World of the willow

Being a cricket nerd has its own downsides. Especially in a country where cricket is on the national menu and used as an agreeable starter...

Being a cricket nerd has its own downsides. Especially in a country where cricket is on the national menu and used as an agreeable starter for conversation between perfect strangers. The result: leave alone strangers, I can’t rustle up a two-bit conversation with a man who I have every devilish intention of making my pa-in-law. Because he is a former Ranji captain with a showcase overflowing with trophies to show off for his trouble which mainly involved wriggling into white flannels and running like crazy to notch up them runs, after whacking the cherry.

So every time I run into him, which is quite often, I’m fed on a steady, nauseating drip of the gentlemen’s game. Thanks to such monologues which include nostalgic dashes down the pitch, interesting asides about cricket greats, post-mortems of the woes buffetting the team, I’m informed enough to tell a spinner from a speed. But one day I almost fell off the suitors’ list, a l-o-n-g one, when I casually enquired if Akhtar (that muscular chap who chugs in a mile before delivering 155 mph sizzlers) was a spinner. Upon hearing this the chappie rolled his large owl-like eyes, and proceeded to give me a look which fried me. Upon this, the daughter panicked, having lost her heart to this ignoramus, and took it upon herself to initiate me into the act’.

But this wasn’t good enough for him of the Ranji fame. He wanted more from his prospective son-in-law. One evening he caught me, just like he used to pouch catches in his heydays, trying to sneak in without attracting his attention, and ruined the evening with a lecture. “However much you cram up sports magazines, watch cricket on TV, the Real McCoy is something different, to be savoured. A real cricket match and that too between India and South Africa,” he droned, and produced what looked like confetti to me from his pocket. They were complimentary passes, two of them, to a match to be played at Nagpur, the final one-dayer in the India-SA series.

I groaned aloud and jogged my mind for excuses, but before long had to throw in the towel. Smile still st-retching his visage, the man started reeling out a previ-ew of the match which was a fat week away. He was real considerate, and began to soften me up with statistics.

D-day. He turned up, dapper in a safari, hustled me into his car, before gunning it and zooming like crazy to the stadium. On seeing the sea of people (it was Holi) I nearly panicked and scooted but for the steely grip of the man beside me. We settled ourselves and I composed my frayed nerves with some coffee (actually I was ready for a stiff brandy). The match started with two white batsmen giving us Indians the stick (what’s new?).

The cherry was suddenly all over the place, and one nearly missed me after being hit by a sturdy chap called Klusener. Mexican Waves, roars… in spite of my avowed dislike for the sport, I couldn’t but notice that my pulse had quickened and I was looking forward to the next ball.

After the break, it was the turn of my brethren to clout the Proteas. A good eight hours later, the hu-mdinger ended with us losing by 10-odd runs. And all the while, a knowing Buddha-like smile suffused the man’s face, as if teasing me, “You’re enjoying it, aren’t you?”

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The Real McCoy? A battle of wits, skill and strength? My foot! The first real match I sat through was rigged! Rigged to the last ball as it now transpires. The Cronje Tapes have placed the March 19 Nagpur ODI in sharp relief with the strategy’ being decided on cellphones with the bookies. What at first glance seemed to be a tussle was carefully orchestrated by the odd-makers. Now my man is in a state of disbelief. His world of the willow, cherry, and stumps has come crashing around his padded feet. He’s, I reckon the word in cricketing parlance is, stumped. Just not cricket, he cries.