Sachin Tendulkar walks out with the world cup. He invites his friend David Beckham to join him. Between the two of them, these two all time greats have taken the centre stage of the theatre of dreams of my childhood. I’ve never been much for technique or form, but I’m all in on the feeling. And no one made you feel more than Sachin and Beckham. My best memories from childhood have commentary accompanied with it. “BECKHAMMMMMMM…. OH BEAUTIFUL GOAL!” “SA-SHIN TENDUL-KA WHADDAPLAYA!”
I am watching them from just a few feet away. I should be over the moon. Instead, I feel nothing. I have always envied sports gods. Mortals like us live but one life, and never get to hear the kind words spoken about us after we’re gone. Sports Gods live two lives. The first ends when they decide they have run their race. Or their bodies do it for them. They get to soak in the final applause, and they get to read every kind obituary about their first life. And then they get to live a second life all over again. Nothing could be better.
Now I am not so sure. It feels like a curse. Living out a past life as tired cliches, slapping on plastic smiles for photo ops and causes that sound important - but do they really care about them? Being pressed to repackage a past life over and over again, but not with the booming voice of Tony Greig, or Martin Tyler doing it for you - with your own words and voice.
Maybe I am just getting older, and more cynical. Maybe it’s not that sports Gods have a first life and then a cursed second one forced to relive the older one, maybe it’s that we go through childlike wonder and excitement only once, till the enormity and certainty of the world wears us down. Till all you see are cliches.
Or it could just be the occasion. I’m at Wankhede for the semi finals. I am not about romance today, give me statistical certainty. Give me an obvious script that is churned out when these two teams play each other. India bat first, score 350. New Zealand make it seem like they’re in the game and end up with 323, their fans saying “so close, yet so far” while India win comfortably. They can take the moral victories and nice guy medals today, I just want an Indian win. The romantic opposite is unthinkable. Especially after 2019. No statistical outliers please, thank you very much.
“Is this your seat?”
“Oh no bro, mine is over there” I point to my left and in front of me “There’s a speaker blocking my view of one side of the wicket”
“Yeah, same. I was hoping this is your seat and mine is a single unoccupied seat that’s unclaimed”
“Haha yeah, that was my hope too”
We share smiles. The knowledge that I’m not the only delinquent is reassuring, as is his smile. We rest our backs on the borrowed seats a little more comfortably.
Match day friendships don’t require an exchange of names. We’re sharing this moment together, that’s good enough. I don’t need to know anything more. Not where you come from, where you stand on things. Perhaps the less we know the better. We share these few moments of joy together. We build on our good fortune of being here, a rare stroke of luck considering the tens of thousands that wanted to be in our place. And if it doesn’t work, you just stop. An organic break up without a word needing to be said. A one day stand with no strings attached.
Today it seems to be working, we’re on the same wavelength.
“Will we see a Gill special today?”
“A double hundred in the semis? Yeah bro. And we were there for it!”
“Latham is getting a helmet, looks like Santner is coming on…”
“Oh you’re right. Rohit is still going to go for it, a slog sweep is coming…”
“165, 166 are our seats” The inevitable intervention comes 7 overs into the game.
“Oh of course” We move. With a quick nod to each other we part ways. My firefly friend is moving to the back. I try to go back to my seat and make it work. Perhaps if I crane my neck every other over? Nope. Impossible to do this for 90 overs. I consider my options, and move to the back and stand behind the seats.
“Sir, please aap apne seat pe jaiyeye na?” A security person in a high-vis jacket tells me, politely.
I go down, and sit on the concrete steps of the aisle. Not too bad, I can see the action from here.
“Sir, idhar nahi baith sakte, aap seat pe baithiye”
“Par mere seat se kuch nahi dikhta hai yaar!” I respond impatiently
“Toh jahan se ticket liya udhar jaake complaint karo!”
I fight the urge to say something sarcastic. Instinct says I should say something. Stand up against injustice. A voice at the back of my head says “It’s not his fault. He’s just doing the job he’s been told to do” I shrug. I am determined to not let the situation dampen this day. Perhaps this is what growing up feels like? The security guard walks back to his spot.
