Rajasthan Royals captain Rahul Dravid has led his team within playoff contention, with some consistent performances. (Getty Images)

The IPL is now in top gear, with teams battling it out to bulldoze their way into the top four and make it to the playoffs. With cut throat competition, it is certainly a rat race out there. The cap on the number of foreigners per team is pricking indeed, but if it were to be relaxed, teams would be more than happy, for it would work a long way in bolstering their balance.

In the past, teams have appealed to the Governing council about the cap on the number of foreign players they can field, but the council hasn’t budged yet. The sole motive behind the rule is that the IPL is a breeding ground for youngsters; a platform to prove their mettle and a springboard to the national squad. The IPL was introduced with this being one of the motives, along with the big fat bounty of course.

While every franchise is busy permuting the four foreign players scrupulously, there is one franchisee which has reiterated its belief on its local players time and again; accentuating the fact that the IPL is the Indian Premier League and Indians are ought to reap the benefits. The man behind it is a gentleman. He had the audacity to go on air saying results were secondary and the grooming of the youngsters is primary. This man doesn’t talk often, but when he does, he is articulate, very much like the way he bats. His defence has been impeccable, and so has been his leadership, immaculate. He is the self-effacing Rahul Dravid, the lynchpin of Rajasthan Royals.

Names like Ajit Chandila and Sanju Samson have made it big this season, like Ravichandran Ashwin did three seasons ago. All these youngsters needed were the belief and confidence of a veteran, role model and leader who would back them and last but not least, a friend who would put his arms around their shoulders and incite them to their best. Dravid donned every role with panache. To him, the future of his nation came mattered the most, than the lucrative bounty and fame the cup would fetch him. His fervent efforts to nurture the young talents, expose them to world class cricket and lay out a future for them have been a masterstroke, akin to his cover drive. He reposed his faith on the new names and it has paid off. Rajasthan royals are certainly punching above their weight and their rookies are playing a part in it.

The fact that he doesn’t have a fixed batting spot for him is a testimony to his selfless being. He keeps shuffling back and forth as the game demands, doesn’t shy to open the innings or bat at no.6 and tweaks his style accordingly. Not every batsman possess the attribute of playing at any spot, even the mighty lord fumbles and stays put to his opening spot.

He kept wickets to accommodate that extra batsman, he led the team when the other seniors shirked captaincy, he opened when the conditions were tough and it needed someone adept at the trade, he was dropped from the ODIs and picked again when the team looked miserable, all this underline the fact that he has been an indispensable unit of the team. He was the lever, the fulcrum around which the team the plied and whenever the team was crippled, he was the crutch.

Dravid captaincy has been unorthodox to say the least, but it has worked wonders. (IANS Photos)

Jettisoned by the Royal Challenger’s Bangalore – a preposterous decision by RCB – he was unfazed and set about his trade leading Rajasthan Royals. They are studded with big hitters, yet, when the big names are punctured they deflate and fall flat. Rahul Dravid would have been the stepney they are in dire need of. Such myopic decisions could have led to the crashes the famous airlines are under. His team selection for the inaugural IPL was derided and ridiculed to be a Test team. However in the second season, when the IPL was moved to South Africa, when cricket took the driver’s seat, they were a force to reckon with and emerged the runners up. His obsession with quality cricketers might be too costly a theory for the business men. Having moved to Rajasthan Royals, he has been their lynchpin and has been sound with the bat. He doesn’t strike barrage of sixes, yet he provides the stability at the top, a goldmine for a T20 match. If he calls it quit next season, it would put RR in an egregious state, such is his role in the team today. He anchors the innings and the rest of them, the pinch hitters, bat around him. Something Tendulkar himself has failed to do this season.

His sagacious and shrewd cricketing brains have shown its head over the due course. His field setting to nab Tendulkar was a master move. He is misconstrued to be a defensive captain, apparent from the way he conducts himself. Aggression to him lies in his diligent methods on field and his tenacious effort on the crease. As Mathew Hayden famously put it, aggression is something you find in Dravid’s eyes. However, he is being censured for his defensive ploy while captaining the national side. Amid all the flak, detractors forget that he lead the team to away victories in England and West Indies, and the overall record under his captaincy was above average.

The gentleman he is, he took the entire responsibility/blame for the dismal show in the 07 WC and that acted as a deterrent in calling for his head. His fortitude came to the fore in the game against Sri Lanka in the 07 WC, the game that knocked out India and a million dreams from the tournament. When wickets were tumbling at the other end, Dravid dug in, got into the thick of things and tried his hand at steadying the sinking ship, an art he has mastered over the years. At the fall of every wicket, the disgruntlement in his face was visible. He struck four boundaries in a Lasith Malinga over and somehow the target seemed mountable. Yet, the tides were too high and a million dreams sunk. He was by far, one of the most successful captains. He led by example, with a sense of dignity and pride. At the first talks about his captaincy, he stepped down. The gentleman’s ego was intact.

He has been the cause for the limelight, yet, he shirks in it. He is the backstage performer, whose presence is inexplicably indispensable. When it comes to joyous occasions, he steps aside, letting the team steal the thunder, yet when it came to criticism or failure, he stood in front and absorbed the blow.

Today, at 40 he leads a side by example. His sole intention is to aid the younger generation in honing their skills and in turn serve the nation. He has redefined the IPL with his leadership as well as his batting. He has done it in his own inimitable and impeccable style. He has been denied the plaudits and that has undeterred him. He sets about his trade like a gentleman does with his vision only on the task at hand. Hats off Rahul Sharad Dravid, you are the true Mr. Cricket.

The first black captain to take over the reigns for the WI was Frank Worell, and that was a moment of pride and victory for the blacks. Yet, they had their vision set on a longer goal, they wanted to shed their underdogs tag, on all fronts. Hence, when Clive Lloyd took over, he was construed to be much more than their cricket captain; he was a leader of their race. He was a swashbuckler and an adept medium pacer himself. Though he was bespectacled, he was a visionary, with a far sighted vision. His initial phase was shaky and the tour to Australia was, to be blunt, disastrous. West Indies were not beaten, they were whipped, whipped by eleven white men. Lillee and Thompson, the fiery Aussie pair, delivered death blows in tandem. The Windies batsmen were scratching beneath the surface, taking body blows, nasty ones. It was a bitter sight for the Caribbeans, seeing their leader lying on the ground after taking a nasty blow. Along with him laid their dreams and hopes. Every time you lost to Australia, the agony would be doubled, as you would have been subjected to nasty sledging and racial abuses as well. Rubbing salt to their wounds was the fact that they lost the series 5-1.

Yet to recover from the disaster, Clive chalked out the route. He was clear in his vision as always and traversed the Caribbean islands, scouting for pacers. He walked through even the remotest roads in a fervent attempt to pick fast bowlers. By fast bowlers, they meant really fiery bowlers who could clock serious pace, not like the pacers of today. The scrupulous efforts reaped the benefits and the likes of Micheal Holding, Colin Croft, Andy Roberts, Joel Garner and Malcolm Marshall burst onto the scene. From then, the pace battery formed the arsenal of the West Indies and for years to come, they would intimidate generations of batsmen.

When India toured West Indies subsequently, they were greeted by some deadly pace bowling and the Indians were let pleading for their lives, literally.  Much to Mukul Kesavan’s (author of “Men in White”) disbelief, Gavaskar took a nasty blow on his body and forfeited the match; the bulletins read, ‘India surrenders the match to West Indies’. This was the first of the meek submissions to follow over the years. Every batsmen dreaded the long run up of the pacers and the lighting that was going to follow. By now, WI had become a formidable unit.

If the bowling unit was strong, the batting department possessed heavyweights such as Gordon Greenidge, Desmond Haynes, Viv Richards and Clive Lloyd. Sir Vivian Richards, known to be the best attacking batsmen ever, rung the death bells for most bowlers. His swagger kept at bay even the most fearsome attacks. On his day, he could tear apart any attack and murder even the most formidable bowler. He was a true master blaster, and for WI cricket, he was a Hercules.

The England tour that followed showcased the most riveting contests in the history of the game. Before the series kicked off, Tony Greig, the English captain, went on air saying, “We will make them grovel”. What followed was a total reversal of fortunes for the Englishmen. This comment of Tony Greig insinuated something more than cricket, given the political mayhem they were subjected to. That certainly irked the Caribbeans and they were determined to prove their mettle against their colonial masters, and Greig had just fuelled the fire that was already ablaze within them. It was a D-day of sorts for the WI. The moment was ripe to hit back, and so they did. Andy Roberts delivered a breathtakingly fierce spell to Tony Greig. He was hit in his chest, waist, and other parts of the body and the humiliation and chagrin were more painful than the blows. He was let to bite the dust, literally, and there was a picture that was released later which showed the red marks on his body. Those marks would be fresh in his mind, even on his death bed. He did grovel and the headlines read- “Who grovelled?”.  The English batsmen faced a volley of deadly bouncers, so much so that the umpire had to intervene and warn the bowler of the dire consequences to follow.

With the players’ morale on a high, they were now prepared and were in anticipation of the Australia tour. The drubbing of the 1975 series was fresh in their minds and they were training their guns against the Aussies. As the players boarded their flight to the land of Bradman, they were sharpening their knives and one could contemplate the severity of the attack. It wasn’t an attack, it was a massacre. The big mouths of the Australians were now broken, with cases of broken jaws being reported. This was by far the best revenge series in the history of cricket. Revenge was never so sweet for the Windies and they comprehensively beat Australia in their own backyard by a whopping margin. The Caribbeans by now, mounted the pinnacle of cricket and were the side to beat.

The white media, in a desperate bid to undermine the Windies, conjured up an image of the Windies which showcased them as blood thirsty scavengers. They were written off as terrorists and their brutal way of playing cricket was thoroughly censured. The seeds were sown by the Australians and it came back to bite them. Every  time the brutal tactics of the West Indies were chided by the English, the body line tour was forgotten conveniently. They set the ball rolling, just that the Windies managed to outclass them at their own trade. The reality of getting beaten in their own trade was too costly for the whites and the frustration was pretty much explicit. The protective gears were yet to come to the fore, and such brutal tactics could claim lives, yet the WI stalwarts argued that if you were unable to handle the pace, you always had the option of hanging up your boots.

The West Indies team of that era was a product of years of oppression and decades of suppression. They were an embodiment of aggression and valour. They defied every odd and emerged the most formidable outfit. They broke all shackles and were a story of great revolution. The team was studded with revolutionaries and rebels. By far the most riveting tale of revolution in the entire world history. Perhaps, in any sport, under any discipline, the record of this outfit remains unchallenged. In the span of 15 years from 1980 to 1995, West Indies did not lose even a single Test series.

Inspired from the documentary ‘Fire at Babylon’.

The fever hit me soon and I am here confessing. I started watching cricket from when I was 9 and there are a few nasty confessions to make. I do not endorse any of it, these are purely confessions.

Confession #5

As a young cricket fan, I was lured into flamboyant cricket. Big heaves, the ball rocketing its way past the boundary, the ball hoicked into the stands, the stumps cartwheeling, etc captivated me. Hence, I developed a hatred towards batsmen with a low strike rate, completely turning oblivious to  their technique. One such batsman I scoffed at was Rahul Dravid. As a kid, everytime he walked to the middle, I booed. I laughed at his batting. Every time he defended and the ball stood still, in complete obeisance to its master’s order, I failed to understand the nuances of it and derided it. I was bored just by the sight of him walking to the crease. I impugned his batting prowess often. Rubbing salt to my wound, he was often compared with Tendulkar during my school days. This very fact vilified him. The comparison to me was preposterous and in the argument, I was profane. Throughout his career, I looked to insult him. Only after I understood the game I was completely in awe of his batting. His fortitude and diligence was just impeccable.

Confession #4

I’m from Chennai, a city that possesses a rich cricket heritage. Club cricket was prevalent in Chennai as early as the 1930s. Though Chennai hasn’t produced a Tendulkar or a Gavaskar or a Ganguly, Chennai’s crowd are a well informed lot. We aren’t the fanatics Kolkata’s got or the waspish people of Mumbai. Our cricket knowledge is rich and we’re an ebullient as well as erudite lot. In recent times, our IPL franchise has been a cracking team and are the undisputed champions. When every Chennaite reels under the showers of their overachieving franchise, I’m there in an egregious spot. I’m an ardent fan of Tendulkar and cannot stand to see him lose. I’m that fan of him who would cry when he gets out, jump in joy when he scores and tears of joy would flow out when he plays the straight drive. Hence, I can seldom digest the bilious sight of him ending up on the losing side. The lackluster performances of Mumbai have not deterred me and I’m there cheering for Mumbai. I’ve prayed God, to the religious one, for CSK to lose. I confess this. I’ve been a betrayer, a traitor. I  am a disgrace to the Chennaities.

Confession #3

This confession applies to every Indian, at least most of us. Brothers, for ages now, we’ve been booing Pakistan. Pakistan has been one of the most competitive sides in the history of the game. There remains some indelible memories etched in us by Pakistani players. Be it the last ball six by Miandad or the reverse swing of Akram and Waqar, Pakistanis have been indispensable. Yet, there remains an inexplicable hatred in every Indian towards Pakistanis. Sadly, this hatred is the child of political tensions and even worse, religious difference. We do hate Australia and Australian cricketers, but that is an healthy rivalry – a cricketing clash. There’s a difference to why we hate Pakistanis and why we hate Australians. I confess for my undue hatred towards my brothers across the border.

