It's 1800 hrs on the eve of the "epic" world cup semifinal. The scuttlebutt is mostly about fixing. Has a certain interested party, with access to more money than most major corporations, ensured that the most accomplished cricketer still on the circuit finishes his career with a winners' medal? Is this the scripted final chapter in the legend of Sachin Tendulkar? It is also production day and by that hour, since none of us have tickets in hand, we are more concerned with getting our pages in order so we don's have to come in the next day. World Cup or not, no one wants to work when its pretty much a national holiday.
The phone rings. "Kya kar raha hai," is the standard question. "Kaam pe. Kya plan hai?" equally standard reply. "Get to CP in an hour, we're leaving for Chandigarh at seven thirty."
I am a confessed non-cricket fan. In the Indian context, I guess that means I can't tell you, off the top of my head, who took five wickets against India in South Africa's first world cup game after apartheid isolation. I would have guessed Allan Donald, but that is only because I wouldn't be able to name a single other bowler on that squad. Or even which world cup it was.
I claim, if India were playing cricket and any other sport at the same time, I would watch the other. The other sports tag, I suppose, is a kind of inverse snobbery. When the call came though, I was ready to drop everything, production deadline included, and get on the metro to town and on to Mohali. Are there about a billion other Indians, including the poor sods who agreed to finish my pages at work, who deserved that call more than I did? Sure. Did I give a shit? Not for a second.
It has been a while since Mohali. The legend of Tendulkar is complete, scripted or not. But I still haven't been able to put a finger on why there was never any doubt about accepting the offer.
Was it the promise of an all-boys road trip in the middle of the week--something I haven't done in years, complete with fancy borrowed SUV to bomb down some golden highway corridor and a couple of bottles of duty free tharra for company? Maybe, but sausage-fests are a regular part my life and, back in the days when I used to drink, the missus could always drink me under. So maybe not.
Was it the joyous prospect of watching the motherland stick a sporting trident (how very Hindu) in the heart of the neighbouring rogue state? This is the tough question. Before the cricket semis, India had already beaten Pakistan in the hockey world cup and the AFC challenge cup qualifiers (football, if you must know). It was all happening in the space of about one financial year. The subcontinent can perhaps be described as the global centre for sporting mediocrity. But just because we still haven't been able to break the 10-second barrier in the 100m sprint doesn’t mean we don't relish a bit of sporting bloodshed among neighbours. And this was, after all, one step away from a shot at a world championship. Other than the giants of kabbaddi, that tag eludes most of us over-eaters and under-performers. So yes, it was that, to an extent.
The PCA stadium at Mohali is bollocks. It took us about an hour to get into the ground (this despite being part of the privileged few to get parking stickers). It was two in the afternoon and as hot as coalminer's armpit. It probably even smelt the same. Our seats were perfect, but unfortunately the host broadcaster had decided to erect a pillar in front, presumably to capture audience audio. So, when Gautam Gambhir got out, I had to ask cricinfo how it happened.
All this gave me plenty of time to think about why I was there. I realised my reasons were the same as the other 5000 people in my stand. 1) There was the possibility of being on TV. 2) There were stale samosas and flat pepsi. 3)I could update my facebook status with a cool yet understated "I was there" if we won (sadly the guy sitting next to me did it before I could). 4) Did I mention the cricket?
There is a fifth reason too. And this I say as a tribute to the hardcore cricket loving gent who got my ticket, drove me to Mohali and lovingly fed me single malt while taking a piss off the balcony of a room in a very "law and order type" part of Chandigarh. The cricket is in our bloody Indian blood. No matter how many years you spend getting in shit kicked out of you at football games in north London, or how many Kronenbourgs you drink at Roland Garros, you will scream with joy Zaheer Khan bowls a beauty, Sachin plays a cover driver or hold your head in your hands and cry when the middle order conspires to collapse after the guys on top seem to have taken the team home. There is no other way to explain it. Kindly gent, I bow to your wisdom.