I continue sitting in the aisle, but it doesn’t feel sustainable. I decide to move up to level 3. Surely, there will be an empty seat somewhere? I need certainty today.
“Konsa match hai yeh?” a security guy at level 3 is asking someone
“India New Zealand”
“Nahi matlab kitne over ka match”
“50”
“Baap re!”
A packed stadium where they’ve sold even the seats they’re not supposed to. Filled with people many of whom have overpaid for their tickets for this once in a lifetime experience. And security guys who are just doing their job and are blissfully unaware of the action unfolding in front of them. It’s beautifully absurd. Like the tub of complimentary popcorn I am holding in my hand. Free popcorn with tickets at Rs 5,360 for a seat from which you can’t see the action. Are you not entertained?
I smile to myself.
Unlike a music concert or a theatre play, I love sport because it’s unpredictable. You have no idea what will happen next, even the players don’t. No one writes the scripts. It’s improv at its very best. You say “Yes, and…” and you play along. Today, it seems the improv has spilled over the match experience itself. I’ll take this, as long as you give me the certainty of a result.
Virat Kohli walks into the middle. He bends down at the boundary line and touches the ground, then his heart before entering. He walks fast. Rohit Sharma has a quick word with him on the way out. More fast steps. A couple of skips. Rhythmic. Practised a million times. Certain. As if to say, today is about control. It’s about calculation. It’s about effectiveness over entertainment. Do the easy questions first, do them well. Double underline the answers. Once you feel good, go back to the tougher ones, see if you can get through them. It’s okay if you don’t - you just need to be at 80% today. See it through.
I finally find an empty seat on level 3. It’s in the top left corner. That unreachable part where footballers try to place their penalty kicks. C 301, Level 3, Divecha Pavilion, Wankhede - an address that even the otherwise reliable Indian Postal Service might find hard to locate. To my left is a wall, to my right a seat for my pop corn. The view of long off and long on boundaries are obstructed by the terrace where the manual scoreboard is located. My phone is not connecting. No Whatsapp groups for company. No podcasts playing in my ear. Amidst a sea of 35,000 people, I realise, for the first time in probably years together I am truly alone. And then a second realisation strikes me - maybe for the first time in a few years, yet again, I am truly happy.
Virat Kohli is etching a metronomic masterclass in the middle. Occasional boundaries. Lots of running. Ones, twos. Get to 200 by the end of 30. 280 by 40. Secure 350 and push 400. I watch the scorers on the terrace. They’re being kept busy. Suddenly, a few cops are climbing the steep spiral steps to the scoreboard. They look like senior officers. Looking important, clutching their silly lathis with both hands to show how serious they are. Surveying the terraces of buildings behind me through binoculars. Everyone’s doing their job today.
I follow the ball with my eyes. If there are two balls in one day cricket, what happens at the end of an over? Oh! The umpire puts it in his pocket. They’re quietly subverting the statistic “on average, in the world, each man has less than 2 balls” I chuckle to myself. Kohli intercepts a throw that comes in. He wants to touch the ball. Latham is not happy. He’s been doing this every match. I am hoping no one stops him till India wins the world cup.
Boult comes back into the attack. Kohli steps out and hits him for a four on the first ball. Southee comes back next over.Kohli hits him for a six the first ball he faces. Not today sir, I’ve done my revision thrice. You can dine out on that glorious day 4 years ago for the rest of your life. Thank you.
It’s 214/1 at the end of 30 overs. I am content, not delirious. This is par for the course. Let’s keep going please. Another two, another single. Suddenly, 10 overs later, even in the quietest part of the stadium, the people around me are chanting Kohli, Kohli. Oh, he’s on 98. Big deal, I think to myself. It really doesn’t matter, can we get to 380? Please consider. Regards.
And then, Kohli runs yet another two… He has completed a century… he jumps up high… punches the air… drops his bat and sits down with his palms open as if in prayer. He stands up, removes his helmet, takes off his gloves, bows down to the pavilion, touches his heart, blows a kiss, and then another. I see Anushka on the balcony, returning the kiss. Kohli blows a third kiss for good measure.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, my heart is swelling. My eyes are welling. For some reason, I find myself sobbing with happiness.
