180 not out

I was never a sportsman in the true sense of the word. But, I was (and still am) a hardcore sports enthusiast with keen interest in a multitude of sports. As such, most of my trysts with sporting glory have been as a witness sitting opposite the television screen. I too have felt my heart beat at a worrying pace as Misbah-ul-Haq went for that audacious shot in the T20 World Cup final last summer. I too have felt a chill run down my spine as Zidane executed that infamous head butt. I too have felt my senses oscillate as Federer and Nadal battled it out in two consecutive Wimbledon finals to usher into the tennis world a rivalry that will be talked about for ages. Splendid sensations though these all were, they were always in celebration of some other person’s glory. They never had the personal touch that makes everlasting imprints on one’s mind. However, there was this one instance...when I was the One – standing at the pinnacle of sporting achievement, the man in the limelight, the actual performer as opposed to the spectator I have always been.

In a special issue of Sport Star a few years back, they had adroitly listed the most memorable Indian batting performances (one wonders if some of them were not actually ‘betting’ performances!). An eminent panel of cricketing greats had ranked them and had come to the conclusion that VVS Laxman’s epic 281 against Australia in the fairy-tale 2001 Kolkata Test Match was the best ever batting performance by an Indian. Now I do not wish to steal away any credit from Laxman – it was a legendary display of batting skills and the pivot around which we brought about one of the most dramatic upsets in Test Match history. I concede that even if Laxman had played only that single inning and hung up his boots, he would have gone down the annals of cricketing history as a great batsman. But, in the depths of my mind I knew that I had played a greater inning – an inning which was an amalgam of silken touch, controlled aggression, masterful strokeplay and unwavering resilience. I was on song then, the mellow rhythm of which had managed to hypnotize every single member of the opposition. It was rather unfortunate that baring the fielding side (4 players), only 5 other humans were spectators to that fine performance (3 of them constituted the rest of the batting side, one a neutral umpire and one a friend who had nothing better to do). Before talking you through that inning, I feel it would be logical to make you aware of the scenario in which it was scripted for it will probably make things less confusing. The venue was a piece of barren ground behind our classroom (and about the same size as it). The stumps were three lines (two were straight, one wasn’t) made on a wall in front of which the batsman stood. The boundary was the opposite wall (straight) and a couple of bushes in either direction. The ball was the usual one that we used in schools at that age – the ‘hanky’ ball (For those who have no idea what that means, do this: Take a large handkerchief. Fold it along its diameter to obtain a triangular shape. Now continue tying knots in whatever manner you may feel like till you can do it no more. The final product should resemble a ball. If it doesn’t - untie the knots, and do it again adopting different methods of knotting. Better – use another handkerchief). The bat was not the standard willow; it was this ‘board’ that students used then during examinations to overcome the craters that adorned the desks. Oh! And before you brand me stupid for playing in such a scenario, let it be known that I was in 4th grade then – merely 9 years of age. If you are a cricket fanatic, you must have heard about how Tendulkar and Kambli established their batting credentials at a young age in school itself with a mammoth partnership of 600-odd runs. Consider this to be on similar, if not more spectacular lines.

