Boundary Line Thoughts

The World Cup is now truly underway, with almost all of the 14 teams having had a say in proceedings so far. The only truth established in the first week has been that ‘the glorious uncertainities of the game‘ has got a worse thrashing than the Associate Nations put together. But then, didn’t we expect this all along? It was always known that the tournament was going to meander around laboriously for the first 30 days, suddenly burst into life for the next 8 days, and before we realised it, leave us behind in a stream of blurred memories of matches we didn’t pay enough attention to. It’s gone according to script so far, and I have successfully settled into a routine of keeping a superficial eye on proceedings, without really getting involved in any game yet. As a result, some peripheral views from the first 6 days of world cricket’s premier event.

The best effort in the field so far has to be Zimbabwe’s Christopher Mpofu running out Ricky Ponting. Don’t you love it when those tall, thin Africans with endless limbs lope around the boundary line and score direct hits on the full at the non-striker’s end? Apparently, Ponting doesn’t, what with his TV breaking incident immediately afterwards.

The Netherlands almost made Nagpur their home that night. The only Associate Nation to put up a semblance of a fight thus far, and it nearly resulted in a victory! ten Doeschate and the boys in orange ran riot for a while, and I have to admit I was hoping they would cause an upset there. Just for the symbolism of the Orange Team making history in the Orange City, nothing else. Juicy headline opportunities like that dont come knocking every day, after all.

I wonder why UDRS decisions can’t be displayed on the big screen. Instead, it’s the poor on-field umpire who has to make contrite gestures with his hands on chest, looking suitably aggrieved at going from playing God to naughty schoolboy in a minute. I realise he might feel quite differently whenever his initial decision is justified. But surely, it’s better to keep the spotlight away from an erroneous lawkeeper than to put the spotlight on an efficient one. After all, we never get to see the linesman’s face in tennis after his call has been overruled by a challenge, do we? By the way, the UDRS seems to be working fine so far for the tournament, with or without the HotSpot. Hopefully, this will be the way forward.

The best quote in the commentary box thus far – David Lloyd’s instinctive  reaction on seeing James Anderson and Kevin Pietersen gape at each other while allowing a skier to fall right between them, “Ander-son, Pieter-son, ….after you, son!” followed by a typical bout of “ho-ho-ho”. Not bad at all, especially when there are people like Alan Wilkins around, mouthing off banalities every other second.

Just 4000 general public tickets are available for the World Cup final in Bombay, with the rest being distributed to the ICC, member associations and other such anonymous faces. It’s a story we’re familiar with in India, but it never feels less frustrating. My sympathies lie with the ardent Mumbaikar who fails to get one of those priceless entry passes into Wankhede, ends up at home in front of the television on the 2nd of April, only to see the World Cup Final being played to empty seats in the stands.

But before we get to that fateful day, we have a long and winding road ahead of us. More minnows to be crushed, more trash talk ahead of key matches, more expert cliches from the commentary box, more player injuries, and hopefully, a keen contest or two.

Onward the cricket caravan.

The Far Away Cup

The cricket carnival is upon us again…only, I am struggling to feel it in the air right now. I shall blame it on my current location, of course. I might be living in the birthplace of the sport, but right now, this is the cricketing world’s Timbuktoo. With perenially gloomy, dark skies overhead, and an interest in sports being synonymous with an interest in the English Premier League, this is a far cry from the hot, noisy cauldron of a subcontinental cricket World Cup. Add to that the crisis of confidence that the ODI format itself is going through, being lambasted by T20 fans and Test fans alike, it’s not surprising that my build-up has been slow. But all said and done, the World Cup remains that one cricketing constant we’ve all grown up with, we know the records and statistics by heart, we know the anecdotes and folk tales through the years, and we know we will only be adding to that over the next month. Thus, we remain loyal to history, if not anything else. This edition though, does seem to be the most open tournament for a long time, and there definitely are a few things to be excited about. Apart from pondering over the the perennial questions of which side of the bed the Pakistanis will get out of, which big match the South Africans will choke away, and how many centuries Sachin Tendulkar will score, here are a few things I am going to be keeping an eye out for over the course of the tournament.

Is this Bangladesh’s time? Their fans definitely seem to think so. Reports from the opening ceremony seem to suggest the kind of pre-tournament frenzy in Dhaka that could actually carry the team through for some distance. People hope for a run similar to India’s in 1983. God knows they have played long enough, and the conditions are ideal for their cause. They are playing at home, fresh off a thumping win against the Kiwis, and for the first time, there will be justified disappointment if they don’t make it to the knock-out stages. The only problem seems to be the lack of a 1983 Kapil Dev in their side. Will Shakib Al Hasan be able to fill those big shoes? Their first match at home against favourites and co-hosts India might give us an idea of what to expect.

