Sachin Tendulkar - The urban myth

Sachin Tendulkar – Stealing shows

And then India started batting. Vijay and Dhawan were going along quite well. I saw one straight drive that Dhawan played. It went straight to the fielder but it was a thing of beauty. He then punched one brilliantly through the covers. Vijay then came on strike. A couple of outstanding shots. Good. The pair would bat through the day, I hoped and went back to my seat. Even the Cricinfo match tab that is usually open was closed. I had no access to the score. I couldn’t care less.

There was, suddenly, this noise building up next to the TV. Maybe one of these chaps had reached a fifty. No. it was not that. It was not a noise of applause. It was not one of appreciation. There was something else in the air. It was anticipation. I quickly opened the Cricinfo tab. It said that India were two down. Sachin was heading down the stairs. I rose from the chair. I sat down again. These moments, literally, were excruciating. Sachin. Mumbai. One last time. Me. Hypocrisy. The sham of the series. My pride. All those pent up feelings. I could not let myself down. Sachin. One last time. Mumbai. Adidas. MRF. Power. Whites. Helmet. Crotch adjustment. Looking up at the sun.

I was in front of the television. There are some things that are bigger than you or your ego. Sachin is one of them. I looked around. There was a smile on so many faces. I looked at the TV. He was taking guard. They cut to the guard of honour that the Windies had formed. What was that feeling inside? Emotion? Sentiment? No. Pride. Yes, that’s what it was. How was it that I could take any pride in his success, I wondered later on, on reflection. I did not have an answer. I still don’t. however, I did take pride. Immense pride.

I looked at the scene. There were, perhaps, 50 people there. There were 3 chairs, only one occupied. All the others had just come to watch Sachin bat for a ball, maybe an over. And then they had to get back. After all, the world does not really stop for Sachin, although, briefly, it did. So there was no one on those chairs. In retrospect, more of the standing, I think, was the tension. I believe that people could not bear to sit. I know that I could not. And then there was that first ball.

A wild slog. Under edge. A single. No duck. A huge sigh of relief. I could feel the tension lifting all around me. As for me, no. I did not breathe a sigh of relief. I smiled. I knew what that was. It was a release. It was evident. The first one was out of the way. It was a signal. This was not going to be a builder’s innings. This was going to be an innings that was Sachin’s alone. It was for Sachin. This was an innings that was less for the country and more for him. It was for everyone who ever mattered to him. It was for everyone who did not matter to him. It was an innings. That’s all it was.

He was off the mark. People started going back to work. I did not really have work to do but then the righteous self that was still a small part of me wanted me to go for I could, maybe, still claim some moral high ground later on. I decided to watch for a few balls. I still stood. I stood more in fear of sitting for, sitting would mean not getting up; not until Sachin got out. So I stood.

And so I watched. Nine sedate balls. And then the tenth. Shillingford bowls. Off the pads. No chance. Tendulkar takes guard again. Short. Back foot. Point. Four. This was excruciating. Last ball of the over. Pitched up. Driven past mid off. Four. I sat down.

Then Gabriel bowled. Sachin leant into it. Cover drive. Four. South Africa popped into the head. India were 36 for 5. Or so I think. It was Azhar and it was Tendulkar. It was Donald and then it was Pollock. Or so I think. I usually am above average at remembering these things but maybe I’m just growing old. I do remember a Tendulkar century. I remember a cover drive that was an echo of this shot. I don’t remember how much Azhar got that day; I don’t remember how much Sachin got. I don’t remember how much he struggled. I don’t remember when he played that cover drive. I don’t even remember if it was the same one. However, the cover drive brought back memories. It just did.

Sedateness. Singles. Dots. More singles. Samuels fires it in. Down the leg side. It is helped on by that oh so deft turn of the writs, the bat and the whole being. Fine leg. Four. A lap sweep. That’s what came into the head. Not one. The many. I could not remember the bowler or the opposition. All I remembered were all those sweeps.

Another punch through point. Another four. More memories. Bowlers of much more calibre – not offence meant to Samuels – being dispatched. Simply. With the minimum of fuss. Rocking back onto the back foot and the ball sailing past point. Sydney. The lack of the cover drive. Contrapuntal.

