The worst bowler I have ever seen........Salim Malik ! Yes, the fixer foxed many an Indian batsman specially in Sharjah One-dayers...
Will add more to this list as I go along.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
A Sportsman Who Was Not To Be....Some Candid Cribs
Playing five minutes of football can earn you three weeks of medical vacation…. That is, if you happen to be a player like me, whose athletic prowess and physical fitness ranks close to that of a second grader!
As I stare blankly at the ceiling above or the TV channels in front, I can’t help grudge myself for having tried to don the mantle of a performer and rather than an observer…A badly bruised knee was all I could bargain for….
But its always been like that…A lush green outfield, a glittering golden willow, a curvaceous hockey stick or a graphite tennis racquet – they have all enamored me at different junctures of my sporting addiction. I have always dabbled at playing sports and have ALWAYS come a cropper!!!
Let me confess, though, that the beginnings had augured well.
Looking through the prism of time, I recollect playing my first cricket match when in second grade. Its likely that there was no selection that would have happened, getting into the XI would have been a matter how well you knew the class monitor.. We played kids a grade higher than us and on the smallish and picturesque school ground, which was surrounded by dense bushes and tall palm trees.
It wasn’t a limited overs cricket match…The dust had not settled on India’s World Cup triumph and we wanted play for as long as the balmy winter sun permitted…My memory fails me here, for I can’t remember who made the runs and who caused the ruins when the Opposition went in to bat…But I distinctly remember that, we were set a target of forty runs to win in the second innings (played on the same day). We began our essay with me striding into bat as an opening batsman. Those were the days when emulating Gavaskar was not uncommon; my knowledge about the game was pretty decent too, hence I suppose the Captain would have given in to my pseudo intellect and would have allowed my frail frame to try and stand tall against another tall, dark and fearsome fast bowler.
Soon enough we were in a spot of bother at nine for two, when in strode my good friend – a left handed batsman. Whilst he started playing some attractive strokes, I managed to dig in. With the Gavaskaresque philosophy of preservation fully engrained, I started shouldering balls and played forward defensive strokes with some élan….But the one shot that remains etched in the record books (and my memory) is the on-drive I played through mid-wicket for a boundary. Save for that on-side shot, my script, a-la Ganguly, revolved largely around the off-side. With nine not out to my name, and twenty something against my friend’s, we cantered home. That moment of triumph brought with it, a can of confidence and hopes, of a sporting future.
But later was I to realize that I would just become the prisoner of that one moment; my game from then on ebbed and plummeted, however, that one moment continued to inspire me to wield the willow one more time, to attain sporting salvation just for once…History and statistics will judge me harshly, but I myself have to take the bulk of the blame…How could I get bowled round my legs in the very next game and hence lose my place as an opener? How could I not stand square-on whilst facing a left armer and sight the ball better? How could I not work on my fielding and be confined to fielding at fine-leg?
I continued to be in the playing X1 for the better of my school days, more so, because the captain and my good friend Amit Jha (one of the best and brightest who would ultimately flirt with a Ranji cap), found that life was beyond cricket and that I was a much more reliable friend when it came to sharing the home-work….
It was in VIIth Grade that I concluded that whilst on the cricket ground, I was merely a “flannelled fool” …An Azhar like stance, a “Symonds” bat , conscious effort of playing on the front foot…..nothing could catapult me into the upper echelons of cricketing excellence.. My opinion on self got reinforced when, supposedly, as a specialist batsman, I went it to bat at number eleven in an Inter-Class Tournament! Though I came back 5 not out and must have been the most elegant number eleven to have played the game, I decided that I had not been able to transition into the world of men, and that time had come for me to hang my gloves from all forms of the game including gully cricket…(Even in gully cricket, my closest friends who knew my darkest secrets, obviously also knew about my fragilities against the incoming ball, and hence continued to exploit the situation).