Confession #2

I grew up watching Tendulkar, Dravid and listening to tales of Gavaskar. Hence, batting was a well defined art to me. There was a framework to which one’s strokes need to conform to. Sachin was cheeky, yet it looked like a cricket shot and it appealed to my senses. Dhoni, on the other hand, has broken the shackles of conventional batting and has gone on to redefine batting. He has starred in many a victories and has engineered a lot of impossible finishes. Today, he is the best ODI batsman. The best finisher and the best accumulator.  His knock that won the world cup for India accentuates his fortitude and his knack of thriving under pressure. All this excellence has been pushed beneath the carpet, the carpet of unorthodox. His unorthodox ways have drawn flak from a lot of corners and I have been an active detractor. He has gone on to become the most successful Indian captain and this has been a harsh reality for me. I still keep detracting his captaincy and hail Ganguly as the best captain ever. He has proved me wrong on every front. Yet, I live in denial. I am misled. I confess heartily for denying the plaudits he deserve and for living in the old school of batsmanship.

Confession #1

In the recently concluded Test series between India and Australia, in the Hyderabad Test, Murali Vijay and Pujara were playing a gem of an innings and a historic partnership was on the cards. Yet, for every LBW appeal, the crowd cheered; at least a certain sect of the crowd did. When the umpire turned down the appeal, a wave of disappointment swept them. This gesture of cheering a wicket of the home team befuddled the Australians. Later, they understood. The crowd had come to watch Tendulkar and were waiting with bated breath for him. The No. 3 batsman in India is the most unlucky cricketer ever. His head always wins a bounty. The fanatic I am, I wish for the scorecard to read 2 wickets down as soon as possible. I wanted the master in, as quickly as possible. If the master was gone and the score card read 500-3, I would switch off the TV and walk away. On the other hand, if the master was batting and the score card read 50-6, I would be glued to the TV, totally unswayed by the team’s performance. He came first, the team next. The onus was always on his performance, not on the team’s. This is a blot on the landscape of a cricket fan. This is a crime, a sin. I am sheepish even to confess. One of the nastiest confession of a Sachin fan.

Every fan has something to confess about, every fan has something to be proud about. As Ravi Shastri, the great renowned commentator puts it, it is cricket which is the winner at the end of the day. Cricket that has given us so much to reminisce about, cricket that has given us heroes, cricket that has given us villains, cricket that has given us coffee table buddies, cricket that has given us enemies, cricket that has given us our livelihood, and it is certainly the winner.

The tenor of the title might insinuate different names to different people. To the connoisseurs it would ring ‘Gavaskar’, to the chest-thumping fan it would ring ‘Kapil Dev‘ and to the guys from my generation, the late 80s and 90s, it would be one name roaring into the ears – Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar. I am a 90s kid, yet, I’m awestruck by the caliber of this batsman. The first Indian batsman to command respect from bowlers all over the world. For long, Indian batsmen were sitting ducks. But he set the ball rolling. The pace battery of the West Indies and Australia was galloping through the Indian ranks until he forayed onto the scene. He broke the glass ceiling and burst into the scene, thudding at the doors of international cricket. After he did, the tales were twisted. The newspapers carried news of an Indian scoring double hundreds and hundreds against the most venomous pace bowlers. The Indian spectators listened through them and were in awe. He was no attacker, his innings’ were no blitzkrieg. His batting was more of artistry and astuteness. It was a melody, magical and mesmerizing. It entrenched you, and before you could realize, you were hooked to it. The peppy numbers seldom surfaced and only the erudite were magnetized by it, or the vice versa. No points for guessing who I’m talking about! The one and only, Sunil Gavaskar.

The red ball was a fragrance to only a few Indian batters. To most batters, it was a foul odour. It was so putrefying that stuff near the nose hitherto befuddled Indian batters. An Achilles’ heel for ages, the short ball was troublesome for the Indians, and was the most common tactic adopted by oppositions abroad. The sight of the Indian batsmen half-ducking, swaying and being taken by surprise by the short ball is by itself abominable. Even with the protective gears today, the helmet with the perspex visor, the batsmen still succumb to bouncers and often take their eyes off the ball. Hooking or pulling a short ball requires acute skills. You need to get back and across, with the eyes fixed on the ball until the last minute. If you miss it you would be bogged down by a nasty hit on your helmet. If you missed it twenty five years ago, when the helmet was scant or the perspex visor was still yet to be invented, you would be in your grave by the end of the day’s play.

Malcolm Marshall, the deadly West Indian pacer was one of the most savage pace bowlers of his time. Possessing noxious pace, he would sprint in viciously and pitch one ball short at 150kmph and it would rise swiftly to the batsman’s head; a lethal delivery. The batsman, the artist he is, gets back and across, behind the line, and in a jiffy hooks it into the stands. The eyes are on the ball until the ball leaves the bat, and the follow through as majestic as it could get. All this action without a helmet, just a pair of sunglasses and a cap. If he had missed it by a whisker, he would have to be escorted out of the stadium in an ambulance, but seldom did such fear deter him. Aggression is defined as above. Aggression is mistakenly understood as sledging, dancing down the track or the mammoth heaves out of the park. Aggression lies in the batsman’s intent to hook such lethal deliveries without the protective gear. Aggression lies in his eyes, in the calm eyes of the little master, the original little master.

I was born after Gavaskar retired. Yet, I’ve heard and read volumes about his exploits on the field. I have never seen him get hit by the cricket ball, other than on his pads. He was astutely adroit and was a master of the cricket ball. The cricket ball was his football. He had full authority over it. Modern day batsmen are intimidated by pace and it is discerning to see them getting hit by the ball. It accentuates their inefficacy to counter pace. The greatest modern day batsman, Sachin Tendulkar, has been pecked by the ball a number of times. Gavaskar, on the other hand, was a master at negating pace and hence averaged 75-odd against the West Indies, the Australia of his time.

There are certain shots in cricket that demoralize the bowlers. The nuances of those are less known to the modern batsmen and the modern fan. A demoralizing shot for the bowler isn’t the helicopter shot or a six down the track. It is the straight drive showing the maker’s name. It is an ultimate insult to a fast bowler. It is a shot straight out of the coaching manual, which has on it inscribed the words of every cricket coach. Foot to the pitch of the ball, minimal gap between the bat and the pad, a straight bat and a fulsome follow through. In the game of cricket, there are very few batsmen who play this stroke as it is the most vulnerable stroke. Tendulkar, of course, brings tears to one’s eye when he plays that stroke. What is less known is that the shot was patented by Gavaskar. The artistry of the stroke, the mildness of the touch and the impact on the ball were just stupendous when Gavaskar played it against the pacers.

When Indian batting lacked tooth, he was the molar. He would grind the bowlers and often grilled them. He belonged to the ‘Bombay school of batsmanship’ and the sublimity of his strokes is a testimony to it. In an era when West Indies possessed the likes of Viv Richards and Gary Sobers, when Australia had Greg Chappell, when England had Gooch and Boycott, India too stood tall with Sunil Gavaskar in its rank; arguably the greatest of the lot. Everyone else who featured in that list didn’t have to face certain  great pacers as they fell in their own teams. Gavaskar, on the other hand, had to face the best pacers of the world without the protective gear. And he revelled in that battle.

The artistry of his shots, the statuesque follow through, the delicacy of the touch, the romantic look at the red ball, the gaze till the last moment and his nonchalant presence transcended batting. He was a song, a melodious number, a clairvoyant. He was the first Indian hero.

Critics and detractors fervently grope in the dark, scrupulously searching in anguish for the chinks in his armour. The very fact that you need mathematicians and statisticians for belittling someone tells a tale or two. One, the apertures in the aegis is well veneered under the brilliance that overshadows it and two, the pinnacle his greatness is at, requires such rigorous arithmetic to disparage it. When the common man is in desperation to walk away from the herd, he  looks to challenge the convention;  he often resort to such calculations and in the desperation to prove his conviction, he conveniently commissions off certain facts and allowances. Contemplating at busting certain myths, demystifying the mysteries, they fall prey to myopia. One such cases of myopia (short sight) is the measure of a batsman or an innings in cricket.

Ever since I started reading about cricket, one thing that has befuddled me is the yardstick to measure an innings. It’s startling how bigwigs such as Wisden have been the brainchild of such bizarre ideas. Wisden India Almanac did the marathon in 2000 and went about releasing the top 100 Test innings. In a major controversy, which some construe to be even marketing gimmicks, the list did not include a single innings of Sachin Tendulkar in the top 10. This thoroughly disregarded his stature, his stardom and even derided his numbers. This came as a slap to some of his fans and let to widespread unease. This bolstered the brand Wisden and it did reach out to the grass root strata of the society, something even Wisden ceased to dream in its infancy. The spokespersons of Wisden stood by their rankings and revealed the modus operandi for arriving at such ludicrous rankings. Innings which contributed to wins received a much larger weighting than the innings that contributed to losses or draws. This theory has been a bitter pill to swallow. To this engineer, this has been one of the hardest postulations to account for.

Playing under pressure, stomaching the mounting pressure and excelling is certainly heroic. When the pins are down, when in despair, playing a match saving knock and winning the match is even more heroic. The fortitude certainly deserves to be lauded. Leverage to such situations is certainly called for. When the floodgates have been opened, someone who revels under it deserves the plaudits. Such efforts have been rated high and the ranking is in accordance  with this conviction. Where the ranking has gone awry is that the end results of such efforts are given more weightage than the effort itself.

Cricket has been abound with such tenacious and diligent efforts. Efforts that have led to an eventual sealing of the game have been regarded highly and efforts higher on the fortitude quotient, with the result tilted, have been thoroughly disregarded. In many a cases, such innings have come under demanding and testing times with only the result reading a loss. When the conditions have been testing and the entire set of batsmen scratching beneath the surface, there might have  been one lone survivor who would have tamed the raging bull. In the 2008 Test series in Sri Lanka, Ajantha Mendis spun a web and bamboozled the Indian batsmen. The Indian batsmen fell like nine pins, with Virender Sehwag the lone star. He took the attack to Mendis and scored heavily. The series went awry, with India losing 2-1. In line with the above hypothesis, the efforts of Virender Sehwag would be denigrated and undermined. Coming to the point and talking about Tendulkar, the knock of 175 against Australia at Hyderabad, chasing a mammoth 370 odd, was an astonishing effort. When the entire team lacked the heart to stand upright and chase down the target, this little master caught the game by the scruff of its neck and was well on course to win the game. With the asking rate below 7 and 5 wickets in hand, it was a piece of cake for any team. Yet, the team failed to chase it down and India lost the game. Does this by any means undermine Tendulkar’s knock? The answer is a stern no. The 134 against Pakistan at Chennai is another point in case. With less than 15 runs to win and 5 wickets in hand, the team succumbed to some insane shots spearheaded by Nayan Mongia. It brings to fore the inefficacy of his team mates and accentuates his brilliance. Wisden, sticking to their conviction, would have totally neglected this knock.

Consider this scenario. A pace bowler has been spitting fire and is at his venomous self. He has managed to castle every batsman and the team is at an egregious spot, with just one opener surviving the spell. The team is bundled out for, say, 200 with the opener scoring a 100. Given the shortcomings of the side, the opposition mauls the team without the loss of a single wicket with 15 overs so spare. Wisden or other rankings would brush aside this effort as a knock in a ‘losing cause‘. The tenacity of the batsman who survived the strenuous spell would be demeaned. This is appalling. No batsman bats to lose. Cricket, being a team game, has its result dictated by various factors and not just by one batsman.

A knock needs to valued in terms of its technical nuances. When Warne was befuddling an entire generation of batsmen, Tendulkar outfoxed him. The umpire standing witness to it conceded that it was the most enticing cricketing contest he had ever seen. He was the most experienced umpire and had seen generations of batsmen. Such views need to be taken into account before jumping to conclusions. He was at the receiving end too. McGrath broke the stack of technical brilliance of Tendulkar and had him dismissed thrice in the 2001 home series. Such efforts go down the drain due to the obsession with results.

There has been a hue and cry over Tendulkar’s knocks in a winning cause. There was this beautifully written article which had dissected Tendulkar’s numbers and an analysis entailed. Though it was a delight to read, on the logical front it wasn’t very convincing. The author had counted the number of matches won and the number of centuries in a winning cause and arrived upon an average. This totally neglects the knocks that had gone in vein because of the incompetence of his fellow players. A batsman from Bangladesh might have made 40 centuries in hundred games with only 10 of them resulting in a victory. His average would be below one, a dismissable figure. Yet, his efforts would be dismissed as centuries in a ‘losing cause’. The very term ‘losing cause’ is misleading. The cause isn’t for losing. There have been statistics about winning percentage and losing percentage, and to be honest, that is just downright rubbish.