And then it came. It had to. Sammy bowled. A poor delivery. An immaculate on drive. Sharjah. Desert storm. Only, not. Captain’s trophy. That’s what. Captain’s trophy was Jaga’s invention. A two wicket tournament that pitted the captains of countries against each other in a world cup format. Each captain was, of course, given two chances. India’s captain at the time was Ganguly. Only, in Jaga’s book, and in mine, it was Sachin. It always was. Captain’s trophy was the T20 of book cricket, so to speak.

Jaga was the most amazing cricket fan that I knew at the time. Age has mellowed him but I do not have a greater cricketing friend than him. He had this cricket book. In fact, he had many. Every game of every tournament was neatly detailed. Whole hosts of cricket world cups were played. Every game had a page of its own. The page was neatly divided down the middle. We used small notebooks, for the sole reason that carrying a 15cm ruler was much less cumbersome than a 30cm one. Each side had the opposing squads. All the names, including the initials (for the space crunch meant that the whole name could not be fit) and then empty space next to them to write down the score. Only once all this was done did the game really start.

Captain’s trophy had only the captains competing but it was properly and meticulously detailed. Sachin was the only one who could captain India. Of course all sense of fairness and propriety went out of the window. It had to be Sachin. It just had to be. And so, I shamelessly copied Jaga and played captain’s trophy after captain’s trophy. And I shamelessly cheated when Sachin got out. Those of you familiar with book cricket will know that if a page open was such that a page came loose in your hand, it did not count (we even counted them as no-balls and awarded runs, well it is a batsman’s game, what?) and, more importantly, a batsman would not be out if that happened on a ‘0’ page. I do not know how but Sachin had the uncanny knack of getting out off no-balls. More than any other batsman. I wonder if I had anything to do with that. On second thought, perhaps not. Of course I believe that. Ha!

That one on-drive reminded me of that one on-drive took me back to class 5 and class 6. Of all those atrocities committed in his name. When it came to Sachin, fair play did not exist. In my book. Literally. I even remember how, when playing India games, if a wicket fell and Sachin came in (he was always at 2 down for me for the fear of him getting out too soon and the team losing morale as a result) and the resulting page open resulted in a ‘0’, Sachin would be neatly side stepped and the next batsman would have a 0 nicely written against his name. Sachin, it was said, came in at three down in that game. I really wish Jaga has one of his many many cricket books with him. It really would make for interesting reading. Unfortunately, I do not have a single one of mine. Sigh.

Stumps. 38 not out. I waited until he was safely back in the dressing room lest someone run him out or do something of the sort. Of course that is not possible for the rules of the game don’t allow it but this was the last innings. One could not afford not to be too careful.

The next day’s play started. I was in office early. This time, I took my seat. I was, however, full of dread. We have the daily call with the person on-site at 10 AM. Sachin survived a couple of overs. When I say survived, I mean negotiated with relative ease. This was not going well. I was going to miss the action. And then whatsapp – god bless that! Tanay, the chap who is at the client’s end and with who we have the call everyday pinged me. ‘Let’s have the call at lunch. Or after Sachin is out.’ God bless Tanay.

And so it continued. 39 not out. Four. Four. Just like that, 47 not out. Single. Dot. Dot. Something. Didn’t matter. And then, four. Straight drive. Apt. Nothing else. Just apt. everyone around me clapped. I could not. No. I could not allow myself to. My heart, however, did skip a few beats.

And then it continued. Another couple of fours. It was becoming routine. Tino did his Best to try and ruffle Sachin with short ones. He glared at him. Sachin playfully brushed him away. The mind went back. Caddick. That six. Shoaib. That four. McGrath. All those hits. Olonga. Ha! What happened on the field with Tino was nothing. What happened in the mind with history was something else.

And then there was another on-drive. Again, one from the past. Perhaps one for the past. At that time, I did not know it; no one did. It was to be the last.

And then it came. Big stroke. Slip. Gone. Silence. Sammy could scarcely believe what he had done. And just like that, it was over. I wish I could describe the feeling but saying anything at all will be disgracing it. That, ladies and gentlemen, was that.