That afternoon the sky was remarkably serene – maybe out of respectful anticipation for the glorious events that were to unfold beneath it. When I came in to bat, the team was in a precarious situation – 8/2. A couple of minutes later, the 3rd wicket fell too and I was the only unbeaten batsman in our team of four. The ‘Last Man’ rule being operative then, I was left to wage a lone battle against a fiery bowling attack. But then calm seas are never known to make skilful sailors and the troublesome circumstances had set the stage for the outstanding inning that was to follow. Over the next 80 minutes, I made life difficult for that poor hanky ball. A ruthless and clinical approach to every single delivery saw me strike a shower of fours and sixes as I accumulated an unbelievable 180 runs within that short time. The spectators’ eyes grew larger and rounder with each delivery as they speechlessly saw history being fabricated at my hands. The fielding team helplessly tossed the ball amongst each other hoping to stem the vicious onslaught that I had let loose upon them but it was just not their day. I suppose even Laxman had given the Aussies a couple of opportunities to dismiss him which they had not been able to grab. But my inning was an epitome of perfection – there were no dropped catches, no missed-by-a-whisker passes by the stumps, no deliveries that caught me napping. The bad deliveries were naturally dispatched to boundaries but the good deliveries didn’t manage to do much better either. None of Tendulkar’s tons were decorated with such panache. None of Lara’s demolition acts were so hopelessly one-sided. Not even the great Don Bradman had made things look so easy and yet so elegant. The ill fate of the opposition was only cut short by the ringing of the bell that signalled the end of the day at school. I was ofcourse interested in continuing but a couple of members from the fielding team had to catch the school bus which apparently couldn’t wait for my dismissal. The next day, I eagerly reached the match venue in the afternoon, looking forward to continue my dazzling performance of the previous day but the whole fielding team had opted to go for football that day (The reason was obviously an escape from the prospect of facing me again). And so, the saga ended there – a splendid tale that the celebrated historians of cricket were unfortunate to miss. Maybe even Gods were reluctant to share the memories of that inning with mortals.

I know what your reactions are right now. Probably you consider the whole thing comical – a shameless narration of a ten year old inconsequential event by a nineteen year old. Fine – have it your way. But, if you are prudent enough you will realize certain things. One, at whatever level cricket is played on, a champion is always a champion and his genius transcends all geographical and chronological barriers. Two, in reality a hanky ball is much more difficult to play cricket on than the standard season ball which is hard and meets the bat with a pleasant crispness. Three, on a similar note, a board is much more difficult to bat with than the willow which is expressly shaped and empowered for that purpose. Four, there are neither well-defined rules nor rational referees in these games and so you may even be given out if your game in not in sync with the popular demands. Put these four together and you realize why this inning has to be rated at par with the finest in the cricketing world. The sporting history is replete with stories of Tendulkars and Beckhams doing unbelievable things at a tender age itself. Ofcourse, they eventually followed it up as a career and came up with more of such exceptional performances. For me, the start was just as good but I chose to ignore that lucrative path and follow up another one. But let it be remembered that at one point in time, I walked with giants and managed to dwarf them as well...

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Bat and Baal

Cricket, they say, is no longer a mere sport in India. In a manner of speaking it is a religion - with its own legion of faithfuls, followers and fanatics. From a quite different viewpoint, it is also a business - a money-spinning machine of mammoth proportions. And the truth of this hit me a few days ago under the most astonishing of circumstances. Given that I had spent the previous two months under a mode of rigorous study for the then-forthcoming 1st MBBS University Examinations, my hair had grown fairly beyond the accepted bounds of civilized appearance. And so, on a Sunday evening, I made my way to a nearby hair-dressing saloon, caressing my hair fondly in the final moments of their existence.

The ICC, I believe, employs a highly structured and well-planned calendar for international ODI fixtures and all matches played in the course of the year strictly adhere to this schedule. Unfortunately, and unintentionally on their part I am sure, the third ODI between India and their southern neighbours Sri Lanka happened to fall on the same date as the one I went to get my haircut on ( I refuse to phrase this sentence in any other manner). Furthermore, the match was a 'day-and-night' encounter - and hence a head-on clash with my evening outing. And so, quite understandably, the first sight that met my eyes as I walked into the saloon was a pretentious Arun Lal delivering a pitch report. At this point, I also registered the fact that the saloon was unusually crowded - the reason for which dawned upon me some time later. By the time I was asked to be 'seated' for the haircut, the Sri Lankan innings had already commenced and Jayasuriya was strutting along the pitch like a bloodhound looking for prey. The Indian bowlers, as always, had already come mentally prepared for a vicious onslaught. It would have been prudent had I been prepared for the same as the next 20 minutes presented a horrible experience for me. The barber, like every true Indian, was a die-hard fan of cricket and considered it as his fundamental duty to watch every ball of the match that India happened to play. Hence every ball was marked by a long pause during which the barber's skillful hands came to a standstill and his eyes darted to the television to realize his cricketing duties. The hair-cutting procedure was thus punctuated by a number of such pauses and a rather nasty jerk which was the direct result of the dangerous Jaysuriya getting out. At that particular instant, I don't know whose heart was beating faster - Jayasuriya's as he was making the long walk back to the pavillion - or mine as I survived a possibly fatal cut in my scalp. I swore loudly but that was hardly heard amidst the cheers that rang through the saloon. By the time my scalp had been completely retouched, two more Lankan wickets had fallen and my head showed the signs of a rather clumsy haircut.

