To hell with crooket

A New dawn in Indian cricket,quot; screams one magazine. quot;The spark is back,quot; thunders Ravi Shastri in another. From legends, p...

A New dawn in Indian cricket,quot; screams one magazine. quot;The spark is back,quot; thunders Ravi Shastri in another. From legends, pundits of the game to the man on the street, they all rolled in delight as Saurav Ganguly and company hoisted the tricolour during the African safari.

Well, this was not the first time this cricket-crazy nation had basked in the success of the national squad. From a schoolboy 20 years back who tossed and turned during unending nights before and after every Indian game, this was for the umpteenth time I had the 8220;mortification8221; of watching both cricket enthusiasts and the media falling over each other to sing paeans to our so-called national heroes. And every time the nation resorted to calisthenics on the sweet path laid out by our demi-gods, within no time it was transported back to its rightful place: the land of heartburn.

Yes, with unfailing regularity Indian cricketers from Ajit Wadekar8217;s quot;elderly statesmenquot; who returned after slaying the Englishmen in early 8217;70s to Saurav Ganguly8217;s butter-fingered boys who mauled the mighty Kangaroos and Proteas in Nairobi have had one thing in common. They have all put us on a high pedestal only to be pulled down, unceremoniously, just when we had begun savouring the taste of triumph.

Cricket, to use a cliched phrase, is a game of uncertainties. But it is hard on the stomach to find why this inconsistency has to be so markedly certain only with our cricketing bunch down the ages. It is this amazing level of inconsistency which rankles no end die-hard fans of the game. Even Kapil Dev8217;s devils who brought glory to the nation by winning the World Cup in 1983 were no different. Just when the nation accorded them the highest status the sportsmen could ever ask for, Clive Lloyd and his men came calling and handed a sound thrashing to the now 8220;withering8221; Haryana hurricane and his clueless boys. The saga continues ceaselessly.

As a result, whether I am watching the game in my office besieged among 100-odd Indian cricket fanatics, travelling in a train or bus or am following the action from home, my predictions about the vacillating fortunes of the Indian team have to date never gone haywire. Every time I have opened my mouth, I8217;ve hit the bull8217;s eye while the cricket-crazy janata has had to swallow its words.

For instance, in the latest of our defeat sagas when a shaky Jayasuriya, playing on 60, was finding it hard to keep himself going, I told about 25-old people present in the room that the Lankan lion would soon score 200 and the team 300. Mind you, scoring 200 in one-dayers doesn8217;t often happen.

In the end, I just went off the mark by a few runs. I am no fortune-teller or psychic. It8217;s just plain experience.

Story continues below this ad

For all those precise predictions, I have often been branded an anti-national. I have absolutely no problem in being called names; in being branded a Sri Lankan or Pakistani. Befittingly, I would like to be called a Pakistani supporter. And yes, without any compunction, I would like to put it straight that I admire and would by all means be called a die-hard supporter of Pakistani cricket. I take pride in my country but not in our weak-kneed cricketers who clearly have no fire in their belly. In contrast, the Pakistanis have time and again put up gut-wrenching performances. When a Javed Miandad hits six of the last ball or an Abdul Qadir smacks a bowler like Courtney Walsh on the second last ball of the match, their undying spirit of the game shows. In India8217;s case, it is impossible to recall any incident when its batsmen have managed a Pakistani ditto.

Winning or losing doesn8217;t matter for true sportsmen. What galls them is the way the Indians prostrate before rivals. All out on 54? Even Geoffrey Boycott8217;s mother could have scored more!