Ricky Ponting, our last credible enemy

Ponting dives to emerge from the ashes

On Day 2 of the second Test match, Ricky Ponting drove Zaheer Khan toward mid-on in the last second over before lunch. It seemed the ball would cross the ropes and bring the former Australian captain his first hundred in two years. But Tendulkar prevented the boundary which stretched Ponting’s wait longer by 40-odd minutes.

He saw Clarke race ahead to that mark in the very next over when the batsman drove Ishant Sharma for a boundary of the first ball. Clarke’s home-crowd cheered. And the same audience booed and jeered him three balls later when he took a double instead of a single. The crowd at the Sydney Cricket Ground almost forgot that their lad too had reached a milestone and he too is going through his toughest times.

Such moments of mindless exasperation seldom comes from the Australians, who pride themselves on keeping their country over individuals. But such moments of exasperation can be reserved for Ponting, who for years has been the solo baton-holder of the aggression, strength and determination which we associated with the Australians.

Ponting finally reached the triple figures. He dived for a single run to complete it. We saw him emerge from the dust. He pointed his bat toward the pavilion, toward the crowd. His whites splattered by dirt. He smiled childishly. He knew the drought was over.

And yet amidst the jubilation we knew, this is not the Ponting we knew. Not the man with whom even in off-seasons, we would not have wanted to mingle in a pub. Not the man who, even in a passing conversation, would never escape our curses. Not the Ponting, I had conceived after my one and only meeting with him 16 years back.

Being born in a small town — the size of a dot in the vast expanse of wikimapia — you grow up doing things that you later come to acknowledge as plain naivety. For a cricket fan such naiveties could mean standing in queue at 4 am on a foggy morning for a match scheduled to start at 1’O clock in the afternoon. Could mean talking about that match days later, although knowing that from the balcony you hadn’t seen anything apart from two different moving colours of 22 each and two white coloured spots of lesser mobility. It could also mean mobbing team hotels before matches and chasing players — or anyone else with a skin colour other than yours — when found in solitude.

It was the year of 1996, Australians and South Africans were in India to participate in the Titan Cup. Guwahati as always was elated as it had grabbed a match, a far and few affair for the Nehru Stadium. And even though the match was between South Africa and Australia, anticipation among the crowd could make you feel like the host of a World Cup final.

There were herds of people in every corner of every shop and house. They were talking animatedly about their favourites. Nearby fields, garages and verandas were all transformed to stadiums where kids could show each other ‘how an Allan Donald bouncer should be bowled and then avoided’ and ‘how to bowl a Shane Warne flipper and then guard yourself from being bowled’.

Amidst the hubbub, someone informed he/she had had caught hold of David Boon mistakenly while catching a bus. ‘Mistakenly’ because the narrator made it sound like a daily affair. In those days, I covered my nose and cheeks with moisturiser and tried to look as ferocious as 8-9 years old Donald would if he ran around my house with a tennis ball. I earmarked David Boon. Someone told me that he was a burly Australian, also a great player as certified by the hearsay.

My friend, a couple of years older and an equal cricket geek, hatched a plan to catch at least one Aussie unaware. By faces, I hardly knew any Australian — apart from Warne maybe. I always found it hard to decipher between Stuart Law and Ricky Ponting, and Jason Gillespie and Damien Fleming.

And yet amidst the jubilation we knew, this is not the Ponting we knew. Not the man with whom even in off-seasons, we would not have wanted to mingle in a pub. Not the man who, even in a passing conversation, would never escape our curses. Not the Ponting, I had conceived after my one and only meeting with him 16 years back.

The Australian team was supposed to practice the morning before the match, the South Africans had already had their practice session. The stadium was a few steps away from my house — though in those days the journey seemed too long. Overlooking the stadium, there were shops which sold sports goods and there were few restaurants by the alley. If you listened carefully, you could hear an amalgam of sounds: whistles from the railway station, prayers from mosque, honking of cars and the buzz of pedestrians, all at the same time. If you did not pay attention, you could hear only the honking of cars.

In a gist, it was the heart of the city and so a good trap. As expected, early in the morning we did catch a few white-skinned people unaware. But none of us knew if they were players. Anyways it made us feel good. After a few moments of vague absorption my friend pulled my sweater. His eyes were stuck at a guy in yellow shorts. We assumed he must be one from the Aussie team. We ran forward. My friend screamed flailing his new autograph book. I joined in chorus with no clue of who the player was. After a few aimless shouts, the player looked at us. Ponting who sported an Orlando Bloom goatee those days, returned a Clint Eastwood stare. And just when we thought we had nailed it, he returned a gesture uncalled for. Ponting pointed his fist at us. I thought he was rude. We stepped back disappointed. Vowed never to develop liking for him.

In vengeance, we cheered for South Africa during the match next day. The Proteas won by eight wickets. For days, we talked about Ponting with disgust. And then it was to continue for years. That image of Ponting remained engraved in my head. Even with age it did not change. Ponting never wanted it to change.

Adam Gilchrist provided a pleasant deviation when he walked off during the 2003 World Cup match against Sri Lanka and after, by walking off when he would be convinced even if the umpire thought otherwise. Brett Lee in his anglicised Hindi sang, “Haan main Tumhara hoon (Yes, I am yours)” and tried to restore harmony with us. Steve Waugh tours India regularly for his charity foundation. Even Symonds patched up with Harbhajan during the IPL, but Ponting never attempted such a makeover even when pushed against the wall.

Over the years, the colossal Punter has been cut to size. The glorious years of his captaincy are now tales of a forgotten past. He has been called a parasite who reaped dividends from what Steve Waugh had sown.

He has lost his captaincy, lost his form, also the respect of few of his countrymen. He has been made to carry drinks for the team during the tour of Sri Lanka in August last year. But Ponting is not one who would complain about any of these. He would merrily remain forgetful as long as he gets to step into the ground wearing his baggy green.

We have Clarke to look up to elegant stroke-play. We can look up to the likes of Pattinson and Siddle as hope for future, as in a few days they will again leave our batting in disarray.

But in a team of players who are occupied with finding their feet, Punter seems the only credible enemy. The only known face of hostility. One who has never cared to make friends with oppositions, Ponting’s life borrows inspiration from what actress Betty Davis had written in her autobiography: “Any actor who doesn’t dare to make an enemy should get out of the business.” And Ponting has had countless of us and if he resurrects himself he would readily gather more.

Debojit Dutta can be found doodling waywardly and pening absurdly on his blog Musings and Lyrics