When India won the World cup in 1983, I was in Madras in my 10th standard and I can recall the headiness and excitement in the air as we ran from the hostel to a neighbor’s house to catch glimpses of the Indian team lifting the cup. I have followed nearly all the matches that India have played here or abroad mostly on T V or in the news columns, but I have never been to watch a match live. There was a time in 1980 when Pakistan toured India; I went into the Chepauk stadium with my Dad to watch the action. However I could not grasp the turn of play and simply marveled at the crowds and got hitched to the cucumber slices and popcorn on sale.
Being with Dad was a great moment more so when it had something to do with Cricket. We witnessed some great matches together. He was instrumental in kindling an interest in soccer too. We stayed up late in 1986 to watch action from the Azteca stadium in Mexico to witness Maradona’s heroics. Since then I have been watching every Football world cup. The best moment for me with my Dad came about when we sat down to watch India lift the 2011 World cup final which ended with a glorious flourish from MS Dhoni. By then my Dad had been put down with his COPD and could not speak like earlier ,but we quietly relished the moment together. That was the last we could discuss Cricket as my Dad passed away in October 2012. Many of the anecdotal things about Cricket, the great names, their exploits with the bat or the ball or in the field, the legendary figures of the past were what I picked up from my Dad in our conversations. It would go on from one thing to the other and we would always discuss the same things again and again. My Dad was always in awe of Sunil Gavaskar’s perfection, his immaculate defence and his powers of concentration. He would recount stories about the !971 Windies tour heard over radio, the fearlessness of Farokh Engineer, the elegance of Gundappa Viswanath, the courage of MA Pataudi and so on . We would share our stories. As I started to read more about Cricket, I would tell him about the pun used by Lala Amarnath on “Empire and Umpire” or the average of Don Bradman not being 100 because he got out for a duck in his last innings, the stories about WG Grace and about famous West Indian players, Sobers, Kanhai and Lloyd, the accuracy of Erapalli Prasanna or the first tour of Kapil Dev to Pakistan where an Indian fast bowler rattled the Pakistanis for the first time. From Cricket we would jump to the commentary. As both of us were very fond of English we would recall fondly the crispness of Richie Benaud , the excitement of Tony Greig, the acerbic wit of Geoff Boycott or the polish and nuanced exposition about batting by Sunny Gavaskar. My Dad would recall some famous quotes by John Arlott from BBC Test match special. Unlike me, an ardent follower of the Indian Cricket team who rejoiced in their success and wilted when they lost my Dad was more of a Universal lover of Cricket reminding me always about the Gentleman’s game and the beauty of it all. I was not aware of my Dad’s sports career. When I questioned him about it he remembered wistfully that he was a University football player. I should have guessed because he watched all the matches that were played between Mohan Bagan and East Bengal that were telecast on DD. When it came to sports he was very democratic and betrayed his preference towards these shows: Be it Cricket, Hockey, Football, Tennis, Table tennis, Volleyball or Kabadi. As long as there was only one TV set , there was a tiff between Mom and Dad about the shows being missed because of Cricket. Hence the small B&W TV set in his room to watch only the sports channels.
When I go through these matches, I invariably remember my Dad who never budged from his seat but kept on with his cups of coffee and smoke to grind the matches along with the players just as impassionate as my Uncles were raucous. As they say the dust has settled and and only the reminiscing remains. But to borrow from the analogy, the Cricket field is now empty and all the players have left. It is the grounds man repairing the wicket for the next match.
Alan Gibson’s eulogy of Neville Cardus is more striking
“Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine;
Under every grief and pine
Runs a thread of silken twine.”