Though playing cricket soon became passé, a similar romantic tryst was lurking around the corner. Hockey. My brother was supposedly better than the best, hence, it was natural that I fell prey to the temptations becoming a Hockey player. Now, you need wrists as supple as Zafar Iqbal or VVS Laxman to play the game, not the variety I had, but still…I loved reverse flicking or the idea of reverse flicking, hence I thrust myself to a “Left-In” position. (Now again our Hockey coach was our Maths teacher and contrary to those of you who know my Math skills from my later years, till class VII , I was pretty damn decent at it ; hence I probably would have gotten that slot of a Forward !). We practiced hard, our desire was fierce, our enthusiasm infectious. But harsh realities soon surfaced. And in a much familiar way. From my being a Forward, I became a Full Back in a match against a local team…The reason was not so much as performance as being the most Junior. Seniors from school suddenly surfaced in matches and usurped us from the Forward positions…My confidence took another dent when in a match in front of the entire school (including pretty teachers), I missed the easiest of opportunities. I had dodged even the goalkeeper but was so slow in delivering the final blow that one of the defenders – a Six feet two lad – surfaced from nowhere and thwarted my attempt…With the missed opportunity, came a familiar realization that I was not quick enough for the game !
Barely had that winter faded and spring subsided, my friends and I chanced upon the French Open Tennis on TV in the ensuing summer vacations. Graf didn’t exactly lick Seles but we licked the prospects of a racquet swing early in the morning in cemented school court. My brother had bequeathed me a wooden racquet. I leave it to you to imagine how much punch it packed but nonetheless, I was excited to further my sporting career. Unlike previously, Tennis didn’t arouse any false hopes. I could hardly serve, and hence I could hardly play that mesmerizing serve and volley game and therefore, I knew that this indulgence or lets say, embarrassing specter would have to be confined to the viewing pleasure of two of my best friends only. So, no tennis happened when vacations were over and other folks thronged the courts…Naturally enough, this addiction too waned albeit very quickly.
Adding to the demise of me – a sportsman – was the fact that Maths and Science had raised their ugly head in Grade VIII -IX and that I had to (at least pretend to) give them more time and respect.
From thereon, there have been a few momentary lapses of reason, but none turned out to be as fatal as the one two Sundays back…I don’t know if a lush green outfield, a glittering golden willow, a curvaceous hockey stick, a graphite tennis racquet or even nice rotund football would still entice me…I suspect they would. Occasional darts at attaining sporting immortality are, I guess, a not so uncommon act. As the young and prodigious cricket writer, Rahul Bhattacharya, notes, “to ask the question - why play sport - is analogous to asking the question – why live life!!”
As I stare blankly at the ceiling above or the TV channels in front, I can’t help grudge myself for having tried to don the mantle of a performer and rather than an observer…A badly bruised knee was all I could bargain for….
But its always been like that…A lush green outfield, a glittering golden willow, a curvaceous hockey stick or a graphite tennis racquet – they have all enamored me at different junctures of my sporting addiction. I have always dabbled at playing sports and have ALWAYS come a cropper!!!
Let me confess, though, that the beginnings had augured well.
Looking through the prism of time, I recollect playing my first cricket match when in second grade. Its likely that there was no selection that would have happened, getting into the XI would have been a matter how well you knew the class monitor.. We played kids a grade higher than us and on the smallish and picturesque school ground, which was surrounded by dense bushes and tall palm trees.
It wasn’t a limited overs cricket match…The dust had not settled on India’s World Cup triumph and we wanted play for as long as the balmy winter sun permitted…My memory fails me here, for I can’t remember who made the runs and who caused the ruins when the Opposition went in to bat…But I distinctly remember that, we were set a target of forty runs to win in the second innings (played on the same day). We began our essay with me striding into bat as an opening batsman. Those were the days when emulating Gavaskar was not uncommon; my knowledge about the game was pretty decent too, hence I suppose the Captain would have given in to my pseudo intellect and would have allowed my frail frame to try and stand tall against another tall, dark and fearsome fast bowler.
Soon enough we were in a spot of bother at nine for two, when in strode my good friend – a left handed batsman. Whilst he started playing some attractive strokes, I managed to dig in. With the Gavaskaresque philosophy of preservation fully engrained, I started shouldering balls and played forward defensive strokes with some élan….But the one shot that remains etched in the record books (and my memory) is the on-drive I played through mid-wicket for a boundary. Save for that on-side shot, my script, a-la Ganguly, revolved largely around the off-side. With nine not out to my name, and twenty something against my friend’s, we cantered home. That moment of triumph brought with it, a can of confidence and hopes, of a sporting future.
