Frayed nerves, a death and Greg

I have never met Bob Woolmer. But yesterday I saw, for the first time, coach Greg Chappell in a state of shock, the Aussie all-weather mask slipping, his eyes glazed over.

I have never met Bob Woolmer. But yesterday I saw, for the first time, coach Greg Chappell in a state of shock, the Aussie all-weather mask slipping, his eyes glazed over. Chappell had just come to know of Woolmer8217;s death. Just a few minutes ago, he had cracked a joke when asked about Woolmer8217;s illness. 8220;Even I am struggling a bit today,8221; he smiled, after the humiliating Bangladesh defeat. But now, it was a different Chappell, one that I had never seen before, even if it was for just one flash of a moment.

The coach rushed into the team bus, the team quickly followed, I followed them. But by the time I managed to catch up, they had disappeared into their hotel rooms. Me? I was stuck in the lobby, nothing to do, except soak in the rumours that were buzzing around like mosquitoes. Woolmer was poisoned, Woolmer killed himself, the bookies did it, and on and on. Soon, the team8217;s travel assistant walked up with a bunch of papers, copies of Team India8217;s tribute to Woolmer. No punctuation, hastily done, but still they had the presence of mind to react before any other team did to the tragedy.

For me, it finally sinks in. Woolmer dead? Dead? Of course, many of us are aware of the pressures that squeeze a national cricket coach in the sub-continent. Ask any one of the three left now8212;Chappell, Tom Moody and Dav Whatmore8212;and they will tell you what the daily grind is all about.

You have to manage the players, many of whom are very emotional; you have to break your head against the walls of the cricket board almost every other day, squeezing out permission from ignorant officials for every extra inch; and if you are a 8216;foreign coach8217;, there is a horde of former players snapping at your heels, some with agendas of their own, some with just plain spite.

Of course, these coaches do get paid a bomb, but I never imagined that they were actually risking their lives for it. I doze off in the lobby, the dour look on the concierge8217;s face slowly fading away.

I shake myself awake, there8217;s a familiar figure walking down, in a crisp, white shirt, that8217;s Greg Chappell. He looks calm, he smiles at a couple of fans, then agrees to be photographed with them. He smiles again into the camera. Then, he reaches out for a glass of wine, settles down with his Sri Lankan counterpart Moody. Soon, Bangladesh8217;s Whatmore joins them. The voices drop, what would they be discussing? They suddenly share a laugh.

The nerves are settling down, I guess. But still, to know that one of them just died in a hotel room, millions of miles away from home and family? Will they be able to sleep over it? Maybe they can. They have to. The stakes are too high, there8217;s a World Cup to be won.