The Luxury of Three

I had it all planned. Laxman would come in and score at a fast clip, with the dexterity and wristy sorcery that only he is capable of. In case plans went awry, Rahul Dravid was always around. He could come in at number five or six later in the afternoon, and defend India out of harm’s way.

The match, as we all know, went quite another way. India lost, Laxman failed, and his fans were clutching at the what-might-have-beens. A friend and fellow VVS junkie summed it up: “Poor guy, he either comes in at 50 for four or 450 for four… rebuild with the tail or hit out for quick runs. If only he had the luxury of number three.”

The luxury of number three… luxury: Roll that word around, swallow it, ask Dravid if he likes the sound of it, even agrees with it. As an Indian cricket buff, this has to be most painful, mind-numbing period in history. India has two of the greatest number threes in its history, but alas, only one can bat at that position.

The only time when there was similar competition for that pivotal slot was in the early 1980s when Mohinder Amarnath, head bloody but unbowed against Imran, Marshall and the rest of them, briefly displaced Dilip Vengsarkar for the job, before losing it to the same man.

What is so special about number three? In test cricket, it’s the third opener’s role. If the first wicket falls early, the new ball’s your baby. If the first wicket adds a hundred or so, it’s your job to shepherd phase II of the innings.

It’s also exciting—hence my friend’s use of the word “luxury”—to be able to score at your own pace, without worries of declaration or time, with the happy thought that there’s a Vishwanath or a Tendulkar coming in at four, not to speak of an Azharuddin or a Laxman later on.

Dravid is the quintessential number, the selfless soldier, who can build and defend, attack and protect. He is Arjuna; Laxman, alas, is doomed to play Karna, and cricket’s number three epic has place for only one hero.

From the Bible to Greek legends, three is a mystical number, open to interpretation, blessed with many meanings that are derived from one entity. In cricket as in philosophy, number three stands for that multiplicity in singularity.

If you consider the Indian one-day side, the number three slot is up for grabs. Mohammed Kaif to Dinesh Mongia, Ganguly to Dravid: The recent years have seen such a cast.

The role of the one-drop man in

the shorter game is more defined. He has to score and score fast—the substitute pinch hitter in case the opening wicket falls, the fellow who has to maintain the tempo in case the opening wicket succeeds.

The test number three is the ethereal composer, moving from early notes to crescendo, dazzling with the process, never mind the outcome. The ODI number three is the percussionist. His are heavy hands that heat the drums, he knows only one pace. It’s slow fire versus fast food.

We live in times determined by speed. Yet we have two options for number three in the test team and are, as it happens, confounded by non-options in the ODI team. Two great classicists, seeking that one adept improviser—cricket, like life, has its triple indemnities.