Every beginning has an ending. Good or bad. Such is life. Death is inevitable. Careers of sportsmen are like that too. They are finite in their length. From debut to retirement. Culmination is the only certainty. Fans know this. Yet they invest in them: mentally, emotionally and physically. Rising and falling with them. Crying and celebrating with them, as if the fortunes of their own lives are in some way entwined with those of their sports heroes.
Stephen Squibb wrote, ‘If life, as Oscar Wilde remarked, is much too important to be taken seriously, then sports are just meaningless enough to get really worked up about.’ Pointlessness of sport cannot be overstated. But then the same can be said about literature and music. Young boys, looking for inspiration and ambition, often find their first heroes on the sports field. The naive minds and the supple bodies want to leap, run, kick and hit, like these men from sport. And just like that, an impression is made; a fan is created.
‘There are no cricketers like those seen through 12-year-old eyes’, Ian Peebles said. When Rahul Dravid walked out to bat, in flannel whites, wearing an India cap for the first time, on that sunny London afternoon at Lords in 1996, I was 12. What followed in the subsequent decade and half was an instruction from a handsome man to a wide-eyed young boy on how to become a man of character, modesty and honour.
Life is often mundane. Most days are routine, devoid of excitement and serendipity. Doing everyday tasks requires a level of motivation that is difficult to always summon. Then there are days of struggle. Generally we are ill-prepared for them. Dravid made surviving the struggle a routine and the routine he survived like it was a struggle.
Sport is an art. Sportsmen are artists. On the pedestal that is a sports field, the good practitioners of the art perform an opera. The best ones perform La Boheme. There lies the beauty. It is the source of purest joy. That was Dravid’s batting. The beauty, though not evident, was always there. You have to be a scientist to employ utility and elegance in that perfect proportion. Dravid viewed cricket like a science but performed it like an artist.
I was in office when Dravid announced his retirement. There was no shock value. The press conference had been called for in advance. When Dravid made his declaration, I latched on to every word and sentence he said, looking for a deeper meaning or a profound phrase. But like the man and his batting, what you heard is what you got. Plain and simple. Earthly and measured. Honest and sad. After the last word was said, a lump formed in my throat. Soon pain gathered. A feeling similar or probably worse than the one you might get when the girl you have always loved, breaks up with you. It was like my grip on something I had been holding onto for long and in some ways had taken for granted, were now slipping out my hand. I wanted to be with Dravid at that moment, so I could hug him, thank him and persuade him to change his decision. To ask him to stay a little while longer, long enough till I became old and my eyesight became weak and I could no longer watch and enjoy his batting.
I read the text of his press conference thrice. I went through the archives and read the articles written in praise of his old innings. I checked scorecards. YouTube is blocked on the office network. I opened Google Image Search and searched for his images. I looked for pictures of his, playing the cover drive or the square cut. I found a photo of his, kissing the India cap, the red roof of Adelaide Oval shining brightly in the background. I tried to write something about him. To him. If I had done anything more, I would have cried, making myself look like a fool to colleagues who walked by my cubicle.
I was willing to be judged like that. For him I was ready to be that fool.
Stephen Squibb wrote, ‘If life, as Oscar Wilde remarked, is much too important to be taken seriously, then sports are just meaningless enough to get really worked up about.’ Pointlessness of sport cannot be overstated. But then the same can be said about literature and music. Young boys, looking for inspiration and ambition, often find their first heroes on the sports field. The naive minds and the supple bodies want to leap, run, kick and hit, like these men from sport. And just like that, an impression is made; a fan is created.
‘There are no cricketers like those seen through 12-year-old eyes’, Ian Peebles said. When Rahul Dravid walked out to bat, in flannel whites, wearing an India cap for the first time, on that sunny London afternoon at Lords in 1996, I was 12. What followed in the subsequent decade and half was an instruction from a handsome man to a wide-eyed young boy on how to become a man of character, modesty and honour.
Life is often mundane. Most days are routine, devoid of excitement and serendipity. Doing everyday tasks requires a level of motivation that is difficult to always summon. Then there are days of struggle. Generally we are ill-prepared for them. Dravid made surviving the struggle a routine and the routine he survived like it was a struggle.
Sport is an art. Sportsmen are artists. On the pedestal that is a sports field, the good practitioners of the art perform an opera. The best ones perform La Boheme. There lies the beauty. It is the source of purest joy. That was Dravid’s batting. The beauty, though not evident, was always there. You have to be a scientist to employ utility and elegance in that perfect proportion. Dravid viewed cricket like a science but performed it like an artist.
I was in office when Dravid announced his retirement. There was no shock value. The press conference had been called for in advance. When Dravid made his declaration, I latched on to every word and sentence he said, looking for a deeper meaning or a profound phrase. But like the man and his batting, what you heard is what you got. Plain and simple. Earthly and measured. Honest and sad. After the last word was said, a lump formed in my throat. Soon pain gathered. A feeling similar or probably worse than the one you might get when the girl you have always loved, breaks up with you. It was like my grip on something I had been holding onto for long and in some ways had taken for granted, were now slipping out my hand. I wanted to be with Dravid at that moment, so I could hug him, thank him and persuade him to change his decision. To ask him to stay a little while longer, long enough till I became old and my eyesight became weak and I could no longer watch and enjoy his batting.
I read the text of his press conference thrice. I went through the archives and read the articles written in praise of his old innings. I checked scorecards. YouTube is blocked on the office network. I opened Google Image Search and searched for his images. I looked for pictures of his, playing the cover drive or the square cut. I found a photo of his, kissing the India cap, the red roof of Adelaide Oval shining brightly in the background. I tried to write something about him. To him. If I had done anything more, I would have cried, making myself look like a fool to colleagues who walked by my cubicle.
I was willing to be judged like that. For him I was ready to be that fool.