Tendulkar’s greatness can never be belittled on any account. He will remain the epitome of batting. When the Indian team was in need of a batting hero who would destroy and mutilate the bowling attack, Tendulkar broke the glass ceiling and broke onto the scene. He gave a new face to the Indian team and carried upon his shoulders the burdens of a billion. 100 centuries isn’t a joke and every run of it was played with the intention to win the game.

I wish such myopic measurements be got rid of. The situation of the game and the contribution of the other batsmen and the caliber of the bowling attack should be given due importance and the obsession with the result be overcome.

I know it has become a cliche, lugubriously longing for Tendulkar, and articles which lay heaps of prize on him have been pouring in from all quarters. This might be just another article to clog the cricket page, yet, to this writer this is the biggest form of respite. A respite from his emotional baggage. The emotional baggage has been weighing very pretty heavy on his mind, due to which he has been bogged down. From then on, he has been on youtube, reminiscing Tendulkar’s knock and reliving the past. That has only added to the emotional turmoil and he is craving for the master.

The audacious cover drive, that scintillating straight drive, that erupting flick off his pads, all that made him spring out of his chair a week ago, now puts him back in his chair with a huge lump in his throat. Though the brilliance was pure and unadulterated, the joy it provided was diluted. Jettisoning the fact that this was going to end sometime soon was an uphill task for this mind etched with memories of him. Cricket to this author translated to Tendulkar. A 90s kid, he hasn’t seen Bradman or Gavaskar or Richards or  Chappell or Maradona or Boris Becker, yet he has seen Tendulkar. He has seen Tiger Woods, Federer, Schumacher, Lara and even Ponting, but the obeisance was only to Tendulkar. To him, Tendulkar was his sporting hero, perhaps even a real life hero. Hence, the emotions that emanated were quite heavy, too heavy for this human mind of his.

It was the third day of the final Test between India and Australia at Kotla, with India leading the series 3-0 and the whitewash up for grabs and pretty much within reach. When the first wicket went down, I started praying for the second wicket to fall quickly, as I have been praying for the past 14 years. When it did happen and the scoreboard read something for two, everyone’s sight was set at the pavilion, waiting with bated breath for someone to arrive. The silhouette did emerge. With rapturous applause, the crowd went berserk, everyone up clapping till their hands whined and roaring till their throats hurt. As he made his strides to the middle, a million thoughts loitered my mind. This could well be the last time he was making the strides in India – the strides were getting smaller and slower as days passed. He did take guard and a wave of joy swept over me and I fell into sheer euphoria. That euphoria is something that has never ceased to exist for the past 14 years, from when I started watching cricket. His form, age, opposition or country have never deterred the ebullience. It has been constant.

The joy proved to be ephemeral. He was gone, LBW to a bowler who claimed his wicket four times in that series, something alien to Tendulkar. I was devastated and totally hit. It silenced the entire stadium. Never has the Feroz Shah Kotla worn such a desolated look. As he made his walk back to the pavilion, one by one people in the gallery stood up in obeisance, to catch a glimpse of the genius for the last time, respecting his two and a half decade display of dominance and discipline. As he walked back, he would have been kicking himself for leaning forward on a pitch where every other batsmen stayed behind and played late. Everyone in the crowd knew well that it could be his last time in India, yet, they were so flippant that they didn’t mention it to each other.

As he walked back, a wad of memories was doing its rounds inside my head. After the completion of his century he would look up, thank his father and acknowledge the crowd. His dance down the track, the straight drive that manifests the maker’s name, the paddle sweep, and last but not least, the shy curly haired lad – all played inside my head. To me, he was everything. A friend, an enemy, a hero, a villain, a star, a brother and much more. I have flunked because of him. I have been chastened because of him. I have been proud of him, I have cried because of him, I have fought for him. When it came to him, the emotions were high. His love for the game is a working example for every budding sportsman. If you love what you do, you can only succeed. He is a testament to it. There might have been better batsmen, but his character is something that has kept me in awe. The very fact that there aren’t any blemishes in his conduct on and off the field makes him the hero he is. In an era where Armstrong and Tiger Woods have been confronted with a record of untoward activities, he has stood tall, as the epitome of sports.  I don’t have to justify my emotions for him, it is nugatory.

All this moved in slow motion in my mind. I stood up, in front of the television set, clapped as hard as I could, bowed and the drop of tear hit the ground. My mom told me I was going overboard. Probably I was, I was coming of age. The moment he walked back would forever be etched in my memory. I can hide it, but never forget it. Cricket wouldn’t miss its greatest batsman, it would miss someone who loved it with all his heart.

As Harsha Bhogle put it, thank you Tendulkar, you were a good habit.

Bored: Empty seats at Test venues across the country (and the world) are a common sight these days. (Getty Images)

However hard the cameramen tried to veneer the dwindling attendance and not focus on the empty dry stands, a viewer couldn’t be oblivious to the scanty numbers present. Though it was a weekday and Australia were at the crease, the number was too paltry to reason out.

The previous decades put forth an entirely different scenario. I vividly remember the long queue outside Chepauk for the Test match against Australia in 2001. Rewinding a bit more, my dad is garrulous about his travails in buying tickets for a Test match. People thronged the gates early in the morning, as early as 4 a.m. to bulldoze their way through the crowd. Though it was an arduous task, the thought of the enticing action waiting to unfold at the other side of the gates pushed people to undertake the treacherous task. After having bought the tickets, people would paint their faces with the tri-color, purchase flags, the Indian jersey, a quick breakfast and at the stroke of 9 a.m., the stands would be full. Plastic bottles would be drummed causing a rapturous sound, the vociferous crowd cheering at the sight of the umpires first, the bowling team next and the batting team finally. As the first ball was about to be bowled and the bowler was in his strides, the decibel levels would soar, and the ecstatic crowd would be going through euphoria. The Mexican wave doing its rounds and even the most decorum-oriented guys up from their seats, dancing to the bass created by the plastic bottles. Wait, I’m talking about the game played by guys clad in whites, with the red ball, over 5 days. We call it a Test match. Yes, there was a time when there was such enthusiasm for Test matches, just a few years ago.

Juxtaposing this with the current scenario of dwindling attendance at the stadia is disconcerting for aficionados like me. I’ve been taught to watch cricket for its beauty, not for its flamboyance. I have been taught to watch cricket where the bowler sprints in, spitting fire, and bowls a nasty bouncer at 150 odd kmph at the batsman without helmet, and yet, Gavaskar gets behind it, picks it up from near his nose, undeterred by the pace, and puts it away over mid-wicket. I have been taught to watch cricket where the world’s most bamboozling leg spinner rolls is arms to befuddle the worlds greatest batsman and yet, the little genius unveils an array of strokes and gives the bowler nightmares. The umpire who stood witness to the contest, the greatest umpire ever testimonies the contest and hails it the best cricketing contest ever. Such was the caliber of the game. The colored clothes couldn’t captivate me like the white clothes do.

Blame it on the diminishing attention span of the people, the busy lives, the rising inflation or the exorbitant ticket prices, it finally boils down to the ignorance and insolence of the big bosses. There have been a long list of measures rolled out to enhance the viewing experience of the TV audience. The telecast rights have hence soared, one complementing the other. The telecast rights, the highest revenue generator for the game, for long has been the bone of contention for the BCCI. The worst part is, they’ve been contended with it. On the other hand, the viewing experience at the stadia or the grounds have been thoroughly sidelined. The facilities at some of the tier II city stadiums is dismiss-able even by rags.

All that has been overlooked and the priority has been the TV audience. The guy who locks himself within the comforts of his air conditioned room, reclining in his cozy bed in front of a LCD TV, has been fed with more pop corn and soothed with drinks. Yet, the guy who gets up to the biting cold of 4 a.m. and stands the regime of the queue to get the tickets, sits through the entire day under the scorching heat with undiminished enthusiasm has been left to starve. He has been languishing, lurching at the bottom. He has been stabbed by the game he has remained faithful to over the years. He runs, even though he has been overlooked. He runs as far as he can, and one fine day, gives up, decides to sit and home and catch glimpses of the game through TV.

Where does the excitement lie: Why take the trouble to watch a game in the scorching heat when you can watch it in the comforts of your air-conditioned room? (Getty Images)

The economics lessons suggest the current trend. The revenue provider is served and embraced and the others are kicked, kicked out of the scene. Supply and demand follows. There is demand in the telecast industry and hence it is supplied. In hindsight, you need to realize, the same bosses were the reason for the sharp downturn in demand at the gates.

The reasons may be aplenty. The BCCI shouldn’t be the scapegoat, I concede. But it can’t be denied that the BCCI hasn’t taken the necessary steps to serve the crowd at the stadiums, let alone to attract more crowds. The marketing brains have by  and large been biased. Marketing ideas are doled out to captivate the TV viewer, but the same marketing brain isn’t applied to bolster the guy at the grounds. Be it reducing the ticket prices or refurbishing the stadiums, the biggest concern is the BCCI’s ignorance to this. There are problems that plague the sport and the there are boards incompetent to tackle the issue.

Here, we have a board that has decided to care less about the issue and concentrate on the big money bags that have been dangling above their heads. They’ve jumped high to bag the bounty, even if it has meant stamping on the loyal and faithful people.

Good job, BCCI.

Batting is an art and one needs to comply within the framework, they say. Every young lad is rigorously coached and the protocols are well marked. The two V’s of the grip lying in line with the ridge, the knees bending at forty five degrees with the ground, the back-lift up until the handle meets the stomach, the bat coming from third man, the front foot stretched to the pitch of the ball, the back foot curled with the heel lifted. The textbook is profound and the training is profuse. Yet, here is a champion batsman who made a mockery of all this. He derided and rubbished the textbook. To him, batting was simple and less confounding. If you see the ball, hit the ball, and hit it hard!

With this motto, he intimidated every bowler. Dismantled every bowling attack. Tore apart the best bowlers in the world. Unaware of the country, the pitch, the bowler, the ball, the form, he went about slaughtering everything that came his way. He played ‘fruit ninja’ on the field. When he saw the ball, he hit it! He ridiculed even the best balls. Opening the attack for India, he was up there bursting cylinders. Regardless of the situation of the game, he went about playing his natural game, launching the blitzkrieg. The missiles were spot on and hit the bull’s eye. He unveiled an array of strokes and cracked the whip on every bowler. When he was on song, all the opposition captain could do was watch him and maybe applaud.

He never had the technical brilliance to support him, yet the hand eye co-ordination was his back bone. That was his X-factor. His hand exactly followed his sight and all that you could hear was a thud and the ball rocketed to the fence. Jayasuriya was one batsman who broke the shackles of batting and went on to set towering records. The purists brushed it under the carpet saying that he wasn’t a great Test batsman and Test cricket is all about technique. To all such myths, Viru posed a serious question. He has more than a century of caps and has under his kitty close to 9000 Test runs at an average of 50-odd. He is the only Indian batsman to have scored a triple century and he did it twice. He has the most number of double centuries by an Indian. He is among the four Test players to have crossed the 300 mark twice in Test cricket. The top three highest scores in Test cricket by an Indian has his name etched alongside them. Therefore, by no means is he a laughing stock and in terms of records, he features in the top five Indian Test batsmen. He was a batsman to be taken seriously.

You talk about consistency and he has an average of 50-odd, just below Sachin, Dravid and Sunny Gavaskar. For an attacking batsman of his stature, his average is just breathtaking. Yet, there is something about his batting that makes it vulnerable. When the team is following on, reeling under a huge deficit, he would swing his bat to something wide and end up nicking it to the slips or the keeper. In what is construed to be the heights of ruthlessness, he would loft it over the slips to find the third man and he would be gone in a jiffy. Just when the team needed him the most, or when the team was looking for a stable start, he would ruin things. He wasn’t the Tendulkar who would curb his natural instincts to bail the team out. He was Sehwag. He would be his sanguine self, no matter what the situation was. The probability of him firing was always a 0.5. On certain days, it was well above the half mark and on other days it lurched well below it. On an average, his batting hovered around the 0.5 mark. There isn’t a  bowler he hasn’t taken apart. There isn’t a country he hasn’t scored in or scored against. You name it and he has it. His raise to greatness was spot on.

Just until a year ago, he was indispensable to the team. Yet, the tides have now turned. The cyclone has subsided. There is silence now, causing unrest. The storm has faded. The eye that once was impeccable is now worn out. He misses more than he hits. The probability of him performing has now hit an all time low and is languishing well under 0.5. It has invited scorn from every part of the cricketing fraternity. Now, at the top, he is a burden to the team. An albatross the middle order has to bear.

Pummelling his poor form further, he shares a bitter rapport with his captain and had no inhibitions in making it public. The spat worsened things for him and after it, he has been routed every time he took to the crease. The wild heaves have missed the ball and it is the air he’s been chopping. His eyes have betrayed him. He was given a long rope by the selectors, only to hang himself. All that one can do now is to be sorry for Viru, one of the most explosive Test batsmen.

He lacks the technical prowess of Tendulkar to tweak his style to fit the scheme of things. The genius that Tendulkar is, he altered his game altogether, which helped him stay at the top for more years and he did prolong his career. Sehwag needs to do a Sachin now and it sounds a bit over ambitious. His caliber as a batsman has never been under the scanner. He remains his explosive self. In the history of world cricket, a chapter would be reserved for him, for he busted the myths of Test match batting and defined a new genre of batsmanship. There have been attacking batsmen, but no one so intimidating and heavy-scoring. He spelled the death knell for a generation of bowlers and at his peak he was an unstoppable force.

