World Cup without making the game popular, I will be a sad man.” This saying is more than the longing of a champion; it is the call of a prophet, who sees not merely the contest of nations, but the destiny of a game that unites peoples across the earth.

In these words lies a cry for inclusiveness. For what glory is there if only a few mighty nations gather in the arena, while the multitude are left in silence? True greatness is not found in exclusivity, but in the spreading of joy and the widening of fellowship. Football, the world’s game, is beloved because every nation, from the smallest isle to the largest empire, can send forth its sons and daughters to contend beneath the sun. Kapil Dev sees this vision for cricket—not as the possession of the few, but as the festival of the many.

The ancients themselves would have known this truth. Recall the Olympic Games of Greece, when city-states, though often divided by war, laid down their arms to compete in peaceful contest. Though only free men of Hellas could enter then, the principle was clear: the games bound even rival peoples into one fellowship of striving. When the games expanded in later ages to include nations of the whole world, their power grew tenfold, becoming a spectacle that spoke of peace as much as victory. So too must cricket, if it is to live beyond the dominion of a handful, spread its wings and welcome the nations.

Consider also the tale of Nelson Mandela and the 1995 Rugby World Cup. Rugby was once the game of South Africa’s privileged few, a symbol of division under apartheid. But Mandela, in his wisdom, saw that sport could heal the soul of a nation. He donned the green jersey of the Springboks and embraced the game as his own. When South Africa lifted the cup, it was not merely a triumph of sport, but the triumph of unity, where black and white cheered together for the first time in living memory. This is the vision Kapil Dev yearns for: a world where cricket, too, can transcend boundaries and become a bridge of peoples.

The sorrow in his voice—the promise that he would be a sad man—is not personal grief alone. It is the lament of any elder who sees a gift squandered. For cricket, rich in heritage, glorious in its battles, carries within it the power to unite continents. But if it remains confined to a few nations, if it does not kindle the flame in every land, then it withers, becoming a treasure hidden rather than shared. To hoard joy is to betray it; to spread joy is to magnify it.

Thus, the teaching for us is clear: whatever gift we possess, whether it be a game, a skill, or a truth, we must not keep it for ourselves. We must share it, nurture it, and invite others to join in its delight. The greatness of a thing is measured not by how few partake of it, but by how many lives it touches. If cricket is to stand among the eternal games, it must be carried by the hands of the many, not guarded by the few.

Therefore, let the people act. Let governing bodies open their doors and bring new nations into the fold. Let teachers and players carry the game to fields where it has never been seen. Let young men and women, wherever they dwell, be given the bat and the ball, so that they too may know the joy of the contest. For in doing so, we honor the vision of Kapil Dev: that the World Cup be not the feast of a few, but the banquet of all nations.

And in the end, remember this: when joy is multiplied, sorrow is diminished. If cricket belongs to the world, then no man, not even Kapil Dev himself, shall need to say, “I am a sad man.” Instead, the world shall rejoice together, under one sun, in one game, as one people.