Bringing the cup home

For me the wait began in 1992. I do have a vague memory of India losing to England in the semifinals of 1987 world cup and of Gavaskar’s century in the match before that. But they are  no more than a useles piece of trivia which have somehow managed to stick around in my mind.

In 1992 though, it began to hurt. The first two matches of that tournament hurt when India lost narrowly to England and Australia. But it was not unexpected. In fact what was surprising was that India manged to fight against these two teams till the end. After all the tournament was being held down under and India in that period used to be crap outside of our den. Victory against Pakistan was the high point and quickly India’s campaign fizzled out. Even before the cup had begun, it had been a bleak australian summer with only Sachin Tendulkar’s two sublime centuries standing out. That was to set the pattern for India’s overseas tours of the decade. India shameful Tendulkar masterful.

1996 was the first time I dreamt. India along with other subcontinent nations were the host. Tendulkar, all of 23, was already acknowledged as a modern day Genius, the best contemporary batsman. Ever since he had started opening the batting in ODIs he had not looked back. Coupled with emergence of Kumble as one of the finest spin bowlers at that time, India looked very very good. It seemed to be going according to script. Though India had lost to Australia (even after a masteful assault by Tendulkar on McGrath) and Srilanka, here we were in the semifinals. And we had reached there by crushing a strong Pakistan team. Surely a good omen. But what happened thereafter in the desi theater of dreams will be etched forever in the collective memory of India. I somehow fought back tears as the Indian batting collapsed. After Tendulkar got out, the pitch suddenly turned into a minefield. It was as if Tendulkar by the sheer force of his will and willow, had kept the demons in the pitch buried.  This was the darkest moment of my journey as a cricket fan.

I dont have many memories of 1999. It was perhaps the most unremarkable world cup campaign for India.  We had a good batting unit but not entirely capable of handling the treacherous english conditions. Dravid had not yet become the unmoveable force he would and Tendulkar also had a lukewarm tournament. We bowed out in the super six stage but not before yet another world cup victory over pakistan. Small consolation indeed especially as pakistan went on to reach the finals. Later that year India travelled down under and quite comfortably managed to lose all the 3 tests. Thus the 3 world cups of that decade were bookended by thrashing in Australia. I remember reading somewhere that Australian fans believed that Tendulkar is a genius but the rest are rubbish. And they had strong evidence to back that theory.

But all that was about to change. New millenia brought together a pair of remarkable men who would change the fortunes of Indian cricket forever. It is fair to say that that is when the process begun which culminated in the world cup win. Ganguly took Indian cricket by its collar, shook it out of its inertia and sent it soaring up in the sky. While John Wright kept the feet firmly on the grounds and bolstered the flooring.

Yet for all the progress we made and all the remarkable achievements, India entered 2003 world cup after having been beaten by Newzealand 5-2. As if that was not enough, we got out for 200 odd runs against Holland and against Australia our top six’s scores (barring tendulkar) could as well be the first 5 digits of a mobile number (94101).  Stones were pelted, effigies were burnt. Then came a moment, which for me was the defining one of that world cup. For most fans, Tendulkar’s upper cut off Shoaib Akhtar is the favorite and oft remembered shot of the tournament. But for me it came much earlier. It was a fierce fierce hook that Tendulkar unleashed with all fury onto Andrew Caddick of England. And that announced to the competitors and the fans alike that enough of the rubbish. He, Sachin Tendulkar of India, was here to win the cup and take it home. For over a month we all dreamt along with the team of final glory at Wanderers. Since that loss against Australia, we were unconquered so far.  But Wanderer was a heart break like none before or since. Just an arms length away from glory, Indian team blinked. And when they opened there eyes, Australian juggernaut had steamrolled them into submission. It was humiliating and humbling. Yet I look back with fondness at that tournament and always will, even though 2011 now enjoys pride of place in my heart.

