My tryst with World Cups

When you turn 25, you often envy the younger lot, wishing you could roll back some of the years of your life. But there is just one case when you actually envy people who are older than you by atleast a decade – because these people know what winning a World Cup means. They have experienced it – the joy of watching it unfold on TV or listening to it on radio, or of being told about it at night, or of reading about it in the papers the following day. I could give anything to time travel to that period.

I obviously have no recollections of the 1987 World Cup and very faint ones of the 1992 World Cup when my cousins used to be glued to our Nelco Television sets as I got ready to go to school. The images of a flying Jonty Rhodes, or of a jumping Miandad, or of Raju not running a 3rd run against the Aussies which could have resulted in a tie, or of a giant scoreboard ruthlessly changing from “22 runs required of 13 balls” to “22 runs required of 1 ball”, and finally of Imran Khan lifting the trophy, were all developed much later.

By the time the year 1996 arrived, cricket had started to become a craze with me. Mind you, this was a time when there was no round-the-clock coverage of cricket and cricket websites were an unheard commodity; there was no option of getting scores through SMS. The only information you had about the personal lives of cricketers was through the interviews that Sportstar did (that too cricketers only figured in some issues) where they would list their favourite colours and bands. But still cricket managed to stop people’s lives like nothing else. This was the edition where the Sri Lankan openers were to change the way cricket is played. This was the edition where India reached the knock-out stage riding on the shoulders of one man. This was the edition where Kenya upset the West Indies and we got to witness the most unadulterated scenes of celebrations ever on a cricket field.

India faced off Pakistan in the quarter finals and I was made to attend a function of a distant relative. When the slog overs of the Indian innings approached, my dad arranged a room for some of us in the hotel. As news of Jadeja’s carnage spread, the room probably had more people than the party hall. As the party progressed, India’s party looked like it would be short lived. Call it a moment of madness or a moment of magic, but Prasad got the better of Sohail, and things turned on its heel. By the time I got home, victory was a formality. Things proceeded to Eden and what a forgetful day it was – for the players, for the spectators and for the entire nation. Kambli wasn’t the only one who cried that evening.

The action moved to England in 1999. India’s Spiderman had found his Harry Osbornes. The trio of Dravid, Ganguly and Sachin announced themselves. They knocked the stuffing out of some of the opposition teams, but faltered against the Zimbabweans on that unfaithful day, which ultimately was going to be the death knell for them. Stories of match fixing emerged and the ugly side of cricket surfaced again. Victory against the Pakistanis hardly assuaged the pain of the heartbreaking defeats against the Kiwis and Aussies. The obituary of another World Cup dream was written. But nothing compares to the heart break of Klusener after coming so close to pulling it off for his team in the semis. The commentary of Bill Lawry and the action in the middle would have raised many a blood pressures. The image of Klusener staring blankly – at nothing, and the confession of Donald that he still gets nightmares trying to get to the other end will still cause many depressions.

2003 brought about unprecedented expectations. The angst against the players after their initial refusal to sign a contract against some ambush marketing sponsorships which could even have meant no Indian representation, was forgotten as the tournament approached. The anger resurfaced after their ordinary performances in the first two matches. But match by match, the Men in Blue managed to turn it around – and how. The famous huddle had become a rage with the nation. Anyone who has seen the match against the Pakistanis on television isn’t ever going to forget it. The purple patch continued and India had stormed into the finals. The Class XI final exams which were going on at that time were a mere footnote in my day’s calendar. The players had come, they had seen but they had faltered. 22 days earlier we had seen how one man can give shape to a billion dreams. On March 23, we got to see how another could shatter them, as Ponting manufactured one of the greatest innings ever. India came home as the second best team.

2007 came and we realized there is something more painful to swallow than a loss in the finals of a World Cup – it was elimination after three matches. India played Bangladesh on the day my college had a Quawalli competition. We thought the result was a foregone conclusion. Our only worry was India should bat second lest we will miss their batting. As we rehearsed and sang “Allah oh Ali” from the movie Tathastu, we kept getting news of Indian wickets falling. When we finally reached our hostels, the reality of an Indian loss hit us. Whether we had distracted Allah that day will never be known. The second prize we won was hardly a consolation. India could not produce any magic against the Lankans and the players were back home earlier than expected. Effigies were burnt and houses were stoned. A photo of a distressed Sachin, Dravid and Ganguly in the India-Sri Lanka match was circulated with all sorts of captions.

Four years have passed since then. People have forgotten everything. The derogatory email forwards have again been replaced by posters adorning the rooms. Of the three players mentioned, one has been ignored, another disgraced and the third has bounced back after almost being written off. What has not changed is a World Cup dream.

Imran Khan’s final words after accepting the ’92 trophy were, “And we finally win the World Cup. Thank you”. I still wake up every morning imagining Sachin speaking the same words, when I could have been dreaming of prettier things. There is a whole generation, like me, which does not know what winning a World Cup means. We will all be praying for the next 45 days. Will we be celebrating after 45 days?

The World Cup is nigh. Will the World Cup be my?

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