gullycricketblog

Out of the blue floated the name Chetan; presumably it was a mom calling out her son’s name.  That really stopped me in my tracks. This mom’s yelling of Chetan sent me into a state of phobic horror – a name that easily brings a swarm of butterflies fluttering in my stomach, and to most of the Indian fans who watched Chetan Sharma cringe at that defining moment. It is all etched up in memory. The day of reckoning had arrived -The day when India and Pakistan put up an almighty contest on the cricket field. It was at Sharjah this time.  The match was taking us youngsters to the edge of the precipice; then the steep fall into the pits happened all of a sudden. We, the starry eyed youngsters, had this delusion of India being on course to the summit, all along. How wrong we were, for the final over from Chetan Sharma proved to be a slap on all our faces. What a match it turned out to be and what a champion Miandad was to pull the last ball victory. We could hear our heart beat ever

The sound of clickety-clack in no way overpowered the urge to take a peep into the gorgeous M.A. Chidambaram stadium. As the train whistled past the stadium, the glimpse of the sanctum-sanctorum with the lush green outfield and the 22 yard strip was just the sight the tired eyes were yearning for. My spirits soared at the mere sight, but did not peak as it should have for the moment of truth was far away. The wait at the stadium for this moment of truth is a nerve-racking ordeal. Minutes, perhaps seconds, would mean a whole day at the stadium waiting for the action to begin. The excitement begins only when two men walk into the field, signaling the start of play. The limelight they hog, for minutes, virtually falls on the men in white as they make the entry. Their tribe counts more sticks thrown at them than the carrots that come as a pittance. Judgmental errors, lack of control, misuse of authority, intoned bias have been the curse for some men of this tribe who have paid a

The thwacking of the ball echoed across the parking lot. As one soaked in the aura of Lords grounds, some energetic boys plying their trade of cricket were setting up a drama of intense action. There was this little-Dhoni at the batting crease packing all the punches into his shot making. That he had to knock off 8 runs in the last over meant the boy had to carry an old head upon his young shoulders. Cricket and pressure-cooker situations walk hand in hand these days. The thunderbolt from a lanky kid took our little-Dhoni by surprise. The extra bounce did him in. The ball took the faint edge of the blade and the keeper did his thankless job. Little-Dhoni didn't budge, stood his ground and dismissed the idea of the faintest nick. He had made up his mind to win at all cost. That was serious sport indeed. George Orwell's primer on sports came up as the apposite match for this situation. Serious sport and fair play can never meet, said Orwell, and went as far as to say th

The soliloquy from the lips of one my dear and near one was a clear signal of a disturbed mind. So disturbed was he that the words 'That I am meek and gentle with these butchers' uttered in a Shakespearean drama seemed to resonate with his dilemma. There was palpable tension in the air; his calm demeanor had been ruffled and it looked as if he was going to let slip the dogs of war to avenge some atrocity committed in the name of a game – That he was sitting in front of the television gave me the cue. He personified the anger of Antony of the Julius Caesar fame. If Antony's anger had found shape in one of my dear and near ones, his words had found shape through a novel - The Dogs of War. Forsyth's mercenaries had stolen the thunder in the eponymous film giving a peep into their occupational tradecraft. It was out and out a mercenary affair. If we presume that all mercenaries are hired, recruited by contractors, we would only be clutching at the wrong end of the

Baird would have found this a most gratifying moment. The very toy that he had built was telecasting an absolute cracker of a contest between bat and ball. The one-day match between India and England was cresting to a sensational finish, keeping the audience on the edge of the seats.  Being a Scottish man himself, Baird would have liked England to be the victor than the vanquished in a match that held promises of a close finish. It was a run riot. There was sumptuous meal for the batsmen from this batsman’s paradise. It proved right with England posting their highest ever score in India. The seesaw battle for win saw the game swinging in England’s favor, though a distant Indian win was spotted in the horizon. The last lap of the match had begun and it was a solitary run that separated India from victory. Patrolling the crease was a sly fox in Ashwin ready to lay its trap, this time with the bat. Standing like a gladiator with the bat resting on his shoulder and eyes betraying

These are not the hiss-and-crackle days of the past. Yet, radio seems to be my prized possession and this radio still excites me as it had done during the past to give us boys the ticket to BBC. How thrilled we were to listen to doyens like John Arlott then, his sing song narrative evoking untamed cricket emotions. Now, radio fits in with my scheme of things to tune into old melodies. This song that had a fragrant start has held me captive on several occasions. The honey-drenched voice of the male singer kept me glued to the radio set with the inspirational orchestration doing its bit to make it an aural treat. The string master had unleashed another of his gem, with his signature intact with the strumming of guitar in a song that was otherwise divinely classical. To prove a point, there was also this counterpoint bringing guitar and flute into play. It dawned on me that the magical touch to the song soaked in classical tune was infused by the strumming of the guitar. Come to thi