By the time 2007 came, India wore a changed look. Greg Chappell had arrived with his big theories and bigger mouth. Dravid, who was now the captain of India, did not have the chutzpah of Ganguly to challenge his methods. Where a generation of bowlers from all over the world had failed, Chappell succeeded - in deflating Tendulkar’s passion and motivation for the game. With there talisman out of sorts, India team wore a forlorn look. This campaign turned out to be as lifeless as the pitches of caribbean. I was on a long flight home during India’s last league match against Sri Lanka. And all the while I was tense thinking of what if India lost. It was a possibility beyond the wildest nightmare of Indian fans.  Yet it came to pass and India were eliminated in the group stage. My heart was not just broken, it was methodically chopped into pieces and fed to the dogs. Will there be a recovery from this?

But 2007 ended on a really high note. Out of nowhere India went on to win the T20 world cup. It was least expected but much enjoyed. I saw the final in my office and the entire office was gathered in the cafeteria watching the match. As Dhoni handed the last over to Joginder Sharma, all our jaws dropped in shock and  a sinking feeling began to settle in which was not helped by the look on Joginder’s face as if he was standing in front of a firing squad. But when Sreesanth somehow managed to hang on to Misbah’s catch to end pakistan’s innings, we were all jumping up and down like school kids.

But T20 is just a poor imitation of cricket and as the WC now happens every year, it has devalued to the extent that I cannot even recall who were the finalists of the last world cup. So my heart still yearned for the real cup.
When I found out that 2011 world cup final would be in Mumbai, it seemed like the perfect stage. This is the city where Tendulkar first held the cricket bat and dreamt of winning the world cup for India. Team was also looking stronger by the day as the world cup approached. For the first time an Indian team was confident enough of saying that  “We will win it for Sachin” rather than the other way round. Though in the group stage we did not look as formidable and were clearly not the best team in the tournament. But when we beat Australia, in a tensed but ultimately easy manner in quarter final,  the dream started looking real. Especially as South Africa midway through there match against New Zealand suddenly remembered that “hey we are supposed to choke in such matches”. Against Pakistan in the semi finals, when Munaf Patel bowled Razzak, I went down on one knee and woohooed as if I was the bowler. It was so spontaneous that my daughter started crying scared of seeing this strange transformation of her dad’s normally monk like disposition . She will have to learn to accept this dark side of my nature like her mom has.  Or maybe not, now that Tendulkar will soon retire. In the finals I was very confident of India winning. Even when Sachin got out early I remained assured. The days of “Sachin out India out” were a thing of past. Only towards the end with the victory firmly in grasp did I get nervous. For the last few overs I did not sit down fearing that a wicket would fall if I did (one has to make sacrifices for the game). And as Dhoni sent the ball flying into the spectators for the last time in this tournament, all of us who had gathered  at my place jumped from there seats (except me ofcourse as I was already standing) and shouted like crazy. This time my daughter didnt’ cry.
Finally the dream that one man had made the whole nation see was true. We are now the champions of the world. Me, I am now done dreaming but I am sure when 2015 arrives, then maybe Kohli, maybe Raina or maybe some precocious 17 year old, will make a whole generation of young kids dream again.

Genius of Tendulkar

"This was written before the Melbourne test (Dec 03) I think."

Every genius has a dark side. A realization of what they are, their tremendous potential, an overpowering urge to explode, to destroy, to stamp their authority on other mere mortals. This is what they derive their power from but this can be their heaviest burden. Brian Lara has seen both sides of the coin. At various times he has seemed  unstoppable, then tired, in complete control and then willing to give up. Now it seems he has come to peace with his powers and learned to harness them better than anybody else. On the other hand Shane Warne has been overwhelmed, intoxicated, drugged by them. He has basked in their glory and they have led to his downfall. But soon he will be back and sure as hell he wont have changed his ways at all for he doesnt drive his dark side but is driven by it. He relishes in its excesses. Unfortunately for us Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar has decided to curb those powers and to carry the burden gracefully. He wont be weighed down by them but he also wont let them flower in all their splendour. Under intense public scrutiny all the time he has decided to give to us what we wanted, he has become what we expect from him: A man of enormous talent who wont let it get to his head, who would be polite, respectful, a man with typical middle class ethos. Instead of being a firebrand he chose to be a senior statesman in the team, he chose to be a gentle zephyr when he could have been a hurricane. He tries to play the test cricket the way it should be played. Instead of taking the bowler by the scruff of his neck and thrashin him out of the park, he tries to play each ball on its merit while the only real merit that exists resides within him and his willow. What he should realise is that he is not meant to tread the chosen path nor to hum the oft repeated tune. He is born to blaze his path through the annals of cricketing history and so he should do if he wants to be faithful to himself. Whenever he has chosen to put his foot down the result has been nothing short of miracle: opration desert storm, warne's nightmare, paki massacre. Here is hoping that for once he would let the forces that be overwhelm him and drive him back to form putting the fear of god in the hearts of lee and company. 

