When sledging backfires: Why disrespect often wins matches for the other side

This article is authored by Aman Kumar Singh, head, chairman’s office, Adani Group & Shishir Priyadarshi, president, Chintan Research Foundation, New Delhi.

South Africa’s thumping 2–0 series win over India—capped by a staggering 408-run victory in the second Test—will be remembered not just for the clinical cricket on display, but for the psychological current running beneath it. The allegedly muttered “bauna” (midget) remark directed at a South African player became the spark that shifted the emotional temperature of the series. The moment the slur surfaced, the cricket changed. South Africa played with the singular focus of a team fuelled by disrespect—and determined to answer it where it matters most: On the field. The decisiveness of their win reflected that deeper motivation.

Temba Bavuma tosses the ball during the fourth day of the second Test cricket match between India and South Africa in Guwahati on November 25 (AFP)

Cricket has always been a sport of skill, temperament, and strategy. But it is also a sport of words. Sledging, sometimes witty, sometimes cruel, has been used for decades to unnerve opponents. But cricket’s history repeatedly demonstrates that insults, especially those laced with racism, disrespect or condescension, tend to achieve the opposite. They don’t weaken; they awaken.

This dynamic has powerful historical echoes. The most iconic example remains Tony Greig’s infamous “grovel” comment during England’s 1976 series against the West Indies. Greig—a White South African-born captain of England—declared on television that he intended to make the West Indians “grovel,” a word dripping with colonial arrogance. For Caribbean players, many from newly independent societies still navigating post-colonial pride, the remark was not just insulting—it was racially demeaning.

It is in this light that the recent Conrad riposte—a pointed reference to grovel in response to the bauna jibe—must be understood. It was a contextual echo, a reminder that disrespect breeds retaliation. But beyond the verbal exchanges, South Africa’s cricket did the speaking on the field - they outplayed India in every department.

Cricket offers many such tales. Virat Kohli, for instance, has a history of responding to Australian sledging with performances of rare intensity. When Australia’s bowlers targeted him at Adelaide during the 2012–13 series, Kohli responded with a gritty century. In 2016, when James Faulkner tried to needle him during an ODI, Kohli famously replied “I’ve smashed you enough in my life - just go and bowl.” He then produced a fluent 117. Time and again, attempts to rattle Kohli have drawn out his most determined self.

Ironically, India—long admired for its traditions of restraint—now appears to have internalised the more abrasive styles of modern cricket. Over the past few years, the team has attempted to mimic Australian hyper-aggression and England’s Bazball template. Instead of drawing from its own core strengths—discipline, patience, and temperament—the team seems caught in an identity tug-of-war. The result? India have now lost two away series in a row for the first time since the 1980s. When imitation replaces instinct, performance often suffers.

There is another layer of irony in the bauna controversy. For a cricketing nation that has produced legends of modest physical stature—Sunil Gavaskar, Gundappa Vishwanath, and, of course, Sachin Tendulkar—mocking a player’s height seems particularly tone-deaf. These icons demonstrated that greatness in cricket derives from skill, technique, timing and temperament, not centimeters. To reduce another player’s worth to physique is to forget our own history.

Sledging itself used to be an art form, not crude insult. The Australians under Steve Waugh perfected a brand of mental pressure that was sharp without being demeaning. One famous example is Waugh’s cold line to Gibbs after he had dropped him: “You’ve just dropped the World Cup, mate.” It was cutting, psychological warfare at its finest—but it targeted the moment, not the man. Today’s insults, by contrast, often drift into personal territory, where they cease to be strategy and start to become counterproductive.

Across sports, disrespect is among the most potent performance enhancers. Michael Jordan turned slights—both real and imagined—into fuel for some of the greatest basketball performances in history. In football, taunts against Landon Donovan before the 2010 World Cup preceded one of his finest tournament performances. Serena Williams transformed criticisms of her physique, attitude, or background into long stretches of unmatched supremacy in tennis. In boxing, Muhammad Ali’s taunts sometimes provoked his opponents into career-best fights, as with Joe Frazier in the “Fight of the Century.”

Even politics offers parallels. In 2014, an Opposition leader’s dismissive chaiwalla remark, aimed at belittling Narendra Modi’s background, did not just misfire—it reshaped Indian politics. Intended as a put-down, it instead galvanised millions who saw in it an attack on dignity, aspiration, and social mobility. What was meant as an insult transformed into a symbol of aspiration. The intended humiliation ended up propelling Narendra Modi to the prime ministership.

That is why the events of this India–South Africa series should not be dismissed as mere dressing-room chatter. They are reminders of a deeper truth. At the highest level, the margins between teams are razor-thin. Skill and fitness matter, but psychology—the quest for respect—often proves decisive. When dignity is attacked, athletes don’t crumble. They rise.

South Africa rose magnificently. Their cricket spoke louder than any words could. And once again, cricket showed us what history has always known: insults rarely win matches. They win motivation—for the other side.

This article is authored by Aman Kumar Singh, head, chairman’s office, Adani Group & Shishir Priyadarshi, president, Chintan Research Foundation, New Delhi.