<p>Godfrey Dabrera lights up a cigarette while he is still getting drenched by the rain as he rests his large frame gently against the picket fence beyond the boundary rope at the R Premadasa stadium in Colombo. </p>.<p>The national curator’s voice is too hoarse to carry to the middle, and he doesn’t seem the type to make the effort, but he knows he doesn’t need to say a word so he blows smoke rings in the rain instead, squinting at the symphony he has been the conductor of for decades. </p>.<p>The painstakingly orchestrated sequence of moving covers by groundsmen in Sri Lanka is like a carefully synchronised ballet. Were it not for advertorial obligations, even those in the business of broadcasting wouldn’t hesitate to keep their cameras running as 100-odd hands push and pull heavy-set rubberised canvas sheets across the entirety of the playing area. </p>.<p>Anyone with an eye for excellence, efficacy or just plain symmetry can’t help but be bewitched by the Sri Lankan groundsmen and their delectable dance under grey skies and on blue sheets. </p>.<p>In a country where rain is so common that people don’t bother with umbrellas or raincoats, cricket must go on, but the sport is far too dependent on the sun for a place so wet. Also, international cricket - unfortunately, but usually - comes to Sri Lanka during their monsoon. </p>.SLC keeping other venues ready as uncertainty still looms.<p>So, Sri Lanka Cricket called on seasoned curators 15 or so years ago to put in place a process that would mitigate the effects of rain, and on a budget. </p>.<p>The answer: get a decent enough drainage system in place and then create a systematic process to cover the entire ground as fast as humanly possible. </p>.<p>Minutes before the annoying tentacles of rain touch the ground during a game, around 100 groundsmen in fluorescent t-shirts circle the ground with their eyes firmly on the skies. As the first drops arrive, a set of 15-20 move in to cover the prepared pitches with a brown sheet — it’s denser than the ones used to cover the remainder of the ground. </p>.<p>Then, as if carefully applying latticework to a pie, other sets of groundsmen move in: first from the right, then from the left, then from the far end and then the other. They pause for a moment or two to assess the intensity of the rain and then cover the corners too. </p>.<p>The entire process takes no more than ten minutes, eliciting comparisons to a pitstop in Formula One. By cricket standards, this is seriously quick. And just as a Formula One pit crew practises these elaborate movements to the point of tedium, these groundsmen run drills every day — yes, even on non-cricket days — to get all the moving parts to operate as one machine.</p>.<p>“See there, that’s about 40 of them doing the drills now,” he says, pointing towards men who are scurrying to get the covers aligned as the rain grows thicker. Dabrera lights another cigarette. </p>.<p>Dabrera reveals around 60 people of the 100-odd people used during games are skilled labourers, meaning they are on the payroll of Sri Lanka cricket. The remaining groundsmen are on contract by the match and come from all over the country to ensure the show goes on. </p>.<p>“The drills, if there is rain, it takes about 45 minutes to an hour. If there is no rain, we do it for about 30 minutes. These drills are timed, and we do them throughout the year, but we identify the full crew and run more drills a few days before the game. So, during games, we can cover the entire ground in roughly 10-15 minutes and it takes the same amount of time to remove it,” says Dabrera as if unaware of the awe the process inspires.</p>.<p>Former national curator Anurudda Polonowita and his band of merry men must be credited for their role in setting off the process which continues to evolve to this day. It’s a sight unlike others for few countries in the world cover the ground in a way and with the same efficiency as the Lankans. </p>.<p>In Sri Lanka, groundsmen make it a point to put you in a trance, all the while smiling in the rain for the time has come to show off their plie. Dabrera, meanwhile, is watching with another cigarette in his hand, saving his words, possibly because he doesn’t want to get in the way of chemistry.</p>
<p>Godfrey Dabrera lights up a cigarette while he is still getting drenched by the rain as he rests his large frame gently against the picket fence beyond the boundary rope at the R Premadasa stadium in Colombo. </p>.<p>The national curator’s voice is too hoarse to carry to the middle, and he doesn’t seem the type to make the effort, but he knows he doesn’t need to say a word so he blows smoke rings in the rain instead, squinting at the symphony he has been the conductor of for decades. </p>.<p>The painstakingly orchestrated sequence of moving covers by groundsmen in Sri Lanka is like a carefully synchronised ballet. Were it not for advertorial obligations, even those in the business of broadcasting wouldn’t hesitate to keep their cameras running as 100-odd hands push and pull heavy-set rubberised canvas sheets across the entirety of the playing area. </p>.<p>Anyone with an eye for excellence, efficacy or just plain symmetry can’t help but be bewitched by the Sri Lankan groundsmen and their delectable dance under grey skies and on blue sheets. </p>.<p>In a country where rain is so common that people don’t bother with umbrellas or raincoats, cricket must go on, but the sport is far too dependent on the sun for a place so wet. Also, international cricket - unfortunately, but usually - comes to Sri Lanka during their monsoon. </p>.SLC keeping other venues ready as uncertainty still looms.<p>So, Sri Lanka Cricket called on seasoned curators 15 or so years ago to put in place a process that would mitigate the effects of rain, and on a budget. </p>.<p>The answer: get a decent enough drainage system in place and then create a systematic process to cover the entire ground as fast as humanly possible. </p>.<p>Minutes before the annoying tentacles of rain touch the ground during a game, around 100 groundsmen in fluorescent t-shirts circle the ground with their eyes firmly on the skies. As the first drops arrive, a set of 15-20 move in to cover the prepared pitches with a brown sheet — it’s denser than the ones used to cover the remainder of the ground. </p>.<p>Then, as if carefully applying latticework to a pie, other sets of groundsmen move in: first from the right, then from the left, then from the far end and then the other. They pause for a moment or two to assess the intensity of the rain and then cover the corners too. </p>.<p>The entire process takes no more than ten minutes, eliciting comparisons to a pitstop in Formula One. By cricket standards, this is seriously quick. And just as a Formula One pit crew practises these elaborate movements to the point of tedium, these groundsmen run drills every day — yes, even on non-cricket days — to get all the moving parts to operate as one machine.</p>.<p>“See there, that’s about 40 of them doing the drills now,” he says, pointing towards men who are scurrying to get the covers aligned as the rain grows thicker. Dabrera lights another cigarette. </p>.<p>Dabrera reveals around 60 people of the 100-odd people used during games are skilled labourers, meaning they are on the payroll of Sri Lanka cricket. The remaining groundsmen are on contract by the match and come from all over the country to ensure the show goes on. </p>.<p>“The drills, if there is rain, it takes about 45 minutes to an hour. If there is no rain, we do it for about 30 minutes. These drills are timed, and we do them throughout the year, but we identify the full crew and run more drills a few days before the game. So, during games, we can cover the entire ground in roughly 10-15 minutes and it takes the same amount of time to remove it,” says Dabrera as if unaware of the awe the process inspires.</p>.<p>Former national curator Anurudda Polonowita and his band of merry men must be credited for their role in setting off the process which continues to evolve to this day. It’s a sight unlike others for few countries in the world cover the ground in a way and with the same efficiency as the Lankans. </p>.<p>In Sri Lanka, groundsmen make it a point to put you in a trance, all the while smiling in the rain for the time has come to show off their plie. Dabrera, meanwhile, is watching with another cigarette in his hand, saving his words, possibly because he doesn’t want to get in the way of chemistry.</p>