How far will the West Indies go? They are expected to struggle to make it to the knock-out stages, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see them being embarassed. But I have to admit, I do like their batting order. The explosiveness of Gayle at the top, the very exciting Darren Bravo to follow, the solidity of Sarwan and Chanderpaul, and the all-round skills of Dwayne Bravo and Sammy to round things off. Their bowling might be weak, their fielding might be indifferent, and they might rarely think like winners. But that’s not going to stop me from hoping against hope that something clicks along the way. Sammy’s rise to captaincy, which does seem to be appreciated by his colleagues, and Richie Richardson’s new role as coach might, just might, prove to be a catalyst for change. I hope so, because the Windies in full flow remains a unique sight in world cricket to this day. After all, Sammy did seem to enjoy the rickshaw ride more than any of the other captains at the opening ceremony!

What role is Kevin Pietersen going to play? For a team that was riding a crest just a couple of months back, England seems to have slipped back into a more familiar back-bencher role after a nondescript ODI series against Australia, and a string of seemingly never-ending injuries. That’s why I liked the move to bring Pietersen to the top of the order for the two warm-up matches that they played in the lead-up. Just the fact that they are thinking of bringing their star aggressive batsman up the order signals intent and purpose, which might be just the kind of manufactured strategy required to shrug off all the negativity holding the team back. Maybe the man in the England team to really look out for in this tournament is Andy Flower!

Is this the end of Australian dominance? A lot of people seem to think so, but we will know for sure only when the tournament kicks off. There has been an obvious decline in their Test credentials, but we know you dont essentially need players of the calibre of McGrath and Warne to win ODIs consistently. A fair dose of the famed Aussie toughness should do, and this team still has it in good measure. Nevertheless, Mike Hussey and Hauritz are going to be missed sorely, which is only going to make things interesting all around.

So, as the dust settles on the opening ceremony pyrotechnics, expert analyses and predictions are being wrapped up, and finishing touches are being put to Fantasy Teams, things are finally in order for the action to begin on the field. As I strive, in vain so far, to capture the elusive buzz of the World Cup, I realise that the words of the wise marketeer actually ring true. This really is ‘the cup that counts’. Enough said. Let the games begin.

And oh, by the way, “Jeetega, bhai, jeetega! India jeetega!” …where’s my vuvuzela?

The Green, Green Grass of Home

Sporting pilgrimages are always fun. You do it for the history, for all the tales you’ve heard about it, for checking if the real place actually compares to the hyperbolic image your mind has. And irrespective of how the comparison turns out, the experience can never let you down. After all, you are visiting the birthplace of heroes.

Thus, the bleak, overcast skies of a cold English winter couldn’t get my spirits down as I found myself at the gates of the hallowed lawns. Walking down the main street of Wimbledon Town provides you with an immediate impression. You see things as mundane as the Wimbledon Theatre, the Wimbledon Fire Station, the Wimbledon Train Depot, all normal, urban structures, and none of them have anything to do with tennis! For a follower of the sport, whose earliest (rather, only) exposure to Wimbledon has been a TV diet of lawn tennis every June-July, it can be slightly overwhelming to see a Wimbledon sign whichever way you turn, with none of them having any relevance to tennis!

Beyond this, let the pictures take over.

As implied earlier, winter is hardly the ideal time to make a trip here. The sky is gloomy, the sidelines on the court are missing, and the grass is left to grow wild, within reasonable limits. As a result, the courts resemble a neighbourhood park ideal for an evening stroll, rather than a gladiatorial amphitheater where sweat and tears are spilled. This court, for example, is adjacent to Court 18, where Isner and Mahut played their duel-to-the-death last year. It’s interesting to see how a match steadily seeps into popular folk-lore at Wimbledon. Court 18 is already a must-stop on the guided tour, and the guide patiently takes a quarter of an hour coming up with tid-bits of trivia spread over the three days the match took to complete. Looking at the peaceful patch of grass today though, it requires quite a bit of imagination to recreate that atmosphere, despite the guide’s best efforts.

This is the view from the top of Henman Hill. From what I could gather, the title continues to persist, and the locals haven’t re-christened it with an alternative alliterative name, for a more contemporary player. Not yet, anyway.
Sitting on Henman Hill, I realised what I liked about Wimbledon. It’s just about the right size. At least, it was smaller than I had always imagined it to be. I guess all the history and traditions end up adding to the physical dimensions of a place too, in our heads. In reality, the stroll through the court complex was quite a short one. Even the courts are pretty compact, and a spectator is always close to the action. Also, the traditional colours of purple and dark green dominate the landscape, going hand-in-hand with the natural green everywhere, and they serve to create an easy sense of familiarity.

