When Sachin debuted for the national team, I was in the third standard. When the curly haired lad was sending Abdul Qadir over the fence, I was more bothered about elementary Maths, drawing classes, English grammar and….. and him. When Imran’s bouncer broke his nose, I cried. Then wept my tears to go out to play for the para (bong for locality) league. Every single bowler there was Imran Khan in disguise. I waved my bat and went for sixes and fours with the cambis ball, ravaging window panes and windshields of 1990 made fiats and ambassadors. Every boundary was pain-killers for him. I played well and Sachin recovered. Years later when the tennis elbow thing happened, I wished I could play some tennis to help him recover quicker.
Much to the dismay of most people of our generation, Sachin became the auto-adopted son of most mothers. They sat in front of the television, understanding nothing about cricket, cutting vegetables as Sachin tackled deliveries. A self appreciative smile appeared in all faces whenever the ball went past Sachin’s bat. The local kaku’s (uncle in bengali jargon) blessed the youngsters whenever they touched the formers feet during durga puja, pre- and post-exams, birthdays, et al. with the magical words - “Sachin er matan hou” (“may you be like Sachin”). In a nutshell, this next door cricket playing lad had occupied a big chunk of love in the hearts and minds of Indians elders, which apparently was reserved for us. Much to our dismay and joy. We loved him more.
A whole genre of lesser mortals like us, spent rest of our life counting and keeping track of how many runs Sachin scored, how many sixes he hit and the rest. A random google will yield more results. But what no one keeps track is how many Qadir’s, Kasprowicz’s, Henry Olonga’s career has went down the drain just because they dared to challenge the god of cricket in the field. Sachin demolished and we cheered. Some yelled, some shouted, some just smiled. The hostel common room transformed into a party with every stroke he played. Something that he did even Buchanan’s laptop could not even apprehend. Or else which algorithm in the world could calculate how to hit Shoaib Akhtar for a six with a square cut. This single shot made
loose the match. Pakistan
There is a special way Sachin runs for singles. This man has been playing for some twenty-one years now but still runs as if his first and last single. In intolerable Jaipur heat or in windy, sultry
weather, every single moment notice his intense intent to score more runs and win every match. Or else how do you explain his anchoring to the crease and going for short runs as soon as he reaches forty five, ninety five, hundred forty five and now – a hundered ninety five. Twenty one years and the same intensity and nervousness before a milestone. His sciatic nerves should be cultivated. We grew up admiring superman, spiderman, batman. But no superhero can match the level of talent, hardwork, conviction, dedication rounding them up to the perfect combination at which he delivers. London
I could go lengths as to how perfect deliveries he has bowled. How even in the tightest of tight matches he also chewed his finger nails better like dada or looked emotionlessly cool like the wicket keeper captain of
. He is a superhero of flesh and blood. When not playing he does ask people to buy colas or credit cards and nowadays mumbaikars take bath less frequently. Like most superheroes he has a uniform, something in the shades of blue, the hue of which turned darker from the skyish shade earlier. He wears underwears not over but underneath the pants and has a unique pose (which reportedly Michael Jackson tried to copy) to settle the guard which complements the former. He is the standard to idolism. Just look at Tiger Woods. If he be rated, that would be some nano Sachin units if standards be set straight with <0.05% error. India
I did not watch him live scoring two hundred runs. But I know how he did and with what intensity. A hunger for runs which would double the whole of what continental
Africa can have for bread and pulse water. He is GOD. Otherwise even in this tense India-Pakistan situation The Dawn writes, “Pakistanis are heartbroken with Saeed bhais record being broken, but thankful to god to have no one but Sachin achieve the feat.”
Sorry. But thankful to whom?
Nothing is static in this world. The only thing constant is perhaps the term “change”. May be Sehwag will score a triple century someday or may be Ponting might end up with two hundred centuries. Whatever anyone else achieves, they will have to set their standards against what Sachin has set for them to better upon. He is the FPS and IS of everything ultimate. Both on and off the field.
I guess Sir Don Bradman is doing well up there and would be busy blogging how in his prime days he played like this Indian lad. I googled but there ain’t website for heaven. But I found one on earth. Happy reading and Hail Sachin.