241 Not Out

"This one was written after Tendulkar score 241 not out at sydney in Jan 2004, on e of his most uncharacteristic innings."

Youth however beautiful has to decay. Now for almost 15 years Sachin  Tendulkar has resolutely kept old age at bay. That in itself is an  achievement. Few others have been at peak of their powers for so long. And  he may continue to do so for another couple of years. But sooner or later  sporting night will come calling at his door and then he will have to go.  As he walks into the night, all the luxuries of his youth, wrongly assumed  to be his faithful allies, will fall by his side one by one. Physical  strength would be the first to dwindle and soon thereafter his silken  touch would wrinkle. And then no spring would ever rejuvenate these. But  while all this would be happening, Sachin would be a content man at peace  with himself. For he would be looking back at yesterdays innings. This  innings would stay with him for rest of his life and be a constant source  of inspiration and hope. This was the day when he refused to be a slave to  his powers, when he resisted all temptations to drink at the fountain of  youth, when he just wouldnt let go. "Come what may, I am not getting out"  he said to himself and thus he did. Aussies fed him where he loves it the  most, wide and short outside the off stump. Years of savage cutting and  effortless driving urged him to launch into them, but he has turned deaf  to all voices from inside except for the one that said "I will not get  out". Yes he had realised that the hand that feeds him kills him. Laxman  murdering the bowling with ease at the other end would have compunded his  dilemma and might have hurt his ego and a lesser man would have fallen  prey to it. But his was an innings of sheer bloody mindedness and utter  discipline. These two would be his aides when old age beckons and will  keep him going long after his best years are behind him. Even towards the  fag end oh the day, he did not touch anything wide. What made it even more  amazing was that this was tendulkar doing it. To Rahul Dravids of this  world this comes naturally and has been honed by years of exercising  restraint. But fir tendulkar this was going against all that he believes  in. Like a shark made to swim like a dolphin, yet it swam and swam with  amazing grace that belied its savagery. Not his greatest innings, but the  most significant, It showed that a tendulkar bereft of his skills would  make runs, lots of runs. It augurs well for the future. To rephrase Dylan  Thomas "Tendulkar will not go gentle into the dying night."

Appreciation of Rahul Dravid

"Written in Mar 04 when Dravid was the best indian batsman"

If Sachin Tendulkar has mastered the art of playing the ball, Rahul Dravid has mastered the art of not playing the ball, which is equally important in the longer version of the game. Rahul Dravid bats time and awfully long time at that. Looked in isolation the value of that is not obvious but once you illuminate it with the light of three abroad wins in past couple of years there is not much left to explain. Yes there is no doubting the fact that Dravid is currently not only the best Indian batsmen but also the best all over. For my criteria for best is elementary, ability to win important matches. No one else has done that more often than Dravid in contemporary times.  No other batsman plays the ball purely on its merit as much as He does. Memories of past and dreams of what future holds do not faze the concentration of Rahul as he takes strike. If he is beaten on a ball, that is tucked in some remote corner of his brain to be analysed later, a deficiency to be eliminated but not something to bother him now. He lives in the moment and that’s why he seizes the important ones. This above all is his greatest virtue. What is not mentioned often is that Dravid in flow is also a beautiful batsman to watch unlike say Kirsten who played a similar role. But we must also realise that a reason Dravid has prospered is that he has exciting strokeplayers all around him to enable the team manage a healthy run rate inspite of his reticence. And Dravid would be the first to admit that.