The Champions’ Board always makes for good reading, evoking memories of that player you had forgotten all about, drooling over the memories of that match you swear you will never forget. One thing that strikes me is how often there have been repeated champions here, and in quite a few cases, in succession too. Winning seven matches in a row, in the toughest field of players possible, has always seemed a highly difficult challenge to me. But there have always been guys managing that feat with aplomb, with a regularity that must make a mockery of the statistical probability of it happening. Maybe it’s all about winning the first one. A champion’s mindset towards a title must be starkly different to a player who has never done it before, and that skews the odds in his favour more than anything else. Maybe.

Another enduring image of the Championships for me. And I mean the Rolex, not the Radio Wimbledon. I love the fact that advertising does not find a place within Wimbledon. I find it very intriguing that in this day and age, one of the most prominent sporting events in the world does not believe in its commercialisation. Trust the British to come up with a reason involving ‘tradition’ and ‘gentlemen’. But I do find it very appealing. For one, this is the main reason that the distinctive purple and green of Wimbledon really stick in our mind, and not the ubiquitous cacophony of colours seen elsewhere. And the invisibility of corporate sponsors allows the fan to indulge in an illusion of the tournament being played only for the lofty goals of glory, perfection and truth, rather than the crass pursuit of money. It must be said here that the jackpot of one million pounds for the eventual champion does put a slight dampener on this train of thought. Ironically, these are the thoughts that spring to mind on seeing Rolex, the one corporate brand distinctly associated with the Championships. In its masterful positioning as the Official Timekeeper of the Tournament, Rolex hitches its brand to an even bigger brand – Wimbledon, and in the process, makes a few others go green, I suspect.

Centre Court, at last! And in all its off-season glory! Special attractions of the season include a lighting apparatus which supports the grass in its attempts at photosynthesis in the gloomy murk, and an electrified fence around the perimeter of the grass, supposedly to keep out the adventurous local jackal. While I tried to get myself a quiet moment amid the distractions, and figure out the exact spot where Nadal might have crashed to the ground in ecstasy in the deepening gloom of that 2008 evening, I couldn’t help but feel slightly aggrieved that a jackal might have got closer than I ever would to the grass of Centre Court.

Every seat in Centre Court is covered with its own individual seat wrapper, which evoked a vague feeling of exasperation in me just looking at it. I wonder who had the patience to actually carry out the task. Anyway, by this time, our guide was in his element, waxing loquacious about past events in the Court, and I felt a stab of envy for his job. He was engrossed in narrating tales of sporting bravery, triumph and despair to a crowd of people who had been hoping for something exactly like that to make their day, and were now hanging on to his every word.

 

 In the end, I guess it made my day too.

The Raison d’Etre

It’s been almost seven years now, but the memory is as fresh as ever.

It was five in the morning, and the TV was on at the lowest volume level possible in order to not wake anybody up. But VVS Laxman’s cover drive far, far away at the Adelaide Oval still sounded loud enough to me to rouse everyone in the vicinity.

This was actually Rahul Dravid’s match. Having scored a double century in the first innings, he remained unbeaten in the second, guiding India to its first Test victory in Australia in over two decades. But all these years later, the rest of the match has reduced to nothing more than a set of inconsequential facts and figures for me – Ponting’s double-ton, Agarkar’s heroics, Dravid’s mammoth effort, even the actual moment of victory. The only image that remains is the sight of Laxman on a gloriously sunny day, creaming the fast bowler to the mid-off boundary with minimal footwork. The sight of the seagulls on the ground being scattered by the shot, only served to accentuate how rooted to the spot the Australian fielders seemed as the ball sped past them.

Which invariably begs the question – why was I watching this in the first place? Could I really have been looking forward to the silky wrists of a genial Hyderabadi more than the actual moment of a historic Indian sporting triumph? What was I, a common fan, looking for in a televised sporting event, at the unearthly hour of five in the morning? After all, why do we watch sport?

An enduring cliche in response to this has been that ‘sport is a microcosm of life’. And as many enduring cliches, that might well be true. You see your daily struggles, your victories and defeats being enacted in front of your eyes. You speak from your own experience when you wish the young brat would put a price on his wicket, when you urge the hard-working bowler not to lose hope in the middle of a wicketless spell. And when things work out the way you hoped it would, you are gratified. And when they don’t, you are frustrated. Just like life. It might also explain why no two fans have the same opinions or the same favourite players. You bring your own personality, your own understanding of life into your appreciation of sport.

Personally, I know why I watch sport. It’s for those very human moments, when you can feel the gooseflesh all over you. When Nadal sinks to his knees after beating Federer in the deepening gloom of an English summer evening. When Steyn steams in against Tendulkar with a hostile sense of purpose and a vocal home crowd behind him. When Flintoff offers Brett Lee his hand immediately after a heart-wrenching Ashes loss at Headingley. When Ivanisevic finally lifts the Wimbledon trophy, after all those years.

…And yes, when Laxman uses those magical wrists of his.

In the end, I watch sport for the memories. Perhaps, that’s raison d’etre enough.

And perhaps, that’s also raison d’etre enough for this blog.