Just leave Test cricket alone.
Let it breathe and exist as it has for more than a hundred years unhurried, pure, and unapologetically traditional. In today’s fast-paced world where everything must entertain instantly, Test cricket stands apart. It doesn’t beg for attention. It earns respect over time, through grit, craft, and quiet moments that build into unforgettable passages of play.
We already have enough formats catering to the demand for thrill and spectacle—ODIs, T20s, T10s, The Hundred, and even five-over tournaments in Hong Kong. They are designed for the modern appetite, and that’s fine. Let the administrators innovate there. Add lights, colors, countdowns, and gimmicks. But please, for the love of the game, let Test cricket be. It needs no tinkering—no tiers, no manufactured drama, no forced results. Its beauty lies in its raw, extended uncertainty and its demand for commitment, both from players and fans.
Test cricket is not for everyone. And that’s okay. Those who love it don’t ask for change. We’ve woken up early to watch the first ball of a morning session in New Zealand or stayed up deep into the night watching a hard-fought draw in Australia. We understand the rhythm, the pauses, the ebbs and flows. We see the contest in every delivery, not just in the scoreboard. And we cherish the silence between the roars.
So if West Indies are bowled out for 27 or someone nearly breaks Brian Lara’s record, let it be. The beauty of Test cricket is that it reflects life—it can be brutal, boring, brilliant, or bizarre. Records will fall, players will come and go, but the format will remain. These moments, good or bad, form part of the rich fabric of cricket’s history. That history is not meant to be perfect—it’s meant to be remembered.
Test cricket doesn’t need saving. It needs space. It needs trust. It needs to be left alone by those who don’t truly understand it, and loved by those who always have.