Just Bat

"Written when Sachin Tendulkar was about to come back after tennis elbow surgery"

He was ten years old and was scourge of the bowlers from this end of the gulli to that. They would all wake up at 5:00 in the morning, hastily put on the chaddis and jump down the stairs to the empty road below. He was always the first to be down there, would arrange couple of bricks to mark the bowlers end and his cycle at the other end with the front wheel as the make-do wickets. By this time others would have come and captains designate for the day would have split up the teams. He was always the first one to be picked and the other captain got to pick three players and first batting chance in exchange for him. He had argued against this system a couple of times as he didn’t take too much time to knock off the runs batting second. But everyone else liked it this way. He would make up for it by staying back with a couple of buddies, who didn’t mind the punishment too much, after others had gone home to get ready for the school. Of course he had to buy them a couple of candies on the way to school. School passed in a haze, except on days when there was a “Sports” period. As soon as the final bell would ring, he would run to the cycle stand, pick up his cycle, ride home, drop his bag, grab a couple of biscuits and his bat and down he would be. As in the morning, he was the first one to be there. They would play till their moms would start shouting from the windows announcing that it was dinner time. But he would stay on alone, knocking around the ball against the wall, throwing it high in the air and then catching it. His mom would then come down and had to drag him up by his ears.

All this flashed through his mind as he lay in his hospital bed. The surgery had been successful. But now the long painful period of healing would begin. Doctors had said it might take anything from 4 weeks to 4 months and even then there was no guarantee that his elbow would recover its former strength. With a weakened elbow, he knew, he wouldn’t be half the batsman he is capable of being. For last couple of years the thought of life after retirement had come like a recurring nightmare. He had managed to push it off, an eventuality to be handled in future. But this was present. Suddenly retirement seemed perilously close. Now there was no time and no space to push things off. Decisions had to be taken, sacrifices made. And he had decided to go under the knife, to sacrifice next 4 months for perhaps 4 more years.
No guarantee. How easy for a doctor to say, but those two words were breaking him now. Ever since those hours playing gulli cricket, he had been sure of one thing. He had to bat. Not because he wanted to bat or because he could bat extremely well. But because batting was part of who he was, part of his existence. He had to bat just like a bird had to fly. But now the surgeon’s voice echoed again and again in his mind. That night he couldn’t sleep.

He was riding his cycle real fast. That evening they had a really important match against the kids from the neighboring mohalla. He had been thinking about this since morning. They had all practiced an extra half an hour in the morning. It was a strong team they were up against and all the hopes were on him. He didn’t see the large stone lying on the road. When he woke up he couldn’t move his left leg and it felt a bit heavier. He realized that this was not his bed and not his room. He was discharged a couple of days later, but the plaster wouldn’t come off for another month. That night he had cried.

He wasn’t even allowed to lift a bat for some time. Even the smallest of movements in his arm would cause extreme pain. He tried to while away time by watching reruns of his old recordings. He also saw some of India’s live matches on TV . But all this only gave him more pain. Pain more severe than the pain in his arm. Therefore he started spending more and more time with his family and detached himself from the game as much as he could. But he waited patiently for the day when he would be able to feel that familiar sensation once again. The shock of cricket ball hitting the bat, which would move through his arm, up through this same elbow to pulsate his brain. That shock wave and the beautiful sound made as the bat made contact with the ball. He waited for that. And as he waited his mind again went back to that incident in his childhood. So far away in past yet now it seemed just like yesterday.

For initial few days he used to sit on the sidewalk and watch his buddies play. He would cheer every big hit and boo every dropped catch. But everyone knew this was just a façade. Sitting on that sidewalk only caused him anguish. Over and over again he would imagine himself in the place of the batsman. To every ball bowled, he would imagine at least a couple of ways of dispatching it to the boundary. And then to his horror would see the batsman play the completely wrong shot. Every shot would pierce his heart, every run would wet his eyes. So he stopped sitting there. He would still talk to his buddies and ask them all the details about the game that day. But he never again sat on that sidewalk.

The night before he was to face his first international ball in 6 months, he wasn’t sure whether he was ready. He had played a couple of domestic matches, had practiced hard in the nets. But he was worried. He didn’t know how to approach the game . In last couple of years his batting style had changed completely. He had become more defensive, mellow, tried to be more responsible. Yet he knew he had missed something. Now tomorrow, all the eyes will be on him. In fact for past few days, all the talk had been about his comeback, rather than the teams performance. He doesn’t like it that way, but can't help it. Should he try to play cautiously, feel his way back, or should he throw caution to the wind? Thinking of all this he fell asleep. And then he dreamt.

