Ah, my friend, reading a pitch is like reading the soil before sowing—you look for the *jīvan* in it. Now they roll and cover it, but in my days, the pitch was left bare to the sun, and the first hour’s play was a duel between bat and brutal uneven bounce. They say look at the grass, but I say smell the earth—if it’s dry and cracked like my *baṛī* plot in summer, the spinners will dance by afternoon. I know this because watering my vegetables at dawn, I see how the same patch behaves differently each day; cricket ground is also a farmer’s field.
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