The gentlemen's game...

Oh yes! It was a gentleman’s game... And at times, when the light blue jersey overshadows the green colour of the currency bills, I am almost tempted to review my current opinion about the game. Almost, I said....

My earliest memories of the game? It has to be the 1987 World Cup. Yes, as I rake my mind , this is what flashes before me as the very first recollection of cricket. Before that, I remember watching matches of the bygone years in our AKAI VCP (video record player, for the uninitiated). I remember watching Sunil Gavaskar, Clive Lloyd, Viv Richards, and the likes. Yes, it had to be a gentleman’s game at some point of time.

Most cherished moments? How do I count, tell me?

One is definitely the match which India won in Bangalore (pardon the spelling; this is how the Karnataka capital was spelt in those days) and Javagal Srinath and Anil Kumble “batted” their way to victory! Yes, it was the Titan Cup match. I remember Anil Kumble’s mother, in a plum coloured (or was it brown?) saree with a small nose pin, biting her nails at the stands. Many of my young friends may have been still in their diapers then...Eighteen years is a long time you see. As one of my favourite authors of these days, Sidin Vadukut, had remarked in one of his articles, “This is all because of one unforgettable god-awesome innings by Srinath and Kumble in Bangalore in 1996. Ever since that wonderment, it is impossible to sit through the most one-sided, pre-determined, un-winnable match without secretly hoping for an Indian miracle. I am cursed with this foolish optimism. And, come on admit it, so are you.” Mr. Vadukut, you have at least one hopeless optimist on your side, that much is assured!

Pardon the haphazard sequel of memories, for they defy chronology at this point of time, and another image flashes in the mind’s monitor. The tall men in stark white clothes, shrewd, sharp features...As my memory traverses the skyscrapers and the majestic jewel of a stadium standing proud amidst the sand country, I remember a few names, like Abdul Rahman Bukhatir, sitting in the stands of the Sharjah Cricket Stadium. At times I wonder, was it here that the rancid stench crept into the gentleman’s game? But yes, even if it was the case, one cannot blame the wind if the windows were left open intentionally for the polluted air to flow in. Movie stars, beautiful ladies in fashionable clothes, India and Pakistan – I think of these when I remember Sharjah, Sir Paul Condon’s investigations and BBC cricket correspondent Jonathan Agnew’s comments notwithstanding...

And yes, some day, in the twilight of my life, if I last till then, I may be able to sit with my grandchildren (provided my mental faculties remain intact) and tell them about a phenomenon called Sachin Tendulkar. No, I may not be able to recall his Ferrari, or the Gillette commercial, or the Parle-G advertisement; but yes, I will be able to recall the numerous blows he handled from the Pakistani pace attackers during his test debut in 1989. Why, I can even regale them with many of the maestro’s unparalleled innings!

All memories need not be pleasant. Aggressiveness in cricket is something I always liked, but Javed Miandad’s “jumping frog” act in 1992 is something which I do not cherish. Yes, India and Pakistan must resolve all political issues and become friends, but cricket will never be the same if we do not remain foes while battling it out in the cricket ground. 

Hansie Cronje, Mohd. Azharuddin, Salim Malik, Manoj Prabhakar. Ajay Jadeja, Mohnish Mishra, Herschelle Gibbs, Mohammad Asif, Salman Butt, Shreeshanth, etc. are a few names from a long list of which I would prefer to keep some memories selectively. For obvious reasons. Somehow, deciding to take a break from thinking like my favourite author Agatha Christie, I would put Bob Woolmer’s death to natural causes.

I do not even think that I will be able to sit through the fifty overs of a one day international match ever again. I may not have the time. I may not have the interest. I may not feel like doing so. But I will recall the wild celebrations at the India Gate after Dhoni’s men won the World Cup in 2011, when I went with my family in the red Santro and celebrated like a maniac. I may never develop an interest for the trimmed version of the game, the twenty-twenty matches; but I will recall Yuvraj Singh’s sixers, anyday. 

And that makes two of us Mr Vadukut...The optimism will always be there....Cricket, like life, is a monotony, just another game, if we just see it as a cluster of events, and a miracle if we see it as a string of beautiful coincidences.

“Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened.”