He was ten years old. The plaster was off. As usual he was the first to be down on the road. In fact he had woken up at 4:30 and was down much earlier. So he had to wait impatiently for the others. He had cajoled them into letting him bat first just for this day. Soon everything was set up. The bowler started his run up. He thumped his bat on the road, then on his shoe and then on the road again. He was ready. As soon as the ball was out of the bowlers hand he realized that it was going to be over pitched. He just moved ahead a bit and knocked it straight for a six. Next one was short and he hit it for a four. Third ball was again short and this time he hit it straight into the windows of an apartment. He was out because such were the rules of the gully cricket. But he didn’t care. He didn’t even care about how many runs he had scored. He was just happy to be out there.  His world was back to normal, the flight was resumed. He was just ecstatic to have batted once again. That’s all he had wanted to do for past one month. Just Bat.

As he woke up in the morning, he realized that all the anxiety of last night had disappeared. He felt calm, like he had not felt in last six months. As he put on his pads, he knew exactly what he had to do out there. He knew that as each ball was bowled, he would know precisely what to do with the ball. He knew that he had to go out there and Just Bat.

On Shane Warnes Retirement

"Written in Dec 06 after Shane Warne Retired"

They came in numbers. They came beating their drums and waving their red
kercheifs. The came to pay homage to their favourite son. That was three years
ago in 2003/04 when it seemed whole of sydney had gathered in SCG to bid adieu
to Steven Waugh. Now very soon, too soon infact, SCG will be the arena for the
final act of their prodigal son, Shane Keith Warne. And once again we can be
sure sydneites will not disappoint. We can hope to see young men wearing blonde
wigs, young women wearing well something atleast. But it will be a celebration
like it was that day. Mourning will happen before and after, but that day
itself will be one of festivity. Maybe there will be tears or maybe warne will
hold them back, though he has hardly ever held anything back.

Its the final climactic act of any play that lingers the longest in the memory,
the parting shot. And for steve waugh that day epitomised the entire career.
For the image that he had always conjured up in our minds was that of a
fighter. And there was one fight whose loss had hurt him the most, against
Indians in 2001. Now he was about to suffer another at the same hands. And to
add to the insult it was at his home ground. The stage was set. So it was apt
that he would go out trying to stave off his rampaging arch rivals. And he
succeeded in drawing the match and the series with a gutsy 84. The farewell
could not have been scripted better.

On the other hand, the image warne has always produced, the image that has left
indelible scars on a generation of english cricketers, is that of a predator.
He stalks his prey never letting the pressure off, each ball a signal of his
intent. And england have always been willing prey. Many a Cook and Bell have been
done for in the glare of warnes headlights.Each thud of ball on the pitch stamps
fear in their heart wondering when the final pounce will come. And it has always
come, inevitably, year after year. Therefore it is apt that warnes final act is a feast of Pom fry. What a feast it will be! Another perfect farewell.

Golden age of cricket viewing is coming to an end.

Mukul Kesvan writes about the strange death of indian cricket in his blog. I agree with his views completely and here is my take on it.

I am 27 years old as of this date and I believe I have been privileged to belong to the golden generation of Indian Cricket Audience. Anyone born in late 70s or early 80s can claim to belong to this generation. We are most impressionable in the later part of our first decade and early teens. No longer do our experiences pass us in a disconnected flow of events. We start forming a coherent picture from events around and in the process are affected at a deeper emotional level. Yet we are not mature enough to look at them objectively. 

We (and yes I agree with you that folding into a collective “We” is coolest for any sports fan), that is my generation, reached that age around late 80s and early 90s. And it was then that three important things started and continued throughout 90s. Firstly television became a household item and cable channels started gaining a foothold in Indian market. Secondly one day cricket started gaining a respectability and mass adulation that probably test cricket alone would have never achieved. Thirdly, and most importantly, a little man exploded on the Indian cricket scene named Sachin Tendulkar. I remember having a discussion with a friend during one of the early tours of Sachin. My friend told me that Sachin cannot speak English properly and I just refused to believe him. Ridiculous though it sounds now, it shows that right from the beginning of his career, he had captured my imagination like no other cricketer. Even then he could do no wrong.