But later was I to realize that I would just become the prisoner of that one moment; my game from then on ebbed and plummeted, however, that one moment continued to inspire me to wield the willow one more time, to attain sporting salvation just for once…History and statistics will judge me harshly, but I myself have to take the bulk of the blame…How could I get bowled round my legs in the very next game and hence lose my place as an opener? How could I not stand square-on whilst facing a left armer and sight the ball better? How could I not work on my fielding and be confined to fielding at fine-leg?
I continued to be in the playing X1 for the better of my school days, more so, because the captain and my good friend Amit Jha (one of the best and brightest who would ultimately flirt with a Ranji cap), found that life was beyond cricket and that I was a much more reliable friend when it came to sharing the home-work….
It was in VIIth Grade that I concluded that whilst on the cricket ground, I was merely a “flannelled fool” …An Azhar like stance, a “Symonds” bat , conscious effort of playing on the front foot…..nothing could catapult me into the upper echelons of cricketing excellence.. My opinion on self got reinforced when, supposedly, as a specialist batsman, I went it to bat at number eleven in an Inter-Class Tournament! Though I came back 5 not out and must have been the most elegant number eleven to have played the game, I decided that I had not been able to transition into the world of men, and that time had come for me to hang my gloves from all forms of the game including gully cricket…(Even in gully cricket, my closest friends who knew my darkest secrets, obviously also knew about my fragilities against the incoming ball, and hence continued to exploit the situation).
Though playing cricket soon became passé, a similar romantic tryst was lurking around the corner. Hockey. My brother was supposedly better than the best, hence, it was natural that I fell prey to the temptations becoming a Hockey player. Now, you need wrists as supple as Zafar Iqbal or VVS Laxman to play the game, not the variety I had, but still…I loved reverse flicking or the idea of reverse flicking, hence I thrust myself to a “Left-In” position. (Now again our Hockey coach was our Maths teacher and contrary to those of you who know my Math skills from my later years, till class VII , I was pretty damn decent at it ; hence I probably would have gotten that slot of a Forward !). We practiced hard, our desire was fierce, our enthusiasm infectious. But harsh realities soon surfaced. And in a much familiar way. From my being a Forward, I became a Full Back in a match against a local team…The reason was not so much as performance as being the most Junior. Seniors from school suddenly surfaced in matches and usurped us from the Forward positions…My confidence took another dent when in a match in front of the entire school (including pretty teachers), I missed the easiest of opportunities. I had dodged even the goalkeeper but was so slow in delivering the final blow that one of the defenders – a Six feet two lad – surfaced from nowhere and thwarted my attempt…With the missed opportunity, came a familiar realization that I was not quick enough for the game !
Barely had that winter faded and spring subsided, my friends and I chanced upon the French Open Tennis on TV in the ensuing summer vacations. Graf didn’t exactly lick Seles but we licked the prospects of a racquet swing early in the morning in cemented school court. My brother had bequeathed me a wooden racquet. I leave it to you to imagine how much punch it packed but nonetheless, I was excited to further my sporting career. Unlike previously, Tennis didn’t arouse any false hopes. I could hardly serve, and hence I could hardly play that mesmerizing serve and volley game and therefore, I knew that this indulgence or lets say, embarrassing specter would have to be confined to the viewing pleasure of two of my best friends only. So, no tennis happened when vacations were over and other folks thronged the courts…Naturally enough, this addiction too waned albeit very quickly.
Adding to the demise of me – a sportsman – was the fact that Maths and Science had raised their ugly head in Grade VIII -IX and that I had to (at least pretend to) give them more time and respect.
From thereon, there have been a few momentary lapses of reason, but none turned out to be as fatal as the one two Sundays back…I don’t know if a lush green outfield, a glittering golden willow, a curvaceous hockey stick, a graphite tennis racquet or even nice rotund football would still entice me…I suspect they would. Occasional darts at attaining sporting immortality are, I guess, a not so uncommon act. As the young and prodigious cricket writer, Rahul Bhattacharya, notes, “to ask the question - why play sport - is analogous to asking the question – why live life!!”
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