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...