Of course these 3 factors are not disconnected. In fact it is in there synergy that a more complete explanation is to be found for the phenomenal popularity of cricket in 90s. Magic of Sachin pulled more and more people to there television sets and fed the popularity of one day cricket. Yet that magic was in large part due to the fact, that Sachin was by nature a quintessential one day batsman and his aggression was coupled by a sublime beauty that probably a voice on radio could not have expressed. Television box became a canvas where he could paint his masterpieces day after day. Add to this the fact that he became the face of all sorts of myriad products, thus appearing on TV almost every single day. Sachin and cricket became an integral part of our life. We felt as if we were growing up alongside the master. People of younger generation missed the earlier part of his career while those of older were too wise and busy to be infected like us. 

But now sadly all these factors are losing there importance and from the dizzy heights of this golden period, we will probably fall straight into a chasm. With other sports especially EPL increasingly gaining prominence on sports channel, overload of ODIs many of which are complete mismatches and the impending retirement of Sachin, the age of cricket viewing is coming to an end. 

I myself am a big arsenal fan and am delighted by the sorcery of the wily frenchman every week. Yet none of his elegant passes and cool finishes can take me to the same stratospheric heights that Sachin’s backfoot punch or that signature straight drive can. Sadly in a few years, all that will remain of these are treasured memories and old recordings that only a few middle aged balding farts like me would care to watch.

The Sorcerer's Failed Spell

"Written when Laxman was omitted from India world cup squad in 07"

In a few weeks time Indian cricket team would have left for the far off shores to begin their world cup campaign. For every player boarding the flight there will be a few hopefuls left behind. Looking at that unfortunate list, your eyes will surely halt at one name. You will think that if this player has been left behind, then the Indian team must be an embarrassment of batting riches. You will be grossly mistaken. For in terms of batting pedigree and ability this man is in top 4-5 in the country. And in terms of artistry and genius, V V S Laxman sits next only to Sachin Tendulkar. If Azharuddin is the author of “Wristwork for dummies” then Laxman has been scripting “The Art of Wristy Batting” throughout his career. Yet this high art will not be on display in the biggest cricketing carnival. Laxman would finish his career without featuring in a single world cup out of the three (or four) that his career would span.

Laxman has always evoked in my mind an image on another man, a footballer. The playmaker from Argentina and VillaReal, Juan Roman Riquelme. Only a season ago he was at the peak of his powers and was being touted as a probable world player of the year soon. But today he has retired from International football and finds himself out of favor at villareal. Both these men are weaver of dreams exhibiting there own special brand of there sport. Artist’s heart caught in a sportsman’s body. Unfortunately also an artist’s Achille’s heel jutting out of an athletes foot. They suffer from something similar to writers block. There have been matches where riquelme has looked lost, not knowing what to do, searching for his muse. Similarly for laxman when the boundaries have dried, he does not take the option of smart singles, but keeps on hoping that the touch would return. But football and one day cricket moves at too fast a pace and a team carrying such a player on such a day would find the going hard. 

Just yesterday utility man Paul Collingwood showed what can be achieved with electric fielding and gutsy batting peppered with quick singles. For laxman these have been always been trouble areas. In spite of his claims that he has worked hard on these and has improved, on the international stage not much has changed. His running between the wickets remains as woeful as ever. And his favorite fielding position after the slips must be somewhere beyond the boundary ropes. These are the factors that have weighed against him and weakened his case. Hard done which we connoisseurs of his art might feel, we have to accept that there is some justification for his denial yet again. 

What we will not accept is if injustice is done in Test cricket, of which there were some indications last year. It is in the arena of Test Cricket, that laxman’s talent have blossomed. Therein he finds time and space to dream on and with slip being a crucial position is an important contributor in field too. We should not be denied of that. At least for next couple of years the graceful flick of the wand should keep on casting mesmerising spells.