I also figured out the reason behind the unexpected rush at the saloon. This was India - and paan ka gallas, tea-stalls and hair-cutting saloons were the virtual reality simulators to get a feel of the cricket stadium while a match was on. Apparently, every single person sitting there was an expert in the game and had an advice and opinion for every player on the field. (The opinions were as senseless as those offered by the panelists on various sports channels). A middle-aged gentleman was incessantly proclaiming the bowling skills of Brett Lee, probably not being aware that Australia was not in action for the day. Another bearded chap was criticizing the Indian field placement, with a random and repeated use of the terms 'fine leg', 'long on' and 'Jonty Rhodes'. Stupid fools! - I thought - whiling away precious time and creating hassles for people-with-a-purpose like me. And, even as I was leaving the saloon, I caught the steady Jayawardene at the crease from the corner of my eye. A single over wouldn't do any harm, would it?

I walked out of the saloon, an hour later, having proudly sacrificed 60 minutes to unprofitable watching of a cricket match. But, even as I walked out, I solemnly resolved to never ever synchronize my haircut with an India-featuring cricket match.

PS: The resolution made in the last line is likely to be unceremoniously dumped as and when the next cricket match comes. My craving for cricket is so much that I am prepared to undergo through the rut again to watch a cricket match in that splendid atmosphere.


WHACKY QUOTES :

The rules of cricket are simple, and are summarised by the ICC as follows:

You have two sides, one team aiming for the batsman's bails and the others as batsmen trying to hit the ball as far as possible without the other team getting hit! Each man that's in the side that's in goes out, and when he's out he comes in and the next man goes in until he's out. (Make SURE you DON'T go out!) When they are all out, the side that's out comes in and the side that's been in goes out and tries to get those coming in, out. Sometimes you get men still in and not out.

When a man goes out to go in, the men who are out try to get him out, and when he is out he goes in and the next man in goes out and goes in WTF! There are two men called umpires who stay all out all the time and they decide when the men who are in are out. And if something isn't fair it simply isn't cricket. and they sometimes even get hit in the head, which is funny.

When both sides have been in and all the men have been out, and both sides have been out twice after all the men have been in, including those who are not out, that is the end of the game!

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The Champion and the Challenger

Centre Court - Gentlemen's Singles - Finals

	Roger Federer SUI (1)					4		4		77		710		7
	Rafael Nadal ESP (2)					6		6		65		68		9

There are days and times when you hope contests don't end in victories and defeats. But then, there are defeats which are just as sweet as victories. In the world of tennis, Sunday - the 6th of July, 2008 will be remembered as one such day. The Wimbledon Men's singles title, arguably the most sought-after title in tennis was at stake and the two men who were to battle it out already had a fascinating trail of clashes behind them. Roger Federer - five time Wimbledon champion, the grass court wizard - the man who had been the undisputed Emperor of the tennis empire for the last five years. And against him....Rafael Nadal - his arch-rival and nemesis, Clay King - the only man in the world who had beaten Federer more number of times than he had lost to him. It was a dream title-clash but the way it eventually turned out was beyond anybody's wildest dreams.

A few weeks back, Nadal had unceremoniously dumped Federer in straight sets (and one set going 6-0!) at Roland Garros. The memories of that lop-sided match still lingered in people's minds. But then, this was grass and Federer was coming into the final with an unbeaten 65-match winning streak - something unprecedented in tennis history. He had also managed to defend his Wimbledon title for the last two years by defeating Nadal. Both meanwhile were chasing two different records - both of which curiously belonged to the same man. Bjorn Borg, the legendary tennis champion - winner of 5 straight Wimbledons and 6 French Opens. While Federer was aiming to eclipse Borg with a 6th consecutive Wimbledon title - a feat which no man had performed in 122 years of Wimbledon history, Nadal was striving to become the first man since Borg to hold the Roland Garros and the Wimbledon titles in the same year. Both players had launched a fierce demolition drive en route to the final. Hardly any other player had even threatened them in a single match - it was a cakewalk all the way. But then, Destiny is a cruel judge and when it come to sports even more so. So it was that once again the two were left to battle it out for grass supremacy. As I mentioned before, the two players had a trail of epic clashes behind them. The 2007 Wimbledon final - a breath-taking five setter which the Swiss eventually won, three French Open finals - where Nadal exhibited apparent invincibility, another grueling Monte Carlo Masters match.....it seemed that the two were ideal reagents for great tennis to be conjured.

I have always been a hardcore Federer fan. In Federer, I have always found the spirit of a true sportsman and a deserving champion. Cool in the face of adversity, merciless in his play and modesty amidst a gale of fame - it was considered impossible to rival Federer - until the ascent of Nadal. In contrast to Federer, Nadal was unduly aggressive - his characteristic on-court attire and those bulging biceps punching away his opponents to oblivion - he was a package of youthful exhuberance and devastating fearlessness. Over the years, Nadal matured, imbibed the necessary qualities of a champion and posed a real threat to Federer's five year reign over tennis. Until then Federer had an aura of invincibility around him but Nadal could and did make Federer look human on several occasions. He always seemed to hold a rather inexplicable psychological edge over Federer and was obviously more successful than others in bringing Federer's flaws to public notice.

When Nadal took away the first two sets of the final match, most people must have written off Federer. Federer was highly error-prone on Sunday and so many of his otherwise winning shots were going wayward. Nadal meanwhile was a picture of perfection and his grit and determination was palpable over his face. He swung the second set like a pendulum into his favour after coming down from an early break to break two of Federer's service games. The murmurs of the crowd turned into gasps of astonishment and Federer tried his best to repel Nadal's swift attacks. Infact, the heat of the battle was so tremendous that God had to send down showers twice to cool things down. Back after the first delay, Roger Federer was a different player altogether. The booming serves crawled in, the rocket fore-hands began working and he took the next two sets to tie-breaks. A tie-break, I believe, is a really unfair way of settling things. 7 points - either here or there - and you end up with a decision on who gets the hour-long fiercely fought set. Federer eventually won both. Once again, his mental strength and strong serves at critical junctures ruled over Nadal's equally praiseworthy efforts. The top-seed saved a couple of championship-points and in doing so, marred Nadal's chances of settling it earlier.

So far it had been a treat for any tennis fan. Two champions battling it out since 4 hours and still no obvious indication of which way the match was going. It was the contrasting styles of both players which made the watching experience even more delightful. Federer's silky mastery over Nadal's knock-out winners. Federer's modest ruthlessness versus Nadal's steely resilience. Federer's breezy demeanour versus Nadal's unrelenting ferocity. It must have made life difficult for the poor green balls knocked all across the court to quench the thirst and lust of two maestros. The fifth set was a fitting end to an epic clash - the longest Wimbledon final in tennis history - a match played at such high skill-levels and intensity that the tennis world was scorched by its outputs. Cries of 'Come on, Roger!' and 'Vamos Rafa!' echoed in the huge stadium and the crowd, like all Wimbledon crowds, were responsive and appreciative to the efforts of both players. Ultimately it would only be fair to say that the better man on the day won. Nadal had after all been the more consistent of the two while Federer had only showed patches of brilliance interspersed with some really mediocre play. For years, we had only wondered - who would be the man to stop Roger Federer's merciless reign on grass and it was after Nadal sealed away the last set 9-7 that our questions got answered.

The scenes after the victory were those which would remain etched in my mind for a long, long time. Nadal, squealing in delight and falling down flat on the turf he had finally mastered. Federer, looking dejected but graceful in defeat. Nadal, his eyes flooded with tears, reaching out to his vociferous family members. Federer, for the first time, witnessing another man celebrate at the end of a Wimbledon final. But, the true champion that he is, Federer had only admiration for Nadal at the end of the day and correspondingly Nadal also acknowledged that a single victory, herculean in proportions though it may be, did not mean that Federer was permanently bested. The implications in the tennis world that this result brought were left for the analysts to figure out. But it did make certain things quite obvious. It was a definite and a cruel end to Federer's monopoly in the tennis and now even he would have to perspire and pass through all the scares before winning a title again. He would have to perform exceptionally well and bundle up all the points that he can, to stay at the top at the end of the year. After all, he has much more points to catch up with in the second half of the year compared to Nadal. For Nadal meanwhile it meant a salvation of sorts. People would definitely stop branding him as a mere Clay court genius. The post-match conferences certainly showed Federer's frustrations and disappointments and he knew that he would have to spend some serious hours to find out a way to overcome the Spanish star when he met him next. 'The higher you rise, the harder you fall' and Federer's climb in the last five years had indeed been in league with the greatest of the sport. But the worries seem trivial now....let's salute the new Wimbledon champion and at the same time wish Federer comes back all pumped and pepped up to regain what has been robbed off him. At the end of this Wimbledon we still have a champion and we still have a challenger but the roles have been miraculously reversed in the course of the events in the fortnight. Lets wish the choicest of luck to these two achievers and hope they continue to serve tennis in the same manner as they have done so far.

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Nostalgia - Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan's, Baroda

Its difficult not to feel nostalgic about a place where you have spent the best parts of the best years of your life. And that difficulty borders onto an improbable impossibility when that place happens to be Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan's V.M Public School, Baroda. Apart from my family and my biological antecedents, quite frankly, the biggest contribution in my life so far has been from my school. The fourteen years that I spent in Bhavans as a student have been nothing less than a roller coaster ride - academic highs and disciplinary lows, splendid glory and stifled fury, courage claimed and shyness shed, respect won and ego wounded, friendships forged and boundaries broken, pre-exam phobias and post-exam euphorias, peer pressures and collective adventures - it was such a heady mixture of contrasting elements that the intoxicating smells of it still makes my senses reel. As I replay those fourteen years in my mind, I can still feel the hormones within my body stand up in rapt attention ready to surrender to an impending emotional outburst. Being a Bhavanite was then, and still is, a matter of pride that cannot be bartered for any worldly treasure.

My first memories of Bhavans revolve around its gargantuan dimensions. It is quite understandable to feel belittled when you enter Bhavans and take in its vast expanse - an area that could comfortably lodge a dozen normal-sized schools. And then there were those typical entities and locations that were so dear to every Bhavanite who perused them - the kindergarten sandpit, the great Banyan trees around which morning assemblies were held, Kala Bhavan, AV Room, Dining Halls, Hostels, the mango tree that acted as an official bus-stop, the serpentine roads and busy corridors, the sanctum sanctorum that was supposed to be the Library (!), the four labs (Yes - the computer lab was not actually a gaming zone!!)....they all form distinct remembrances of a quite fantastic school-life. In retrospect, I can hardly imagine Bhavans as a mere school....it was a thriving, breathing mass of a thousand people constituting my daily dosage of life. When I felt depressed - Bhavans comforted me, when I felt lost - Bhavans guided me, when I felt conquered - Bhavans fought for me, when I felt joyous - Bhavans danced along with me, when I felt lonely - Bhavans spoke to me with breathless eloquence. It was a shoulder I could always rest my head upon, a heart I could always trust upon, hands which I could always expect to support me whenever I stumbled - it was an embodiment of a parental institution of philanthropic credentials.

What Bhavans taught me in these fourteen years will definitely remain etched in the crypts of my mind forever. It has taught me that education is not congruent to schooling - it is a lifelong journey that always presents rosier detours and harsh hurdles. It taught me to stay humble even if I manage to break into echelons of power, it taught me to fly in the heavens of knowledge with wings of determination, it taught me to conjure up miracles when no other means were in sight, it taught me to consider every darkness as a premonition for a brighter day tomorrow, it taught me to grow and yet remain loyal to my roots. I know I may sound a trifle complacent when I talk about my stellar academic career in school so I will try to be brief about it. Bhavans has showered me with glories and praises that will always serve as a reminder to me that if I can find a strong enough 'Why?', I will always come up with an effective 'How?'. I learnt to believe in my abilities, to hate losing but if defeated, be sporting enough to accept it and smart enough to deduce what went wrong. I topped my batch for thirteen consecutive years and though it took many sacrifices along the way, I still cherish the picture of my parents' smiles when they heard of my success each year, year after year. When you are in school with a hundred other students as old as you and equally eager to establish their identities in that mini-world, it is important to excel in a particular field to stand out. I chose to make academics my forte and it wouldn't be far from the truth to say that I met with astounding success. Bhavans also gave me friends whose impact in my life has been enormous, friends whose meteoric support to me has always harboured my joys and bore the brunt of my sorrows. Even today, I breath a silent prayer to invoke the most magnanimous of Almighty's blessings on them and wish them success and good fortune wherever in the world they happen to be. When we go beyond this life, I pledge my attendance to a grand reunion at a place where no inhibitions can touch us.

Perfection is not a realistic attribute in this world and Bhavans was no exception. There indeed were cases of mismanagement and times when pandemonium reigned supreme in our school. There were also blatant violations of discipline and obvious indications of a rapidly deteriorating moral standard of a place initiated by luminaries of honourable repute. Needless to say, the blame lay on everyone involved with the school - the administrators, the teachers as well as the students. However, the indomitable spirit of resilience that is so characteristic of Bhavans persisted with astonishing gusto. And still, I would rather be a part of a blundering-and-recovering Bhavans than a model school of mechanical academic precision. Till today, apart from the three thousand square feet that house my home, Bhavans remains the only place on the sphere of this planet that I feel connected to and where I unambiguously belong to. Now that I am in college, I realise that a Bhavanite always stands out from the crowd, a Bhavanite always moulds the world around him to lodge himself inside it, a Bhavanite has a distinctly superior probability of making the right decision for himself and taking the right course to reach what he has decided for himself. In modern slang (though I despise it) - We Bhavanites always rock. Today, I feel sad to think that its all over but I feel glad to think that it happened all the same. The journey was studded with both wonders and blunders but in the end what mattered is that the destination was reached with our foray into a brand, new world. The fact that I was fortunate enough to be a part of an institution like Bhavans remains a fond, endearing aspect of my life and I hope that someday I get a chance to repay the enormous debt that I find myself in with a sincerity and dedication which Bhavans has lavishly instilled in me.

PS: The full manuscript of this post was about thrice as long as this and primarily consisted of personal details and random references to apparently trivial (but actually absolutely critical) things like the food in our mess, various teachers and other aspects of Bhavans. I hesitantly cropped these details in the hope that a shorter version would be much more favourably and frequently read. Also, despite of the fact that a very few people know about the existence of this blog and even fewer people bother to read it, the blog still remains irrevocably public and subject to view for all eyes thriving in this world. Keeping this matter in mind, I have resisted taking potshots at anyone and have summarily painted a rather rosy picture of our school. The truth, as it always is, is kept buried in my mind and it will take more than words to spit it all out.

PPS: More details and pictures can be obtained from this ill-maintained website.

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