Few dismissals in cricket split opinion like the “Mankad.” To the uninitiated, it seems straightforward: if the non-striker leaves the crease early, the bowler can remove the bails and claim the wicket. Simple law, clear outcome. Yet within the game, it provokes storms of outrage and defence in equal measure.
The controversy is almost as old as its name. Back in 1947, India’s Vinoo Mankad ran out Australia’s Bill Brown during a Test at the Sydney Cricket Ground. What might have been seen as a technicality instead ignited fierce debate about sportsmanship. Australian newspapers called it unsporting; some went further, branding it “sneaky.” But Don Bradman, the home captain, coolly reminded everyone: “For the life of me, I can’t see why it is considered unfair. The law is entirely in Mankad’s favour.”
Seven decades later, the argument has not mellowed. If anything, in the age of 24-hour highlights and Twitter firestorms, each Mankad seems to carry the weight of an ethical trial.
Legally, there is no ambiguity. Law 41.16 of the MCC’s 2017 code states: “If the non-striker is out of his/her ground from the moment the ball comes into play until the instant when the bowler would normally have been expected to release the ball, the non-striker is liable to be run out.”
The expectation is clear: batters must stay grounded until the ball is bowled. Yet the uproar lies not in law, but in culture. Cricket, unlike most sports, asks its players not just to play by the rules but also by an invisible higher code—the “Spirit of Cricket.” And therein lies the rub.
If we look at the numbers, the Mankad is almost a ghost dismissal. Between 2000 and 2023, data from ESPNcricinfo shows just 74 instances of batters being dismissed this way in international cricket. Out of nearly 230,000 wickets in that span, that’s about 0.03%—one in every three thousand dismissals.
And yet, each one makes headlines. In 2019, when Ravichandran Ashwin ran out Jos Buttler in the IPL, the incident generated 4.2 million Twitter mentions in two days (Nielsen Sports). The uproar eclipsed even a hat-trick taken earlier that same week. Google Trends recorded that “Mankad” was searched more often in India and the UK that day than “century” or “five-wicket haul.”
So why does a dismissal that barely exists statistically provoke so much noise? Because it cuts deeper than technique—it forces a moral reckoning.
Backing up early may look like harmless anticipation, but analytics show otherwise. CricViz’s 2020 study on T20 cricket found that non-strikers often leave the crease 1.3 metres early on average. In a format where margins are wafer-thin, that step can change everything.
Over the course of a season, those early starts can add up to 30–40 extra runs per team, enough to swing tight matches. In fact, in IPL 2021 alone, simulations suggested that non-striker advantages could have flipped the outcome of at least five matches.
This is not simply carelessness—it is an edge, however subtle. And if the bowler notices and acts, should it really be labelled “unsporting”?
This is where the divide lies. Detractors argue that while the Mankad is legal, it violates the essence of fair play. Former England captain Michael Vaughan once put it this way: “It’s legal, yes—but so is driving at 30 in a 30 zone. Doesn’t mean it’s right.”
Supporters, on the other hand, frame it as an act of accountability. Ashwin, who has become almost synonymous with the debate, defended himself after dismissing Buttler: “There is nothing in the spirit that says the batsman can cheat.”
Both positions have their logic. One leans on tradition and courtesy; the other on equality and enforcement. And therein lies cricket’s eternal tug-of-war—its identity as both a ruthless sport and a moral theatre.
Interestingly, views have not remained static. For much of the 20th century, Mankads were seen as blemishes on otherwise gentlemanly contests. But as cricket professionalised, tolerance for “unfair advantage” began to shrink.
A 2018 global survey of professional cricketers revealed that 61% of bowlers supported Mankads, while 54% of batters opposed them. Among players under 25, approval rates were even higher, suggesting that newer generations may normalise the practice.
Women’s cricket offers another window. In 2022, India’s Deepti Sharma ran out England’s Charlie Dean at Lord’s in a high-stakes ODI. English commentary condemned it; Indian audiences, however, largely applauded it. Local surveys suggested 74% of Indian fans sided with Deepti, reflecting how perceptions often align with national loyalties as much as personal values.
Other sports handle these situations with much less fuss. In baseball, leaving the base early is punished instantly and automatically. In athletics, even a split-second false start disqualifies the runner. Rugby whistles offside offences without hesitation.
Why does cricket agonise over something that in other games is a mere formality? Perhaps because cricket, steeped in Victorian ideals of “gentlemanly conduct,” continues to carry an old-world weight of honour. In most modern sports, the law is the spirit. In cricket, the two are forever at odds.
What has changed in recent years is not the act itself, but how it is consumed. With slow-motion replays, split-screen breakdowns, and social media debates, every Mankad becomes an international flashpoint.
A University of Melbourne study in 2021 tracked social media sentiment after Mankad incidents. In the first 12 hours, 72% of posts were negative toward the bowler. But after analysts and ex-cricketers explained the law, the percentage flipped to 55% supportive. In other words, the outrage is less about principle and more about perception, easily shaped by commentary.
The MCC has recognised this confusion. In 2022, it shifted the Mankad out of the “Unfair Play” category and placed it under “Run Out.” A small editorial change, but a symbolic one: the dismissal is no longer framed as questionable but as legitimate.
Still, the stigma remains. Should cricket go further and make the enforcement automatic, as baseball does? Or should it remain a bowler’s prerogative, with all the moral baggage attached? The law is clear, but culture is harder to rewrite.
The larger question here is whether the “Spirit of Cricket” is a meaningful code or simply a nostalgic myth. The Mankad exposes the contradiction. If the spirit is about fairness, then punishing those who gain an unfair advantage should embody it. If it is about courtesy, then enforcing the law becomes a transgression.
It is perhaps cricket’s greatest paradox: the spirit is invoked most often to excuse breaches of fairness, not enforce them.
At the heart of it, the Mankad debate is not about bails being whipped off but about what cricket imagines itself to be. The bowler who follows the law is condemned; the batter who bends it is forgiven. The statistics prove the dismissal is rare, the data prove the non-striker gains an edge, yet culture clings to an image of restraint.
The way forward may not be in banning or glorifying the Mankad, but in normalising it. The more it happens, the less it will shock. Over time, the dismissal will lose its moral baggage and simply stand alongside LBW or caught behind—another tool in the bowler’s arsenal.
Until then, every Mankad will be more than just an out. It will remain a moment of reckoning—a mirror held up to the game itself, reflecting cricket’s fragile balance between law and spirit, tradition and progress, fairness and sentiment.
References: