The gladiator has hit the ground. He is in pain. He has been in pain all night. But this is different. He’s not screaming. His body is not writhing. He’s not sparkling. He is still. Not in a zen way. He’s still, like rigor mortis has set in.
A physio is running in. Possibly to call time. The lions from Afghanistan are waiting patiently. This will do nicely for tonight. There is nothing the physio can do. He’s not a witch doctor. This needs divine intervention.
“MAXIMUS! MAXIMUS! MAXIMUS!” A chant breaks out from the north stand. One voice, two voices, three… twenty five thousand people stand up on their feet, chanting in unison. This is not the Coliseum, it’s the Wankhede. And here, you shall receive - even without asking.
The warrior is moving now. Up on his feet. The Wankhede will cheer him till he climbs back up into the dressing room for a well deserved night of rest. But, Glenn Maximus has other plans. He is waving off the medical crew. All the help he needs will come from the sweaty faces, chanting his name. They won’t stop clapping. An entire stadium of people hitting their hands hard relentlessly as if getting calluses are in vogue.
This is rapture. And Maximus has been resurrected.
The lions are looking confused. Wasn’t this supposed to be their night? As if to make it clear to them, the DJ plays music…
I'm bulletproof, nothing to lose
Fire away, fire away
Ricochet, you take your aim
Fire away, fire away
You shoot me down, but I won't fall
I am titanium
You shoot me down, but I won't fall
I am titanium
Wankhede never needs a DJ. It has the North Stand Gang. But tonight is special. Even the DJ is magic. It is not just your top “I was there” moment, it is an “It happened because I was there” moment.
On the boundary line, Adam Zampa is in full batting gear, including a double-checked chinstrap on the helmet. He is physically pushed back up the stairs by the medical crew. They have also been hit by Glenn Maxwell’s Reality Distortion Field. Please throw your winning probability calculators out of the window, Maxwell doesn’t have legs, or a back, but he has two arms and his heart is full. He is going to give the W the biggest of all shows.
***
“A reality distortion field” also explains my feelings for Mumbai 11 years after I’ve lived here. I hated the city with outspoken passion as I tried to find my feet in it. I see dirt, squalor, people living in the crampdest spaces. “The people will get you” was a cliched refrain and I didn’t believe it… till I did. Mumbai has given me friendships that have changed my life. And nothing exemplifies the warmth of the city like watching a match at the W.
***
I made it to The Big Show only because Vipul pings me in the afternoon. “Try coming to the Wankhede for the second innings. Tickets are available online. It will be epic if Afghanistan wins.” It’s usually a good idea to follow his advice. He knows the best seats to watch a match from, and also the best things to order in the best restaurants. Vipul is the essence of the North Stand Gang, and also a cherished member of the LLLC Whatsapp group that spawned the Bits and Pieces podcast.
Naturally, for a large group spread out all over the world like LLLC, Mumbai becomes the unofficial Head Office. And when the world cup rolls around, Vipul ensures at least 6 of us have tickets to Eng v SA. Friends fly in from Switzerland, Dubai, and Bangalore with the pure happiness of a school picnic. The excitement is doubled with South Africa batting first, and every boundary is cheered enthusiastically. Infantile jokes are made about Wood and Willey, and “Playing for NRR only” is shouted for a target audience of five people. As England Englanded like only England can, we start a “Go watch the rugby!” chant that catches on.
The Wankhede has even converted “Why would you watch a match at the stadium?” sceptics into “Let’s do this again!” believers. Post-match festivities continue late into the night, with spaghetti Fernandes and K Rustom’s ice cream. The cup is overflowing, with joy and what can only be described as a fuckton of beer.
***
At some point that night, I tell Vipul I really wanted to watch the India Sri Lanka match at Wankhede, but there are no tickets. Sure enough, on the eve of the match I receive a call, “mischief managed”. It’s not in the North Stand and I have to go alone, but I am thrilled. Once you’ve drunk from the well watching India bowling under lights in the Wankhede, even a few drops will do.
To my left is Arya, who studies in 9th Standard in London, and is a pace bowler for her school team.
“When you first sat down, I thought you were Mohammed Siraj” she says
“Haha I AM Siraj, that guy is called Tony” I point to the bowler marking his run up.
The Wankhede crowd starts a slow clap that picks up pace as Siraj runs in. Accompanied by a thunderous “OHHHHHHHHhhhhh”, the batter cannot be playing just the ball. Sure enough, he isn’t. Siraj strikes first ball. I doff my cap to Arya, who stands up on her chair and gives me a “we’re not worthy” show of hands. It’s mayhem. The crowd is relentless, the bowlers are accurate. The batters have no chance. Thank you for coming, please try the vada pav on your way out.
The game is over, and the match is going to finish soon. The North Stand gang goes through a chant for each of the playing XI. They reserve their loudest chant for Virat Kohli. Rohit might be the captain of the team, but there is only one conductor of the Wankhede orchestra - Kohli. He feeds the crowd, the crowd feeds him, and together they lift the experience from ephemeral to eternal.
Charith Asalanka can’t get bat on ball. He has faced 18 balls and is yet to get off the mark. The real Mohammed Siraj is giving him tips on how to play “Maybe try using the bat to hit the ball?”. The over finishes. Angelo Mathews walks up to Siraj now at mid on and implores “Bro, why are you sledging him? We’re 4 down for fuckall. And you have the whole of Mumbai cheering for you. Go easy no?”
Asalanka gets a single off the 21st ball. Wankhede rises as one to give him a standing ovation. Unnerved or emboldened, he goes for a slash soon after. Sri Lanka are now 5 down for fuckall. And then, they’re 6 down for fuckall.
Wankhede is delirious. There are high fives and hugs all around. There are chuckles asking for half a refund. And then, they find 4 simple words to pay tribute to their conductor, and take a dig at a spectacular collapse.
“Koh-lee ko bowling do…. Koh-lee ko bowling do!”
Where were you when they started the chant? I was there. I went alone, but ended up with 30,000 friends.
***
The match finishes early, there is no reason why the night needs to. I make my way over to Cafe Oval for some chilled London Pilsner. All the tables are occupied.
“Akele ho? Idhar baitho na?” A kindly man and his companion extend their table to me. They continue their conversation in Marathi, but at some point, emboldened by some Pilsner, I pitch in. Soon enough it’s a passionate conversation about cricket with 8 tables of strangers joining in.
“Chahe kuch bhi ho, South Africa jeet jayega. Mere life pe shart!” shouts the man at the table across.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and a conspiratorial whisper “India hi jeetega, 2024 me election hai na?”
There’s Josef and Tom from New Zealand who have watched the match and are on their way to Kerala. There’s Mahesh and Gireesh from Ahmednagar, who were also at the match, but they have actually come for the King’s birthday.
“Kohli? Woh toh 5th November ko hai na?” I ask
“Arre nahi re, ek hi toh King hai… Shah Rukh Khan”.
Three photos are taken from three different phones to remember a once in a lifetime night.
***
Before Maxwell was resurrected that night, we were all cheering for an Afghanistan win in the North Stand. Nish was starting a slow clap and a chant every ball, Sabareesh was switching positions to ensure another wicket falls, Vipul was making Sanky, an Australian fan from Goa, comfortable in this spiritual home. Meet is reminding me of Edgbaston where Pat Cummins won the match with the bat. I haven’t met most of them before tonight, but somewhere in the corner of my brain, these moments will rest. They will show up again one day when my life flashes before my eyes.
For a sport in which experts cannot even agree on what causes a ball to swing, it’s perhaps absurd to assume that the random acts of fans in seats far away from the action have an effect on the match itself. But it doesn’t matter. In this harmless hooting we find peace. They make our brain release happy hormones. We make friends like we’re children again.
Far away from the madding world filled with current affairs that can only depress you, these little moments make us feel alive. It’s futile to reminisce about the good old days, and it’s foolhardy to expect the world to move as per your “wisdom”. If now is all we have, give me the warm embrace of sport. And inject the Wankhede crowd into my veins. As my friend Murali would say “Blessed to be alive.”
Thoroughly enjoyed reading it! What fun! I am feeling jealous of your fanboy life :)
And this is exactly how I met Vipul and instantly connected with him in the frenzy of a rollercoaster test match at Chinnaswamy (N stand here too!).
This was the game when Steve Smith had a brain fade and Virat Kohli declined his offer to make peace over beers after the game.
I love how much of Bombay you've brought alive through that match and your lens of staying open to everything the game and the city has to offer. It's beautiful.
S