Virat didn’t walk into my life like a pre internet era Sports God like Tendulkar or Beckham, predestined to be an all time great, prepackaged with broadcast quality commentary. He has not had an impeccable voice like Tony Greig or Martin Tyler immortalising his moments - the most memorable line from the Virat era is his own “Tendulkar has carried the burden of the nation for 21 years. It was time we carried him”.
Virat was a trash talking, middle finger waving, flawed human of the internet era. He was my own peer, 6 months younger to me. Virat burst into my heart not because of his technique or because of the mountains of runs he scored, I loved him because he was everything I ever hoped to be. As a person.
As a 17 year old in first year engineering, I had found it fit to write on my door
“Some people see the world as it is and say Y? I dream of things that never were and say YNOT” TONY? YNOT!
When Virat took centrestage, he reminded me of that very quote. Minus the cringe. Plus lots of substance. And the audacity to back up his vision. Take the game to the opposition, win tests abroad. Don’t back down. Wake up, work hard. Dominate. Turn India into a winning machine in all conditions.
I saw Virat grow up and take charge. It inspired me to be a better version of myself, everyday. Day by day, less cringe, more substance. It doesn’t matter if the world is full of cynics, sometimes one person can make a difference. To stand up and speak out. The scale doesn’t matter. Create something original. Build something new.
Put in the effort and then results will follow. They did, and they didn’t. Best team of all time? Where are the trophies in the cabinet? Risk and reward? All you have are asterisks, and no rewards. Then, a pandemic. A slump. A desperate effort for redemption. Till one day in South Africa where everything burst into flames. A man who always took defeats in stride and trusted the process, who never blamed a pitch or a toss for some reason decided to blame broadcasters for an unexpected defeat. Virat broke my heart.
He was plunging into darkness. And me into mine. It’s foolish to think that the world and life in general is always going to get better. Good people don’t always win. Injustices will continue till humans exist. The joy, that was taken for granted, had dried up. This was the toughest test. I have no idea what Virat did, but I fervently searched for answers at the bottom of a bottle. I didn’t find any messages, but it lit me up initially and then dulled everything else. I was turning bitter. I identified the problem, I didn’t have answers yet.
Virat was rebuilding too. Probably realising that captaincy is capricious, and people don’t always back you the way you would back them. That fans are fickle, and the real world doesn’t run on process and results, it runs on chance and is obsessed with anomalies and anecdotes.
Somewhere along the way, it hit me - the realisation that as much as you love your parents, partner, and children… as much as you invest in your fleeting friendships… no one shares your trajectory, your journey, or understands the real you… This is it. It’s all on you.
The way back, as it turns out, is through cringe philosophical quotes on Instagram. Once you find the answer - the same trite one that everyone before you has discovered - that the world is as it will be, enjoy the good times with the people, but don’t let them affect you. You work your way back. One day at a time, tracking progress on a calendar. Two months, you don’t need the calendar anymore. Three months and you’re back to creating again. This time without a care for what people think. Plugging what you make without fear of judgement.
When Virat celebrated today, it felt like the culmination of a new self. A humbled one time captain who does the job he’s been asked to by his team. A new Virat, who still loves the crowds, and will make the most of it to have a good time. But doesn’t care about what they think anymore. A man who has rediscovered his joy by shrinking the sphere of influence.
When he held his hands high today, he was talking to no one except his own extended self. He was not sending a message to the world, he was rejoicing in his new birth and acknowledging his north star. Virat was celebrating with 35,000 others. But alone. A reaffirmation to himself that he’s seen the darkness and he can find his way back to the light. For that which has been forged in the fire cannot wither away in the sunlight.
In C301, another 36 year old was celebrating alone, with 35,000 others. Perhaps it’s not just Sports Gods that have two lives, it’s flawed humans too.
Such a beautiful piece. About so much more than just cricket.
Love how you bring the personal with the sport