The time is up now, his walk towards the sunset has begun. To him, the bowlers were ducks, lame ducks. He would stamp upon them and gallop through the water. Yet, when the ducks turned venomous and his foot had worn out, all he had to do was wade through them, scrupulously negotiating them. He couldn’t downplay it. He went for the kill and accelerated only to end up in a dead end and the brakes were forced. The prospects looks dull. His comeback sounds exciting, but not viable. This might well be the end of the road for him.

The red turban, the high backlift, the whack he gives to the ball, his banter on the field, the ‘upar cuts’, the slap on the off side would be solely missed. I would narrate to my grandson the triple century in Chepauk against the potent South African attack, the 195 in Melbourne and the taming of Lee, the double century in Sri Lanka against the befuddling Mendis. His ideology of see it and hit it is hard to take, but nevertheless enticing. The fruit ninja he played on the field with the cricket ball sums up his approach to batting. I would mention his name alongside Bradman, Gavaskar, Viv Richards, Lara, Tendulkar, Ponting, Kallis and Dravid with great courage and absolutely no inhibitions. He was up there, right up there. Fingers crossed for his comeback, however distant the dream is.

Enter Ricky Ponting. His talent or his caliber as a batsman is unquestionable. His batting prowess is immaculate. With a willow in his hand, he dictates terms to every bowler and on his day, he can dismantle any attack. When in full flow, he sounds the death knell for the bowlers. His customary shuffle and the intensity of his strokes have drawn admiration from every corner of the cricketing globe. His mutilating knock against India in the finals of the 2003 World Cup that ripped apart the Indian attack and kicked India out of the game is certainly one of the best knocks ever played. It takes astonishing skill to script such a free flowing innings under pressure in a World Cup final. At his peak, he threatened to break Tendulkar’s records and as a school kid I was just praying for Ponting to lose his form. Yet, even with such spectacular plaudits under his kitty, he isn’t the most respected cricketer in the world. An Australian kid would aspire to become a Steve Waugh, a Shane Warne, an Adam Gilchrist or Ricky Ponting the batsman. Ricky Ponting the cricketer is certainly not the dream for every kid. There is something beyond talent and attributes that transcend you to the next level.

When Ponting retired, every former cricketer lauded him for his exploits on the field as a batsman, yet none of them were able to vouch for him as a sportsman. Every Indian had his own share of bottled anger and that inhibited the accolades that would have flowed when he called it a day. The Sydney Test was still fresh in every Indian’s mind. When he feigned a catch that he had grassed, he lost the most important attribute for a human being – credibility. That moment, he buried the sportsman that he was. The word ‘sport’ had lost its sheen. All his achievements as a batsman flew out in a jiffy that moment. His character was sullied. Early in his career, he was involved in a brawl in India and controversies weren’t alien to him. Every time he showed dissent to an umpire’s decision or every time he sledged, he was murdering the sporting spirit. The first lesson for every sportsman is to keep up the spirit of the game and he had foundered in that area. He might have aced every other lesson of the game, yet, he goofed up the paramount lesson. He was a star and remains a star. Superstar and role model are too far fetched for him and the price tags attached to those terms are seldom affordable.

There enters another sportsman, the pinnacle of greatness and the ambassador of the game – Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar. A lot has been spoken and written about his greatness on the field. If he was a master on the field, his stature was only better off the field. His conduct always set an example, just the way his batting did. He has seen the vicissitudes of two and a half decades and his career remains unblemished. Of all the laurels he’s won, one stands out. A bookie went on record saying that match fixing would begin only after Sachin had got out. That speaks volumes of this man. Amid all the muddle and turmoil, he stayed silent, he let his bat do the talking and that too in style. When news of match fixing reached him on the eve of the Sharjah match, he vowed to win the match for the nation and so he did. After mounting such heights, he still remains rooted to his culture and every time he’s back from a tour, he makes it a point to meet his coach Ramakant Achrekar. On the morning of a surgery, he fought with the doctors to postpone the surgery by a few hours as he wanted to watch an India match on TV. After every IPL victory, when the entire team partied, he would drive home to his hotel room. Partying to him was meant to be on the field at the expense of the bowler. He distanced himself from flamboyance, glitz and glamour. On the field too, he walked his talk. If he was at the receiving end of a harsh umpiring decision, he showed no sort of dissent or disgruntlement. He respected everyone associated with the game and so did everyone in return. He might not have walked, but never did he stay after the umpire ruled. If being unfazed by sledging is one thing, not sledging in return is another thing. He remained stoic when the bowlers mouthed. For all the flak and scorn aimed at him, he let the bat do the talking. His character and conduct speak louder than his records do. When he retired from ODIs, a billion cried. Not only did we lose a great batsman, we lost a great benevolent human being.

Now, doing justice to the topic, Ponting has got a chance to redeem his misdoings. In the IPL that is going to unfold in a couple of months, Ponting will play alongside Tendulkar. This would, for sure, be a treat for the fans, to witness two batting greats sharing the crease. Beyond that, it would prove to be a learning curve for Ponting. Ponting will share the dressing room with Tendulkar. Tendulkar’s aura would be infectious and I’m sure Ponting would benefit from it on the whole. Of all the things Ponting needs to learn, simplicity comes first. After breaking every record in the book and after having redefined batting, Tendulkar still remains the shy sixteen-year-old at heart. The pompous Ponting needs to learn from the modest master in terms of humility and simplicity. Next in line is the spirit of the game every sportsman is committed to keep up. While Ponting fakes dismissals on the field, Tendulkar reinstates batsmen who have fallen prey to wrong decisions. Ponting needs to imbibe such spirits from the master. Ponting needs to draw a leaf out of Tendulkar’s conduct on the field and atone for the “hooliganism” he has practised over the years. Last but not least, he needs to learn the art of respecting the opposition. The moment you bow down to your opponent, you’re in for a fair trade and you’ll benefit from it. The moment you stay high-headed, you’ve lost it all. These are just a glaring few areas; there is more in store for Ponting to learn from the master.

When you walk into the sunset, the world needs to respect you for your character as well as your talent. Jettisoning the former could prove to be egregious. Tendulkar is an epitome of benevolence on and off the field. He is an icon, a role model and a superstar indeed. He took the road, galloped through it and the wheels are still in motion. He had something more than talent that set him apart, on a whole new plane. One side of the learning is certain. Given the keen learner he is, Tendulkar would also learn a thing or two from Ponting.

To the confounded ones, I’m talking about the handy, vintage device that transmits and receives electromagnetic waves, the radio. Hitherto, it has been the most sensational invention by man. Quiz your dad or grandfather, they would vouch for it. As against the pageantry devices today, it was simple and was the source of adrenaline rush for a million.

As astounding as it sounds, there was a time when the game was listened to. So lucid and insightful were the voices that echoed in a million households. Till date, my father gives me a salubrious account of Gavaskar’s art of batting. Articles abound on how Gavaskar grilled the Windies and how he negotiated the deadly trio. All this were listened to, more than it was watched. It is hard to imagine; listening to a cricket commentary and yet being an expert of the game takes a genius. The voices that went on air take the credit. There are connoisseurs who would give you a ball by ball account of the 1983 World Cup finals or even the Wimbledon finals where Jimmy Connor’s game was destroyed by Stan Smith and Arthur Ashe. My grandfather reminisces every sound that came from his pet box, the radio. Listening to the proceedings on the radio became inevitable and was sort of an addiction, to the extent that even spectators in the stadiums had a radio close to their ears. They were accustomed to the commentary – the ‘running in’ and ‘played back past the bowler’.

Change is the only constant they say, and history stands testimony to it. In the early or mid 80s, the handy portable box, the friend of yesteryear was being jettisoned. People who lurched on the rugged streets, carrying bat-shaped wooden pieces and a near spherical ball made by folding rubber tubes, now got a detailed account of the action. The game that was once being imagined, with just audio aide, was now lived. For the millions, watching Gavaskar’s off drive, they once listened to, was like reaching nirvana of sorts. The television then forayed into the entertainment industry and soon went on to become a household member, usurping the radio. The audiences were seeing everything they were hearing and television’s enticement grew manifold. The viewers were thoroughly mesmerised. Elucidating the state of mind of those who caught the action unfold on the TV sets is too tough and takes a better writer. Watching Gavaskar bat, Kapil Dev bowl, Viv Richards pull, was as bewitching as it sounds. Doordarshan, the most used term of the mid late 80s and early 90s, had a monopoly of telecasting the matches.

In the story of hockey’s decline and cricket’s rise, television was the protagonist. It was hockey that symbolised the ability of Indians to compete and excel on the global stage. We won gold after gold medals in Olympics and the greatness of Dhyan Chand surpasses the greatness of most Indian cricketing heroes today. Yet, between Dhyan Chand and Dhanraj Pillay, hockey took too many beatings and rubbing salt to the wound, we regularly started losing to Pakistan, an arch enemy on and off the field. Even today, after years of cricket with Pakistan, a loss to Pakistan is a huge setback and causes more chagrin than it does on losing against any other team in the world. Luckily, India has routed Pakistan in every World Cup encounter. In hockey, the tale was different. We started losing to Pakistan more often than we won and the losses often occurred at big stages. On the other hand, cricket rose through the ranks and Kapil Dev was up there, holding the shiny World Trophy on which shimmered with the joys of a billion. The picture is vividly intact in the minds of every Indian. People wanted to watch India win and cricket was an automatic option. The funeral of hockey wasn’t far of and the birth of cricket happened simultaneously.

Today, the relation between the camera and the game is so wholly shaped that it is hard to realise cameras were once absent from the sport. The cameras began recording Gavaskar in black and white and today, even the budding cricketers find their faces captured by it. The journey of television in cricket encompasses many a milestone and tombstone. Initially, cricket associations made no money from the television and today, the major chunk of the revenue is made from the idiot box. The ground spectators are no more made the primary aim by the organisers. The marketers of the game have set their sight on the TV audience and do every bit they can to enthral them. Cameras have mutated, and so has the viewing experience. Yet, the facilities at the grounds have been paltry and outrageously bad for the health of the spectators.

Cricket and the television are entwined in a way that no other team game is. Cricket is one game that is viewed better and clearer on TV than at the stadium. Thanks to the zooming levels and the lenses that have supported it. In cricket, the action is centred and confined in the twenty two yard strip and in the middle of the ground. The ball travels at 100 odd kilometers per hour until it reaches the bat and every shot happens in a jiffy, faster than a human eye can take note of. Whereas in games like football, in the stadium, you get a broader view of the action than on the television. Hence, cricket is tailor made for the television. The speed of the action paved way to the TV umpire and this emphasises the importance of television.

Jumping to the financial aspects of the game, no other game is as modular as cricket is. As in, no other game has set of six balls grouped together as in cricket. This provides an automatic slot for the commercial breaks. A tenth of the ads aired during a cricket match aren’t aired during a football game. Hence, the most powerful bigwigs of the game, the marketing gurus, struck an instant chord with television. The television bolstered cricket than it did any other sport.

Today, watching Tendulkar swaddling down the ground to take guard is a doorway to heaven for most spectators. The best sporting contests have been caught by the camera, like Tendulkar waltzing down the ground to Warne. We saw Warne turning the ball, we saw Mcgrath swinging the ball, we saw Waqar reverse swinging it, and we saw Dhoni hitting a six to seal a World Cup win. The very camera caught the Pakistani cricketers off guard, unearthed a major scam in India. The camera recognized the smallest of kinks and called Akthar for chucking when on the other hand, it recorded the rhythmic brilliance of Mcgrath. We saw them all and there is more around the corner.

The camera today is a stern God and it demands complete submission. The BCCI is at loggerheads with the world in trusting the camera to a deeper extent, the UDRS. The Indians, who engulfed and espoused change, are producing today dismal excuses for embracing the UDRS. The television can be credible than an on field umpire, the simple truth is hidden beneath minute scientific evidences. The Snickometer, the Hawk eye, and the Hot Spot are elaborations of the close up and make an abstruse game with ambiguous and intricate laws more graphic and explicit.

When hearing was believing, seeing became bewildering. Hence, television construed to be a peripheral, is what forms the backbone of the game today. The seductiveness of the game, the delicacy of the game, the artistry of this beautiful game meets the eye today. Thanks to the television, the idiot box. The true nature of the society shows its head in its naming as the Idiot box.

Indian movies always abound with scripts that tell a tale of rags to the riches. The protagonist, hailing from not a very affluent background, from a remote city that has not yet reaped the fruits of liberalization, battles against all odds, breaking the shackles and finally emerging as a darling of the masses.

Such success stories have captivated millions in this nation, and the nation has never had a dearth of such darlings. Rajnikanth, a world renowned superstar, was a bus conductor in his earlier days. The journey from a bus conductor to a charismatic superstar is what forms the crux of his success story. Sports too isn’t devoid of such tales – Kapil Dev was one such hero. His rugged look and aggression made him the hero he was.

