Cricket
Rahul Dravid and VVS in full flow. Dravid the eternal gentleman, eyes never off the ball, playing his shots quietly and with an elegance that brings tears to the eyes. In celebration or in defeat, he remains restrained, the wall that stands guard for his country. VVS, his bat an extension of his arm, powering his way down the pitch, and every so often unleashing a flurry of shots breathtaking for the sheer technique.
Tendulkar, bending to pay his respects to the field as he walks on. The wall of sound as the stadium erupts with his name. The half squat, the adjusting of not to be named anatomical parts, the glance around the field. And then he takes guard. The bat taps down once, twice and he’s once again holding open the door to Heaven. When he’s out, it is in the wild eruption from the fielding side, THIS is The Big One!! that we measure his worth.
The long long run up. Ambrose, Garner, Akram, Akhtar, McGrath, Kapil, Kumble. Elegant, loose limbed, that run up to unleash the ball is poetry in motion. White against the green, the batsman a small insignificant obstacle at the far end, the stumps looming larger than life. The crack as the bails come off, sometimes even the stump itself. The wheeling around, the wide grin, arms outstretched to embrace the world, or the finger up in the air, who’s number one then?
The commentary. The sauve accents of a lady killer Khan or a Sangakkara, the proper, clinical analysis from Ritchie Benaud, and the emotional high pitched jingoism of Manjrekar. The amused tones of Harsha Bhogle, the amusing gaffes of Sidhu. Sunny droning on, interspersed with the irreverent joshing from Richards or Boycott.
The umpires. Names escape me. The chubby old Britisher (Dickie Bird), the grumpy Steve Bucknor, Steve Taufel, the funny guy with the arthritic finger. No cameras, no third umpires, no appeals. No cricketer was greater than the game, and the umpire stood for the game.
Watching the World Cup 2019, the game seems overshadowed by television ratings, the superstars and even more billionaires. There is a certain longing for the old days, when technique counted, when middle order batsmen played their strokes and didn’t throw their bats around in the T20 style. Even false sentimentality for the bumbling lower order, playing their wild shots until one settled in and got runs on the board.
I’m a fan of the game. I have at best a sketchy knowledge of the technical aspects, can’t tell a silly point from mid on or easily identify a googly. But still, you won’t find me far from the television when India is playing. I live in a magical location. Within view of Brabourne Stadium and within earshot of Wankhede. We could hear the crowd erupt in 2011 as Dhoni hit the final runs and 5 seconds later, relived the moment on our television screen. The road outside my house was a long party that night. The vuvuzelas (Mumbaikars love these noise makers more than anyone else in the world, I think), car horns and fire crackers celebrated all night long. No one slept.
It’s hard to put into words, what most of us feel about cricket. It has become fashionable to diss the game, to suggest it’s all about the money, honey, the ugly truths about match fixing and corrupt boards periodically remind us that it’s no longer fair play or a gentleman’s game. But for those of us who grew up after the heyday of hockey was over and before the tennis or badminton or archery stars came along, this was it. Cricket was the one sport where we stood a fighting chance. For a sports starved generation, this was the fuel for the fire. We gave cricket our hearts. Mindlessly, passionately, forever.
Post Script. Today’s World Cup match between Afghanistan and India was a reminder that all is not lost. The cricket I remember is still alive and well, just in another younger avatar.