There was another boy, he hailed from Ranchi. Within a span of five years, he reached the zenith of Indian cricket. He lived the dream of every young sportsman. Today, he is the richest Indian sportsman and bagging the most lucrative endorsement deals, even usurping Tendulkar. He is also the most talked about cricketer. Every time he takes the field, the decibel level soars. The most envied cricketer today, the cricketer with an enormous clout, he is Mahendra Singh Dhoni.

His flamboyant strokes, his blitzkrieg shots, his spectacular helicopter hits have struck an instant chord with the fans and the youth today are bewitched by his batting. He forayed into cricket as a hard hitter; a swashbuckler. In what is construed to be a master stroke, he tweaked his game to fit the role of an accumulator. The transformation from a hard hitter to an accumulator and a finisher has astounded the cricketing fraternity. With a plethora of match winning knocks under his kitty, today, he is one of the best finishers in the world and arguably the best ODI player. To sum it up, currently, he is the best wicket keeper batsman.

A lot has been articulated about his batting, yet, the word that precedes it hasn’t got the due recognition. He broke the glass ceiling and made it to the team as a wicket-keeper who could bat. The latter sidelined the former. Quite understandable, considering that wicket-keeping is the most thankless job in cricket.

A catch spilled by the wicket keeper would be unpardonable, yet a stunner by the same keeper could well go unnoticed. A wicket keeper plays the best second fiddle to a bowler. Batsmen could just bat and bowlers could just bowl, but a wicket keeper was always compelled to play a dual role. He had to bat to stay in the scheme of things. In the nets, when every batsman relaxed after his stint, a wicket keeper would undergo keeping drills. Crouching, diving, squatting, the wicket keeper always had to toil. Hence, by far the most laborious job and yet the most underrated job.

MS Dhoni, in his initial days, wasn’t the best of wicket keepers. He was not even half as swift as he is today. Till he was made the captain in 2007, he looked very ordinary. However, from 2007, his keeping attributes increased by leaps and bounds. He atoned for his low profile as a wicket keeper and raised his standards quite considerably.

Practice is the key, they say; today, he is the best wicket keeper the nation has ever had, at least as far as numbers are concerned. Having effected 234 dismissals (203 catches and 31 dismissals), he finds a place in the top ten wicket keepers of all time. However, there are factors that detractors seldom mull over before pouncing on him.

The sub-continent is the toughest place to keep wickets. With its slow and dry nature, the spin would not only befuddle the batsmen, but also the keeper. It takes practice and the keeper needs to be well acquainted with the bowler’s game plan. A keeper needs to scrutinize the bowler’s finger as much as the batsman needs to. Hence, keeping to Kumble or Harbhajan is a commendable achievement.

While other keepers kept with their sole focus on the bowler, Dhoni has other thoughts doing rounds in his head. From field placements to bowling changes, his mind is brimming with thoughts while he’s working behind the wood work. Yet, affecting such swift stumpings and run outs is what makes him the best. He may not be the best catcher behind the wickets, yet when it came to run outs and stumpings, he is right up there. He wastes no time in knocking off the bails: a rapid movement of his hand, and the bails are off in a jiffy.

The 2011 England tour was a forgettable outing for Dhoni the keeper as well as the captain. Dhoni the keeper, fumbled and stumbled, grassing routine catches. In England, the ball swings more than in any other country and the keeper needs to move with the ball rather than wait for it. MSD did the latter and paid the price. This was quickly  rectified and in the series that followed,  he was flawless. From then on, he has had safe hands and you don’t see him flooring many catches.

Diligence and fortitude has always dominated his arsenal. He has promoted himself up the order many a time, even if it meant he would be criticized if he failed. His commitment is never under the scanner. Behind the wickets too, he has been an epitome of commitment.

One remembers how, to Ishant Sharma, he kept up to the wickets. That is testimony to his commitment. After all, he prefers to be the punching bag.

Th nation could find better keepers, but I am sure there wouldn’t be another Mahendra Singh Dhoni – a wicket keeper, a splendid ODI batsman, a cool-headed captain. The combination is as deadly as it sounds. Catapulting his greatness is his temperament. Unfazed by the growing cynosure, he remains as cool a captain as ever.

There were times when every thing he touched turned into gold and there were times when everything he touched fell to the ground. Yet, he remains the loyal captain he is. While other keepers just see the spherical ball when behind the wickets, he sees a huge sphere filled with a million emotions, a venomous media, critics sharpening their knives, and many more things. Yet, he clings on to the huge spherical ball, embracing it. This sets him on the top. The pressure with which he keeps wickets tells a tale or two and exemplifies his greatness.

There has been a huge outcry over his place in the test team. All the voices have despised him but never come up with a solution or an alternative. Given the dull phase Indian cricket is going through, no one else in the ranks, including the God, has got the grit and character to stomach the pressure. There would be no other wicket keeper who would keep with such sharp eyes, bat with aplomb, and lead with such adroit abilities.

You can hate him, but you can never replace him. You can despise him, but you can never usurp him. Mahendra Singh Dhoni, one of the best wicket keepers.

To check the rest of the list of the greatest wicketkeepers of all time, click here.

There has been a buzz over the possible successor of Duncan Fletcher, the current Indian cricket coach. Drawing parallels between the Singh, at the helm of the green well, to Duncan Fletcher is an unstoppable one. Both of them have thrived on silence, their prominent defense mechanism. The only solace is that the latter’s job is confined to the backstage. Under Fletcher, it has been a tumultuous period for the Indian team. The 8-0 drudgery abroad has hitherto been the worst mauling the team has ever suffered.  So, with the contract of Duncan Fletcher terminating, the question that looms large is, who would take over Fletcher’s job?

There have been calls for DADA to take over. Arguably the best captain of team India, Ganguly possesses one of the shrewdest cricketing minds. With the backdrop of match fixing looming over the team, in what is construed as the darkest chapter of Indian cricket, Ganguly had the fortitude to take over the helm. From a bunch of directionless youth which consisted of Viru, Yuvi, Bhajji, Zaheer, he built a team that would make it to the 2003 WC finals. Under him, they blossomed, transformed and transmuted. From a fickle youngster, they formed the backbone of the formidable Indian side. That is a testimony to his man management skills. He spots talent with a surgeon’s precision. Under crisis, he dazzles, his charisma being contagious. In the youngsters, he instills the flame that would keep lit their aggression and valour. He knows the country and cricket like the back of his palm. Yet, with all these towering attributes, he wouldn’t be able to fill the void.

Greg Chappell was a working example of how a forthright would be a misfit for the Indian coach’s job. Greg Chappell is an expert of the game. His consummate coaching skills was what the team was yearning for. He preferred to be at the forefront of the cricketing developments in the nation. He thrust his opinion on the team and went the extra mile to get the players to dance to his tune. He sought to bring in a wave of the changes and caught the system by its cuff  and looked to turn it by its head. That turned out to be a menace for the team and the players. Every player in the team is a star on his own. The last thing they would want is being bossed over. That was exactly what transpired within the team, starting with the ousting of Ganguly and the climax being the disaster of the WC 2007. When he stepped down as coach, he was being hailed as the worst coach ever. He shared a bitter rapport with seniors and the others too seldom vouched for him.

Contrasting him with Gary Kirsten, the most successful Indian coach ever, gives a clear picture. Gary Kirsten was the Godfather for many a youngsters and a friendly faculty for the seniors. He gelled well with the team and that which is called chemistry, peaked under him. He preferred remaining silent as long as things went well. He seldom tweaked a youngster’s game until he floundered. He provided the much needed room and let the players circumspect their own game. Sachin Tendulkar has great gratitude for him, for his thousand throw-downs that let the master stay afloat. He ushered the team to its zenith, the icing on the cake being the World Cup and the numero uno status in Test cricket.

From the conflicting and contrasting cases above, a few points emanate. We need a Gary Kirsten than a Greg Chappell. Ganguly and Greg trod along the same lines. The most coherent characters are Ganguly and Greg and that could have well been the reason for the spat. Mahendra Singh Dhoni, the current Indian captain and a potential captain for three years down the line, has more or less attained the cult status Ganguly did. Today, the board adheres with his thoughts and so does the selection chair. He commands such clout in the nation. With Ganguly as the coach, a sharp critic, an authoritarian by himself, there would be an ego clash between the two of them. Being a sagacious captain by himself, he would detract Dhoni’s ways and that would lead to a bitter turn of events. To concise it, Ganguly the coach could be a Greg part II.

The Indian team needs a coach who would be an authoritarian, yet, affable. Someone who would walk with the youngsters rather than lead the way. A friend,  guide and a mentor. A complaisant coach and an Indian at it would be the perfect fit. Doesn’t this ring a bell somewhere?

There enters the erudite, astute and articulate master, Rahul Dravid. He walked his talk. His game was as eloquent as his speech is. The Bradman oration was one occasion where Rahul brought forth his articulate speech, providing great insights into the dynamics of the game. The voracious reader and keen observer he his, he is adroit at the game. The youngsters today lack the technical prowess as well as the temperament.He has the skill and the heart to diagnose glitches and correct them. He would do it in his own, subtle and gentle manner, and more importantly, as scrupulously as he batted. The insights he provides from the commentary box need to be done in the warmth of the dressing room.  Throughout his career, he was adept at playing second fiddle and never the one to hog attention. This quality of his is what I tried to elucidate above. Given his friendly and modest nature, he would strike a chord with the youngsters and pass on to be their perfect mentor. Given his eye for detail and his erudite knowledge, he is tailor-made for the job. The true gentleman he is, he was never amid controversies throughout his career. Given this, he would make the team devoid of the turbulence that could well be caused by astringent and monocratic coach.

Rahul Dravid would be a trade off between the authoritarian and a complaisant. He is an authoritarian in his own amicable ways. He would pass on his immaculate technique to the current lot that hates the stench of a cricket ball. He would pass on his mastery against spin and his discipline against the pacers. Last but not least, he would pass on his gentleman spirit that kept the cricketing fraternity in awe. The spirit of the game he upheld needs to be incorporated by the lads of today.

Ganguly might be the shrewdest and most dexterous coach, yet Dravid would be the palpable and affable friend, who would put his arms around your shoulder and set things right. The might of Ganguly might distort one’s ego, but the modest Dravid would let you grow in stature and be the guide, and strictly, only the guide. He could well be the coach the nation has been scouting for over the years.

Rules like the ‘free-hit’ have made the life of a bowler even more challenging.

Pardon me for giving in to the cliche, but the only thing that never changes, is change itself. From the stone age to the modern era, change has been inevitable. A wave of changes has been hitting the shores of cricket, engineered sagaciously by the bigwig administrators. Their calibre in economics or other financial dynamics is unquestionable. But does that expertise extend to cricket, is a question which looms large. The changes have been ushered to the centre or rather, bulldozed inside the boundary ropes. The modern cricket enthusiasts or the T20 aficionados have embraced it warmly, wetting their foot in the wave. Yet, the vintage followers or the ones to whom cricket was preached, which they followed as a tradition over the years, refrained from the wave and stayed ashore.

The ICC has been spearheading a slew of changes in the recent years. To stay in the scheme of things, the game was tweaked. The invention of ODI was one such historic change. To aid the batsmen, for whom constrains lay on the number of overs he’s got in hand, the concept of fielding restriction was introduced. Since then, there was no looking back. To woo the spectators on the ground or the viewers on TV, the game has been rigged. Rigged might be a harsh parlance, given the legitimacy of the current game. Yet, the cynical changes qualify to be termed the same.

The most bizarre or bemusing change of all is the advancement of the boundary rope, a move aimed at increasing the count of sixes. Over the years, sixes have always enthralled the spectators. From ‘Sixer Sidhu’ to the ‘helicopters’ of Mahi, the big hitters have struck a chord with the spectators. With the advent of T20 cricket, it was visibly clear that the spectators are wooed by the sixes. The success story of T20 cricket elucidated a tale or two. The patience of the spectators has shrunk and what lures them is the excitement of high voltage encounters. An average cricket fan walking into the stadium, contemplates a jaunty and a rollicking ride. He receives his “value for money” only if the action that unfolds is pacy and bustling. He would walk into the stadium again only if the previous encounters enthralled him. Same is the case with the TV viewers. Cricket after all, is competing with the soaps and other riveting programs on countless TV channels. Hence, to rake in the moolah and to keep the cash registers ringing, the viewership needs to soar.

Succumbing to such fears, the lawmakers have compressed the size of the boundary. The marketing minds have intervened, while the cricketing minds have remained absent from active participation. The modern fans have been lured and captivated. Overlooked, are the ones who have loved the sport before the latest avatar of T20 came into being. The lawmakers have made their intentions clear. Their target spectators are the ones with shallow knowledge of the sport. The erudite fans have been ignored downright. Top edges flying past the ropes and the mistimed ones going the distance, by no means would fascinate the erudite ones. Yet. they remain loyal to this sport.

Shorter boundaries, shorter gains

Another ludicrous change is the cap on the number of fielders outside the circle. The sole motive of this change is akin to the one above – to aid the batsmen to go over the top. The implications of this rule has been severe for the spinner. It makes the life of the spinners difficult in the limited over formats. A typical dismissal by a spinner would be tossing up the ball, tempting the batsman to go over the top and hoping that in the process, he finds fielder in the deep. With more changes however, this dismissal has been ruled out to an extent. Even the mistimed shots, thanks to the modern bats, clear the infield with ease. With two new balls in ODIs now, the spinner is for sure in trouble waters. This answers the question regarding the current dearth of spinners. Reverse swing, one of the most astute arts in cricket, patronized by Wasim and Waqar, has come to a tragic end with the rule of two new balls per innings.

In hindsight, this hides the inefficacy of modern batsmen. With the modern bat, the area which is called the sweet spot has grown. Yet, such bats did not suffice. To bolster the big hitting, to the bowler’s dismay, the boundary has been shrunk and fielders have been called in. A meagre 56m was the distance of the long on boundary from the middle in one of the recent games. Would a football fan like the length of the ground to shrink in order to increase the number of goals and captivate the fans? The sport needs to live up to its standards and the players need to evolve in order to meet the grinds of it. The fun of batting lies in the toil and labour that goes behind every run. The fantasies of an ODI game lie in the accumulation in the middle overs, and with the slew of changes intended, the ODI game is transforming into an extended T20. The joys of such swashbuckling cricket is ephemeral. The joys of the sport incorporating all its diverse skills, is eternal.

Modern bats pack quite a punch

Changes are inevitable for the game to stay afloat. But there are other areas craving for a change. The experience of a spectator calls for an enhancement, in terms of what he endures at the stadium. Barring a few metros and other big cities, the hardship he faces in the low profile stadiums has been biting the loyal spectators. The conditions of the restrooms, the seats, the food stalls, the ticketing process and other basic amenities need refurbishment. D&L has been abhorrent and it remains to be looked into, persisted with despite the interesting developments by proven mathematicians, which are conveniently overlooked. If you’re looking for areas that need a change, the box’s full of it.

For the sport to sustain and persist, it needs to come in enticing capsules, but not at the cost of losing its charm. The charm of spin bowling lies in the flight and in turn, the befuddlement of the batsmen, and not the flat trajectory to avoid the long handle. The charm of the death overs lie in the reverse swing and not the incessant six hitting. With the changes that have crept in, the charm and charisma of the sport has faded.

My dear ICC, we, the traditional fans, have been loyal to the sport and this sport has made our livelihood. It is a religion for us. Please uphold its austerity and sanctity.

The above is an extract from his retirement speech, the last lines from a lucid oration. He pretty much walked his talk. He batted the way he orated. Lucid, intelligible, flawless and impeccable. I gave everything to the team, he said. That line deserves an elucidation, an elaboration. A time when the stalwarts of today were budding, when the scouts seldom met Dhoni, the team was in need of a an extra batsman. Crippled by a dearth of wicket-keeper batsmen, the team had so sacrifice a batsman in order to accommodate a wicket-keeper. He rose to the occasion, as he always did in testing times, and volunteered to don the keeping gloves. He wasn’t the best of wicket-keepers, or to be precise, he wasn’t a wicket-keeper throughout his domestic cricket tenure. He was a slip fielder who could keep wickets.  Yet, as it served the purpose, he decided to get behind the wickets. He did flounder, but the team reaped the benefits of an extra batsman. He was, for long, the object of wicket-keeper bloopers jokes and an easy target for the media to despise.  Unmindful of all the mud that was slung at him for his shortcomings behind the wicket, he went about the job. The team came first for him. When the team needed a stop gap opener, he put his hand up. Yet again when the team needed a senior to retire, he led the way. Closing the pandora’s box, he did give everything for the team. An understatement indeed.

His tenure as captain was a mixed period for Indian cricket. He was the protagonist many a times on the field, yet he chose to take a backseat off the field. The forthrightness or the certitude that was required to captain the Indian side, vulnerable to the venomous media, might have been the missing attribute that bit him. He was said to be a defensive captain; true, he defended his team, the true punching bag. After the 2007 World Cup debacle, he might as well have  evaded the constant attention and played the blame game or partially taken the blame. He chose to be the scapegoat, taking upon himself the entire responsibility for the loss. When his captaincy came under the scanner after the England tour, he was correct in giving up the captaincy. When he was being subject to cheap dismissals, got castled multiple times, he understood his slowing reflexes. When the selectors insinuated the need for fresh legs, he was the first senior to call it quits. He never played with his dignity at stake. His dignity was guarded as watchfully as his wicket.

His words can’t be truer, he played with the whole spirit of the game. His retirement news featured in the sports column, and never did they show up in the gossip column. He was a regular on the sports page and only the sports page. His career was never marred by controversies on and off the field. He preached, professed and practised upholding the spirit of the game. The true gentleman he was, an ambassador of the game.

Playing in an era of Sachin Tendulkar, he was the most underrated cricketer in the history of the game. If Indian cricket achieved the numero uno status in Tests, he was the chief architect of it. Bailing out the team from precarious situations was the routine for him. The innings of 233 at Adelaide, resuming from 85/4, stands tall and would be forever etched in the game’s history books. He scripted a number of Indian victories on foreign soil, churning out masterclass innings in every country he laid his foot in. He concocted the most gritty innings by an Indian.  He went about his trade in an unique and inimitable fashion. Walking in at no.3, he often read egregious score cards. Once he got into his zone, with acute  concentration, he often grilled the opposition and toiled for his runs. He scored heavily when runs din’t come easily; this uncanny knack of his has remained a mystery over the years. He was never a gifted cricketer and all the attributes he possesses today were scrupulously nourished by him, resulting from meticulous nets session and laborious tenures at the crease. His hard work wasn’t just off the field, it was incorporated on the field too. Hard work never ceases to pay off and it did, hugely, with a number of Indian victories. The consummate player he was, he bolstered the middle order of the Indian team. He was by far the most dependable batsman and his presence at the crease eased the heartbeat of millions of fans. If he saw off the initial overs, rest assured, he was in for a big score. He best suited the longer format and vice versa. He could bat for days, and it often spelt bad news for the opposition. He laid a price on his wicket, and it needed a herculean effort to claim it. He never dismantled bowling attacks, yet, he blunted them. He was never a destroyer, but an accumulator. He didn’t have the instincts Tendulkar had, he didn’t have the eyes Sehwag had, he didn’t have the wrists Laxman had, he didn’t have the arm Dhoni has, yet, he had the heart and the stomach from which resulted the voluminous grit, tenacity, fortitude, diligence, gumption and last but not least, the temperament that set him apart. He was a class apart. He never made mistakes and the onus was on the bowler to break his defense, the most impeccable defense the game ever stood witness to.

The most ritualistic batsman. Batting was a ritual for him. He did it with utmost sincerity and was a devout cricketer. He was a helmet, whose presence was least felt, but whose absence was felt the most. When he left, it pricked. His presence was never celebrated, but his absence, mourned. While he played, detractors despised his defensive batting technique; when he left and stonewalling batsmen were not to be found, his style was craved. He belonged to that breed of batsmen whose absence would hit you the worst, reiterating the fact that he was the most indispensable unit of the team. Playing second fiddle requires a big heart, and he was all heart.

If you understood the nuances of the game, you were a fan of him; if you were a fan of him, you understood the nuances of the game. When the pins were down, he lent his hand on numerous occasions. Now, he has decided to lend his voice, something his bat did over the years. The Television, once lit up by his voracious drives, is now lit up by his charismatic voice. An erudite cricketer, a true gentleman, Rahul Dravid was strictly for the connoisseurs.

Happy birthday Mr. Dravid. Your tenure on the field maybe done, but off the field, you still have a long way to go. The game again needs you; this time for your knowledge, your technical know-how. The ICC calls for you, so does Indian cricket. It’s time for an Indian coach and there is no one better suited than you.

Right after he called it quits, there have been a flurry of articles hailing him as the God – smitten by his pageantry, or the more pragmatic lot calling for phlegmatic views, despising and deriding  the flippant lot. Yet, undeterred remain the frenzied lot, reminiscing the lugubrious memories of him wielding the willows in colored clothes. It is plausible for the rational mind to demur. Playing the devil’s advocate, what is God?

I am seldom going to postulate complex physics laws or unearth mysteries that would freak you out. God means different things for different people. The most common discretion being the superstitious one, the one  in space – who watches the happenings down on Earth, weighs ones deeds, tweaks everything that happens, and plays a part in almost everything that unfolds. He is said to control the turn of events for the billions of us down here, plus the numerous habitats. To sum it up, he controls every damn thing in the ecosystem. To many people, God is something that is supernatural, which does things that normal humans do not do or cannot do. God might be the good qualities in a human. God can be a sentimental stone that has been a good omen to you.  To your surprise, the English language defines God to be – ‘supernatural being worshipped by people’. The latter part of this sentence can be testified a billion times. The most worshipped sportsman in the world. Maybe the Indian origin gives him a surplus in the fanfare. So what is debatable is the former part of the sentence, which says ‘Supernatural being’. Supernatural is something that is mysterious or not of this world.  Something that is powerful, immaculate and perfect. For an average Indian cricket fan, Sachin Tendulkar has lived up to all the three words that make up the term supernatural. Who is an average Indian cricket fan?

Not the one who writes cricket, not the one who blogs cricket, not the one who is adept with the stats, not the one who is well versed with the nuances of the sport. The one who wakes up to the newspapers, the one who watches cricket matches, oblivious to the deeper aspects of the game. The one who pins a sense of pride  to every Indian victory, or the one who oozes with patriotism more than any other time while watching the game. How did Sachin Tendulkar appeal to them?

Till the 1990s, Indians were very much the underdogs in cricket. We were devoid of the gems foreign teams possessed. Moving on from Hockey, a sport that made them discontent, the average fan was looking forward to a sense of joy, the joy of winning and the 1983 World Cup gave them just that. To one’s dismay, the joys of the World Cup were ephemeral. It was a fleeting win, a one shot wonder. After the 1983 World Cup, what resulted was a string of dismal performances. There were few victories in between. The Indian cricket team was always at the receiving end of a mauling from foreign batsmen, such as Viv Richards. The Indians till then were devoid of a mauler blended with fighting spirits, who would dismantle the likes of Bishop, Holding, Garner, Akram and Imran. My dad was abound with tales of how batsmen mutilated the Indian attack or how these bowlers knocked off the Indian batsmen. The odd Gavaskar was there, yet, he was an artist, who professed austerity and astuteness and it required a connoisseur of the game to appreciate Gavaskar. My dad, the average cricket fan I was talking about, was always of the opinion that Vishy or Kapil Dev were better cricketers than Gavaskar, and I’m sure my dad has company on that front. Gundappa Vishwanath, or fondly  known as Vishy, had an aggressive instinct, and often ‘gave  it back’  to the opponents.

By far the most important observation, cricket until then was heard and read. In the mid 80′s came the idiot box, the Television. Soon after came this prodigy. For the millions enthralled by the new TVs, they saw the valor in Tendulkar when he persisted, unmindful of his bleeding nose and saved the day for India. He was just 16 then. This struck a chord with the spectators. When the entire team was ducking, this lad stood up to the occasion and battled it out with a bleeding nose. The most sentimental crowd in the horizon were instantly swayed by his gesture. The next day, it was being discussed in every nook and corner of the nation, in every tea shop, in every college, in every school, in every office. A  hero was born. To note, if Gavaskar or any other regular had played on with a broken nose, it wouldn’t been a sensation. A 16 yr old, in his third Test, possessing such perseverance was the X-factor.

From then on, he was being watched. Smashing Abdul Qadir for four sixes left the nation in awe. The hero they had been fantasizing for some time now was finally found. Found in a  16 yr old. He made headlines that day, and for two decades from then on. For the average cricket fan, who woke up to the newspapers everyday, Sachin Tendulkar’s name was a part of the sports column for years. He slowly crawled in to every household, was a part of them. When he went on to make the big tons, there was a sense of pride instilled into every Indian, every household. They had a reason to be proud of. They watched Warne being milked, they saw the Aussies, the masters of cricket, being thumped by this boy. They jumped with joy. There was this boy who gave it back to the Aussies in their own style. He represented a billion feelings. The cricketer they were looking forward to; who would slaughter the opposition as India were once. He was the hero who avenged their losses. He executed their thoughts, or revenge.

When Indian cricket was worst hit by the match fixing scandal – referred to as the darkest phase of Indian cricket, there remained the only source of respite for cricket fans – Sachin Tendulkar. He was hitting a purple patch in the late 90s and the early 2000s. That kept them going. On one hand, shocking news stories about fixing was being reported, and on the other hand, there was Tendulkar, sizzling in his own inimitable manner, destroying every bowler of his era. Indian cricket got an identity in the form of Sachin Tendulkar. The commentators who had scorn for Indian cricket began to heap prizes on this master, and in turn, on Indian cricket.

Imagine this scenario. You start ‘watching a sport’ for the first time, and in a couple of years, there is a 16 yr old who broke the glass ceiling, taking the nation by storm, thudding every record, usurping every other legend of that sport. He makes the most number of headlines in the sports column of every daily, and for the right reasons too. Your nation was an underdog in the sport until then, and right then,  a boy started breaking every record, destroying every bowler, proving to be a nightmare for even the best spinner in the world, and salvaging the pride for your nation. He endorsed the most number of products, and was a regular in the TVs and tabloids. Everyone in your house, from your 70 yr old granny to your 7 yr old brother knows him. He appeals to you like no other sports person does. Isn’t he supernatural? Doesn’t he live up to the definition of supernatural?

Coming down to the political sphere, he has been the most worshipped sportsman. The question of  him deserving it or not is out of the equation. In no other sport does a sportsman command such obeisance. It isn’t as outrageous as it is construed to be calling him God. God is after all the punching bag for us. We thank God as well as get frustrated when he lets us down. So we did with Sachin. None of us have seen God, or sure about his existence. All of us are agnostics. Here is a supernatural being, who has given joy to a billions, made a billion cry. Hence, he can legitimately be called the God of cricket. The definition of God is each one’s, right? If you live up to one’s definition, you’re a God. So does he.

After the big day, December 23, when the master called it quits, there were an array of articles afloat, making waves in the net, enthralling the readers, taking them back to their school days, reminiscing the days when the master ruled the roost; when the master dismantled a range of a bowling attacks, salvaging the pride of Indian cricket which was at stake after the dark clouds of match fixing loomed. The articles were voluminous, voracious, captivating, yet what every writer missed was life after Tendulkar. For an average Indian, for whom attachment is the fulcrum on which love revolves, detachment and moving on would be the most uphill task ever.

Harsha Bhogle wrote – Sachin was a good habit. Yet, he didn’t write about how bemoaning it would be to miss him. He still would be clad in whites, yet the colors have gone off his life – both on and off the field. The colors have faded for us too, the 90s kids, for whom Tendulkar was the holy grail in ODIs. I am a 90s kid, I grew up watching a plethora of ODI games, and often, the protagonist remained the same. The protagonist, a hero for every household, a hero for all walks of life, a hero for every strata of the society, a  hero for all age groups and pretty much the only hero for us, the most ardent Sachin fans and the most awful cricket fans. Yes, I am the most abominable cricket fan. It doesn’t take an expert to point this out. In retrospect, most of us who hail him as the God know how miserable we were as cricket fans. Contradicting Harsha, Sachin wasn’t a great habit for some of us, the myopic master fans. A few bad habits were:

- When Tendulkar was on the crease, I care less about the team score and have my eyes set on Sachin’s score. As soon as he got out, the televisions were shut or the Cricinfo tabs were callously closed in a jiffy.

 - In one of the most horrible confessions, I shy to say, in Test matches where Tendulkar bats at No.4, there have been instances when I have prayed for the early dismissals of two batsmen, which would invite the master onto the crease.

- As a continuation of the previous point, even if the scorecard read 28/5, our spirits din’t dampen if the master was not out. On the other hand, if the scorecard even read 280/1 and Sachin was gone, we remained unnerved.

- An Indian victory not engineered by the master wouldn’t give me even half the joy I get in a Tendulkar century. The team took the backseat and the driver’s seat was meant for the master.

- A last ball single by the master would sprinkle drops of pleasure and a last ball single by the batsman at the other end would call for some remorseless swearing.

- Any batsman who even came close to the master’s records or made hay in the master’s era, such as Ponting, Kallis, etc, were always undermined and despised despite their greatness. Hence I held myself back from a farewell article for Ponting or even the Wall in your own backyard, Rahul Dravid. The guilt of not penning a farewell article for Dravid or not appreciating his adroit batting skills continues to choke me till this very moment.

- On the 6th of January, 2013, when India took on Pakistan in the final match of the bilateral series, ESPN, which din’t telecast the India match, and more importantly was telecasting a Ranji game, experienced an unusually whopping viewer-ship. This was thanks to my fellow Sachin fans, as we were watching the ton Tendulkar notched up against Baroda in the Ranji game. With my eyes moistening for every boundary the master scored, I turned oblivious to the India-Pakistan game on Star Cricket, not even switching channels during the commercial breaks.

The above bad habits are just a few which spring to my mind when I pen this down, as the others are too remote to remember or carried forward. I do have company on this front, and there are thousands who fell prey to such mad fanfare. Hence, life after Sachin isn’t going to be easy. Moving on is going to be torturous.

Even though my hands tremble while typing this, there is a respite for us in the master’s retirement. We seek solace in the fact that cricket would come to the fore, the sport that made up our childhood, the sport that would make our fatherhood. Part of my new year resolutions was that I would follow cricket with more ebullience this year, especially ODIs. It is high time the nation comes above individuals. An individual can never make a sport for the sport to stand the test of time. It is time the bad habits are rectified. It is time the onus is on cricket. It is time the sport gets matured and sensible viewers. It is time I move on from Sachin. I’ve come of age and it is I time I’m freed from the clutches of being the clichéd Sachin fan, my childhood friend, a great friend indeed.

I am not a Sachin fan anymore.

The other day, on another sunny afternoon at Chennai, I was out there at the beach reclining in the cushy and cozy sands, and what met my eyes paved way to a string of thoughts. A group of young school boys were enjoying a game of high jump, sprinting in, jumping high and recording the point of contact. The shortest of the lot, and probably the youngest, reached the greatest heights and bet his friends in all the ensuing games. The ebullience and the intensity with which he jumped left me in awe. He didn’t contend with winning them, he set his sights on a bell that was well above his reach and gave it a try. He sprinted in with added spirit, jumped as high as he could, only to have a nasty fall and a bruised elbow. His peers ridiculed and derided him, yet he ceased to give up. The subsequent attempts got intense, and the falls got nastier with every attempt. Bruised and battered, out of sheer chagrin, he walked away disenchanted and disgruntled amid the parody and the derides from his peers.

This kindled a plethora of thoughts in my mind. The boy could have as well walked out with his head high, after winning all his friends and could have kept away from the chafe. The reverence and the adoration he had won was wiped away in a jiffy when he failed to touch  the bell and led to a lot of ignominy from his friends. Had he not kept sailing, had he hung his boots along with the others and had he walked out with them, he would have been the champion for that day. Yet, unmindful of the fame or glory that was at stake, he battled against himself, and tried to defy gravity, which got the better of him, and he was a reduced to an object of ridicule. What made the boy go for it? What held his senses from prevailing? For an onlooker, it was impractical and illogical, yet the boy couldn’t come to terms with the fact that the bell was out of his reach.

Parallels could be drawn with various other iconic sportsmen from different sports who refused to call it a day at their peak and prolonged their career, often inviting boughs of censure and cynosure. Heroes at their peak, zeroes when they’re just past it. Sad state of affairs isn’t it? Gavaskar was well past his peak and in his wane when he called it quits. Federer continues to play even after achieving what is construed to be the holy grail of Tennis. Schumacher, once a force to reckon with, came out of retirement only to disgrace himself. Maradona decided to pull up his socks for the 1994 World Cup and last but not least, with a mountain of runs under his kitty and having his name etched in every record book of cricket, Sachin Tendulkar, close to 40, still plays Test cricket and pounces on every opportunity to prolong his career. All of them, unnerved by the public gesture, continued to grace the game well past their peak. Still legends, they could have dodged a certain amount of mud slinging by the media had they retired at the right time. So, what is this right time?

The right time according to us, the public or the fans or even the aficionados, is when they were at their pinnacle, the crest of their career, having conquered what every sportsman would have dreamed. We, the ardent fans, can never stand our heroes toiling or failing; seeing time taming our heroes is a bitter pill to swallow. Hence, the right time for retirement we think to be is when sportsmen have reached their zenith. These sportsmen probably had a different perspective towards retirement.

These luminaries were drawn to sport, not for the lures of it, but for the love they had for it. As any young sportsman would, they too dreamt. They probably dreamt big. Living their dreams gave them the highest degrees of joy or to term it right-euphoria. All of them faced hurdles and barricades in the process and the recipe of their heroics include overcoming these barriers and breaking the shackles. Every time they were pinned down and pushed to a corner, they rose back harder. It was a routine for them. When they started ageing and their reflexes slowed down, when their eyes lost its sheen, and every part of their body started throwing tantrums, there was one part that kept them going and battled its fellow body parts that complained- The heart. The heart which drew them to the sport, that which made them conquer all odds, that which made them the epitome of their respective sports, persuaded them to carry on. The heart tried to overpower the body and the mind was forced to oblige. Practising and playing gave them more joy than did the plaudits or the laurels. Hence, they succumbed to the pleasures of playing the sport and turned oblivious to their ageing bodies. Playing the sport became their sole motive and their performance seldom mattered. They turned deaf ears to the raging media or the public outcry. Time, being the unanimous winner as it was and as it will, held them in their shoulders, shook them, stared at them and told them right in their ears, it is high time. With the heart still protesting like a child would when he’s forced out of his childhood house, they walked into the sunset.

They fought with greater fortitude than they did throughout their careers to continue and grace the sport. They stretched till the very end, toiled and moiled to play the sport or serve the nation even if it meant despise and ridicule from their fans who once worshipped them. If they were out for the number one or ‘selfish’ as they are fondly known, they would have as well thrown their boots at their zenith which would have made them champions for decades to follow or which made them devoid of the denigration or belittlement meted out to them at the fag end of their careers. They fought and quit only when they believed they were defeated. That made them the heroes they are.

The little boy had the heart of a genuine hero and one day he would make it big, the pivot of which would be the very heart that oozed with perseverance and tenacity. Champions don’t go out on a high, they go only when they outgo the fighting spirit that made them the persons they are.

Nasir Jamshed continued his good form in the series with yet another century

Eden Gardens and Indian cricket go hand in hand. It has very much been the Mecca of Indian cricket, where the spectators have savoured quite a few mouth watering games over the years.

There was added flavour today as the arch rivals were taking the field – India vs Pakistan, after eight years at this venue. It was a perfect cricketing track at the Eden, abound with cracks and devoid of moisture. It had in it something for the pacers as well as the batsmen. The motto was written all over it, see through the initial overs and you’ll have a big score in the store. The overhead conditions were less threatening as well, wiping away chances of a wash away. Boasting of the most ebullient and jingoistic crowd, it was a sell-out at Kolkata, even on a week day! Write off ODIs at your own peril.

The coin finally decided to dance to Dhoni’s tune, as India won the toss and chose to field first. To make up for the selection blunder at Chennai, where India lacked a fifth bowler, Jadeja replaced Rohit Sharma. As anticipated, Pakistan went in with an unchanged line-up.

Bhuvneshwar Kumar opened the attack with the memories from Chennai fresh in his mind. The script though, was tweaked here in Pakistan’s favour early on. The openers Mohammed Hafeez and Nasir Jamshed got their heads in were swift to get the scorecard ticking. To be fair, the Indian attack did have its moments as a few outside edges flew off the bat but fortunately for Pakistan, they fell into no man’s land.

Nevertheless, credit goes to the Pakistan openers for the dream start they got off to. The opening stand of 141 blunted the Indian bowling to quite an extent. Hafeez churned out some sensational shots; the on-drive off Dinda’s first ball being a sheer delight to watch. Much to the dismay of the Indian camp, the opening bowlers failed to make any inroads. Raina was brought into the attack in 16th over, only to be milked for 10 runs. Quickly next, Ravindra Jadeja was brought into the attack in the 18th over. He provided the first breakthrough as Hafeez went for a wild heave and missed the line completely, disturbing the woodwork.

It opened the floodgates for Indian bowlers as none of the next Pakistan batsmen, barring Nazir Jamshed, applied themselves and fell like nine pins in the middle. Jamshed on the other hand, played displayed fabulous strokeplay and the hook off Dinda was particularly spectacular. He continued his good form as he amassed 106 off 121 balls, his second ton of the series, proving to be a real nemesis for the Indians. Younus Khan was unfortunate to be on the receiving end of a harsh decision, with the ball getting an inside edge before hitting the pad, but was given out LBW. The Indian bowling, which until the first wicket fell, looked lacklustre, dismantled the Pakistan line-up, bowling them out for 250. All the apprehension over Ravindra Jadeja’s selection was put to rest as he returned with the figures of 10-41-0-3. From 141/0 to 250 all out needed a Herculean effort from the Indian bowlers and they delivered the goods when it mattered the most.

Having to chase 250, the famed Indian openers made their way to the crease amid a rapturous applause from the Eden crowd, by far the most cricket frenzied crowd in the world. But India’s dismal run with the bat continued to haunt them. The famed top order was a failure again and the pressure fell on the lower order again. Gautam Gambhir was his edgy self and failed to trouble the scorers much. After plenty of close calls, eventually, without much surprise for anyone, he played on. The Sehwag jinx too continued. He did play a couple of scintillating strokes in his usual inimitable fashion, yet missed more than he played and got out for 31. Rusty is an understatement for his innings. It’s time for the selectors to take a pragmatic and a futuristic view and look into the opening problem.

Kohli is beginning to lose his Midas touch and the honeymoon period is over. He chased down a delivery on his thighs and Kamran Akmal pulled off a blinder. Yuvraj started off on a defensive note and just when he began to look settled, lost his head and top edged a short ball from Umar Gul; temperament is the key, they say. Suresh Raina, walking in at no. 5, looked solid in his defences and just when there was a semblance of a partnership alongside Dhoni, he was stumped off Hafeez in a swift manner by Akmal. He was stretched well forward, lost balance and in the process, hung his back heel in the air, leading to the stumping. Akmal, the target of cricket jokes in Pakistan for a long time now, had a dream day behind the wicket, stumping Ravichandran Ashwin too. Ashwin’s batting looked nowhere close to promising and he walked down the wicket in a wayward manner to get beaten by spin and thus throwing away his wicket.

The Pakistani bowlers were all over the Indian batsmen and Junaid Khan, the latest sensation, was his lethal self. The other bowlers complemented him well, causing constant trouble for the Indian batsmen. At 105/6 at the end of 33 overs, the wheels were coming off India’s chase. The last recognized pair, Dhoni and Jadeja were at the crease. They toiled hard and tried to stage a comeback, akin to the one in the previous game, but the pressure got the better of them and Jadeja was gone, holing out to mid on. In the same over, Saeed Ajmal trapped Bhuvneshwar Kumar and Ashok Dinda in front of the wicket and upped his tally to three. The final blow was delivered by Junaid Khan, castling Ishant Sharma and in turn, sealing the series for his team. India were bowled out for 165 in 48 overs, and bowled out of the series indeed. Kudos to the Pakistani bowlers for an astounding display of bowling, certainly one of the best efforts to tame to the famed Indian line up.

Pakistan has sealed the series 2-0, with 1 more match to go. It was a colossal batting failure on both the occasions and the much acclaimed Indian batting line up was left to bite the dust by some incisive bowling by the Pakistanis. The strongest attribute once, now became the weakest link. Failing miserably as a unit consistently is unpardonable and it calls for a sleuth of changes internally and externally. The Indian drawing room awaits a lot of refurbishment. The obituary has well been written and the time calls for a scrupulous and meticulous post-mortem.

Summary:

Pakistan won by 85 runs

Pakistan batting:

• Nasir Jamshed – 106(124)
• Mohd. Hafeez- 76(74)

Pakistan bowling:

• Saeed Ajmal 10-1-20-3
• Junaid Khan 9-1-39-3

India batting:

• M S Dhoni 54*(89)
• V Sehwag 31(43)

India bowling:

• R Jadeja- 10-1-41-3
• Ishant Sharma – 9.3-0-34-3

A cloudy day at the  M.A.Chidambaram stadium, grey and overcast overhead conditions, a damp strip, a sluggish outfield, and the last but not the least, the ever ebullient, cricket frenzied crowd. A bad toss to lose he said, a colossal batting failure he didn’t say. The openers walked out on the plush green wet outfield amid the rapturous applause and the overwhelming decibel levels that soared across the stands as the left hander took guard. Taking a leaf out of Ravi Shastri‘s exaggeration, it is an India-Pakistan encounter and the atmosphere would be nothing short of electrifying. So was the mood, in sheer upbeat.

Soon, the grey skies overhead paved way for the clouds of defeat that loomed large, decimating a thousand sanguine minds, with ignominy starring upfront, drizzles of disappointment poured in, and the stage was set for a grand Indian batting collapse. Junaid Khan, the Pakistani pacer, galloped through the top order, castling four batsmen, and the drudgery was even more devastating as it was a discerning sight to see the stumps falling flat. Call it lack of foot movement or misjudging the line, it was nevertheless a disastrous start, not even in the wildest stretches of his nightmares would one contemplate such a debacle. So, reduced to 29/5, Mahendra Singh Dhoni, the protagonist, walked in.

To set the tone, MS Dhoni was amid all the flak and cynosure. Being the Indian captain, he fell prey to the critics who made scathing remarks on his captaincy and took potshots at his batting proficiency. The social media was abound with rancor and acrimony that was aimed at him, and any layman would call for his head. He was the punching bag, as he termed it. Making things worse, was the confession of a selector which said Dhoni was on the verge of being stripped of captaincy and was in course to lose his Test cap, before the superstitious boss intervened and arm twisted the selectors. All this would have taken a toll on this man. Being an Indian captain would put to shame even the best of managers, and with a string of low scores to complement it, he was the target for the purists or the Test cricket aficionados, obviously  sans his supporters. He was hit by waves of gall that raised well above him and he was sinking under it, trying profusely to raise above, back to glory.

Facing 29/5, the pressure would have manifold. He walked in, calm and composed, with a resolute eye, a gritty mind and took guard in his own inimitable style. He toiled under the sultry and humid conditions, meticulously seeing off the new ball, scrupulously defending. He was far from form, looked rusty and was scratching beneath the surface. With a lackadaisical foot movement and an unorthodox technique, what entailed was a sheer delight for the spectators. He showed there is something beyond technique, class and form. The heart, the head, that matters the most. The connoisseurs of the game, who root for the textbook attributes were made a sheer mockery of. He grilled and ground the bowling, blunted its tooth, even if it gave way to a run-rate close to 3. He curbed his natural instincts and played a knock of fortitude, one of diligence that had the spectators in awe. As he wasn’t in the best of touch, he made friends between the ball and the bat, got his head in and stonewalled one end. He got the partnership ticking and frustrated the bowling with the grit he employed. He forestalled the damage that was impeding and brought the game on track. Once he tested the waters and got acquainted with the conditions, he went on stroking singles and rotating strike in his usual astounding way. He ran like a maniac and, as a result, was thoroughly dehydrated. He was there thirsting for water, often on his knees, pounding and wobbling. He lay on the pitch under, taking boughs of water, gaining breadth and paused for drinks over after over. The never-say-die attitude he is enriched with made him keep the dehydration at sea and he played shot after shot, scored run after run, cruising past his half century and anchoring the ship that was on its course to wreck.

The attitude he showed is something that needs to be elucidated. When the other batsmen fell like nine pins, he stood there manoeuvring the innings, unnerved by the dot balls, undeterred by the trickling runrate. He was never seen to lose his cool and in the process instilled a sense of responsibility in Raina who lost his head and went for a wild heave. He got his eyes set in, stomached the mounting pressure and saw off the knife edge that was hanging over the head, threatening to fall, and engineered the innings past the forty over mark. Now that he looked settled, he employed the long handle, stepped up the gas and upped the tempo with signature thunderous shots. The ball was sent out of the park with a powerful hit over long on, that brought out all the bottled anger he had reserved. A thud past the bowler for a boundary underlined the fact that he was playing to prove a point. He did, he scored a ton. From 29/5, he took the total to a respectable 228. Never once did the fortitude fade, never once did the mettle melt, never did the diligence die, never did the tenacity tilt, and never did he flounder.

The journey from the roads of Ranchi to the reigns of India cricket speaks volumes about this man. From the thick haired flashy youngster, he’s mutated to a salt and pepper haired bankable adult on whom lies the mantle of Indian cricket. From the swashbuckler to the accumulator he is today, it has been a spectacular journey. With over 7000 ODI runs under his kitty, he is certainly a force to reckon with in ODI cricket.

Heroes never give up. He decided not to give up and batted with utmost pluck and batted his way back to glory. He did sink under the draconian waves, yet he batted his way up, a jubilant and buoyant upcoming. Though India lost the game, this knock would find its place in the history books as the most grittiest and resolute knocks ever played under pressure. This is why the call him Captain Cool, folks.

Any sport isn’t devoid of or isn’t in dearth of legends, yet I would postulate with courage that cricket is the only sport to have savoured a hero, an idol, a demi God. In no other sport do a player’s records thoroughly outnumber those of his contemporaries; in no other sport do the second best have under their kitty just half the numbers as the one atop does; in no other sport does a record remain assiduously unchallenged; in no other sport does a player remain at the top for a whopping two and a half decades, scrupulously amazing generations of fans; in no other sport does a player command such fervent respect throughout his career; in no other sport does a player win the tears of millions when he quits. The perpetrator, the protagonist, Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar.

From the 600-run partnership at school to the last time he stepped on to the field, there are a few things that remained intact. First things first. From Shakespeare to Shelly, there have been heaps of love stories that have enticed the world, yet, the one most reminisced, the most divine one, the eternal one, is the love this man had for the game or rather the love cricket had for this prodigy. From 16 to 40, almost a silver jubilee for the couple, the most intimate couple the world has ever seen. Caught in the clutches of love, this was the hardest decision of his life. Sportsmen retire, sporting heroes too. Yet, the latter retire only from the field, not from the hearts of a million.

People call him the most complete batsmen of his generation. Yet, it remains an understatement to the most accomplished, comprehensive, consummate – to sum it up – the supreme batsman the sport has ever witnessed. There have been batsmen who have dominated the game more than this man has done, but all of them in patches, for periods of not more than half a decade. The very fact that he’s remained at the top for two and a half decades is a testimony to his fortitude and diligence. Such fortitude doesn’t come without the heart. A heart that longs for the sport, a heart that roots for cricket and only cricket. Having tyrannized both formats of the game in his inimitable style, the master would go down as the best player of cricket. Cricket and Sachin would be synonymous. Taking to a point beyond it, sports and Sachin would be synonymous. His contemporaries in other sports lose to him on two fronts, dynamism and longevity. Thwarting generations of oppositions and routing a variety of bowlers, he has meticulously done it for more than two decades in his own, unique transcendent ways.

A king of the ODI format, they say. The king of cricket, I say. In the ODIs, there hasn’t been a batsman who has blended aggression with elegance as he’s done. Every time he’s looked brutal, he’s look brilliant. Every time he’s looked aggressive, he’s looked astute. Every time he’s looked destructive, he’s looked discerning. Every time he’s looked audacious, he’s looked adroit. In the powerplay overs, that uncanny knack of slitting the in-field with a surgeon’s precision was his trademark. Engineering an ODI century is by no means a cakewalk. Surprisingly, it’s tougher than a test century. The stats and the facts go hand in hand. How many batsmen have crossed 25 centuries in ODIs as against the number of batsmen scoring more than 25 test centuries? This man has done it 49 times. Beyond all these facts, there remains the truth, lofted well above the reach of a certain sect of people. None of us are his fans for his numbers. You don’t become an ardent aficionado of someone by just looking at his stats. There was something well above all that, which attracted, allured and inveigled a million both within and abroad. The ODI format has always suited his aggression and guile. His skills were tailor made for the ODI format, as evident from the numbers which has the entire cricket fraternity in awe.

Numerous occasions when he has shied away from fame, from glory, from glamour and glitz, yet there isn’t a single occasion he’s shied away from brilliance on the field. Gifted with an astounding array of shots under his disposal, he’s exhibited paramount brilliance with his bat. His bat spoke better than he did and that’s the recipe for a champion. The straight drive, the most scintillating shot ever played by any cricketer, showing the maker’s name, was enough to entice a millions. Then, the voracious cover drive that was completed in a an exquisite manner; the head still, the bat coming down from third man, the bottom hand just controlling and manoeuvring the stroke, the back heel rolling over. The cheeky paddle sweep, the fascinating flick past square leg, pounding pull shots, is all that forms the technical attributes. Off the field, there were other attributes that set him apart.

The ability to evade the constant attention, the diligent ways of coming back from lean patches and the prowess of recuperating from injuries. The innings at Sydney, in 2004, where he cut out all his off-side strokes and grilled the opposition, spoke volumes about his endurance and temperament. An innings that reiterates the fact that he doesn’t give up at any cost. That perseverance which delayed the retirement decision, the fighting spirit that held him back from giving up and calling it a day. Such tenacity and stout-heartedness which made him stretch till the end to realize he was done, at the cost of exerting himself, training harder than a 25-year-old, and more importantly, falling prey to the acrimony of the short sighted public. The valour he has, made him fight till the end before he gave up. He could have just as well conveniently given up on a high after the World Cup win; rather he toiled hard to serve Indian cricket, that which contended his heart, that which made his oxygen, that which  made him the man he is, that which gave him livelihood and last but not least, that which gave him harmony and happiness.

It all finally boils down to where it began. The love for the game. The love that brought him thus far, the love that made him the God of Indian cricket, a love that caused a flurry of hatred in the media, the love that made him SACHIN RAMESH TENDULKAR. The love is unparalleled by any force. I’ve never regretted not watching Leonardo Da Vinci paint, Beethoven compose, Michael Jackson dance, or Hitler speak; yet I thank God for belonging to the era of Sachin Tendulkar. I will tell my grandchildren and captivate them by the heroics of this master. We sing heaps of praises about deities seldom seen, yet we despise a deity that has met our eye, Sachin Tendulkar.

The day once distant, has eventually come. The day I dreaded the most. The doomsday for ODI cricket.  The Mayans just missed it. Tendulkar retires from ODI cricket. Well, it should have been reworded as ODI retires from cricket. I will avoid watching ODIs for a while, until the fact sinks in. I will try hard to become someone’s fan, with the hope of not losing interest for cricket. As I sign off, images of the curly haired chubby boy, the straight drive, the cuts, the illuminated eyes, the running, the gestures after a century, the glancing towards the heavens, acknowledging the crowd, the MRF bat; all of these do their rounds in my mind. Tears roll down my cheeks, and my heart never ceases to say – “Cricket is my religion and Sachin is my GOD.”

Men may come and men may go, but he will go on forever.