June 25 1983 remains a hazy recollection. Of memories, recounted anecdotes and visuals. Some of them real, some imagined. Of being vaguely aware of a significant happening, seeing elders happy and excited. The momentousness of that summer day would only be realized over the years and recalled often; sometimes as a comforting memory and sometimes with fear that it may remain as only a memory.
1987 was sad but in a childish way. Cricket was still only a toy; not yet a religion or an opiate. Perhaps because, even at that age, the last ball six by that wily fox, Miandad, had tempered my expectations from this team. Or perhaps because a certain Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar hadn't yet arrived on the scene. Either ways, although it was held in India, that World Cup seemed distant and there was no real sense of loss when we were eliminated at the hands of England. I was able to quickly move on to the next distraction.
1992. Middle school is an unforgiving place and I was mature enough not to expect big things. It was a big stage and it seemed almost improper to expect that group to pull it off. Sachin was only beginning to give the nation a reason to believe. And the strength to hope for better cricketing fortunes. In the end, the sole comforting take away from that tournament was that we had beaten the eventual winners, the Pakistanis. And unsurprisingly, that was comforting; a dose of palliative strong enough to last four years.
It was on March 13th 1996 that it really hurt. I was about to graduate from high school. Adolescence, college, raging hormones and all that. Sachin had now come to mean cricket; an icon of hope, a comforting presence that could soothe almost every agony. Cricket ceased to be a team sport and became a one-man show. And the team's fortunes became synonymous with Sachin's. With his presence, the championship didn't seem all that big to aspire for. It was the first time that we had dared to dream big. Only for that dream to be rudely snatched away. Hence that loss stung. The team had failed it's champion. Yet again. The riots in Eden Gardens rubbed salt into open wounds. Even manhandling the Pakistanis in the quarter finals couldn't provide succor and the four year wait would be a painful one. With only the recollection of 1983 memories providing some relief.
1999. College life would end in a year. Bigger opportunities were being pursued in life with gusto. A measure of uncertainty was always present and even acceptable, both in life and Indian cricket. Cricket was like a long time girl friend: you had your fights but could count on it when it mattered. Thanks largely to a team that had a genius and ten mortals, watching cricket often meant relishing valiant knocks from Sachin in losing causes. But Sachin's twin exploits in the Arab peninsula an year earlier in 1998 once again misled a nation into believing that the game was perhaps an individual sport. Only to be reminded by the Aussies that it takes collective performances from an entire team to lift the cup. The batting trio were finally in place: Sachin, Rahul and Sourav. But apart from a few sparkling individual performances, beating the Lankans and the Pakis provided the only high points in an otherwise indifferent tournament from an Indian stand point.
2003. Many firsts. First time watching the game in the US. First time with friends and alcohol. And of course, the first time paying out of my pocket to watch cricket. Grad school was fun and so was following cricket. For the first time in memory, I followed the tournament with an intense yearning. The fan inside me wanted the Famous Four to bring home the silverware. The maniac inside had not mellowed enough to realize that it was sport. The team had developed a spine, spunk and a personality under Sourav. The license to kill was acquired over a 3-test series against the Aussies in early 2001. The strong core was still resilient and the young blood held much promise. The 2002 Natwest series trophy win provided a glimpse of a hitherto unimaginable scenario: Team India winning despite a Sachin failure. The bowling had a bite and the batting had an edge. In my opinion, 2003 was the closest we came to winning as a team since, perhaps, 1983. Only to be outdone, rather embarrassingly, at the last step by a very strong Aussie team. A week's mourning with friends, replaying memories from the many sparks of individual brilliance shown by Sachin throughout the 90s and playing some actual serious competitive cricket helped mitigate the bad hang over.
2007. The tournament that never happened. Posing as a responsible adult, gainfully employed and a traveling job. Adulthood messes up priorities. Life was dealing a tough hand. Tougher than what cricketing victories could help soothe. Cricket ceased to be what it was and as if in reflection of my personal state, India had a very forgettable campaign. If your only recollection of this tournament is losing to Bangladesh, then you know it was a bad World Cup. The giants of Indian cricket were fast approaching their sell-by date. The last opportunity to win the World Cup for arguably the greatest generation of players that turned out for the nation was lost.
The only interest for me this time around was to see if we could win this for Sachin, the sole remaining member of the Famous Five (Shame on the ones that omit VVS). Between T20, the IPL circus and utter commercialization of the game, my appetite for cricket was significantly reduced. Or was it simply age? No more maniacal following, no more superstitious rituals during a game. Yet ahead of the QF, all the accumulated indifference melted away. The years were rolled back. There was a child like anticipation, a strong desire, a growing despair and the paralyzing fear of a familiar result of being so close yet so far. A fear of a void that could never be filled.
1987 was sad but in a childish way. Cricket was still only a toy; not yet a religion or an opiate. Perhaps because, even at that age, the last ball six by that wily fox, Miandad, had tempered my expectations from this team. Or perhaps because a certain Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar hadn't yet arrived on the scene. Either ways, although it was held in India, that World Cup seemed distant and there was no real sense of loss when we were eliminated at the hands of England. I was able to quickly move on to the next distraction.
1992. Middle school is an unforgiving place and I was mature enough not to expect big things. It was a big stage and it seemed almost improper to expect that group to pull it off. Sachin was only beginning to give the nation a reason to believe. And the strength to hope for better cricketing fortunes. In the end, the sole comforting take away from that tournament was that we had beaten the eventual winners, the Pakistanis. And unsurprisingly, that was comforting; a dose of palliative strong enough to last four years.
It was on March 13th 1996 that it really hurt. I was about to graduate from high school. Adolescence, college, raging hormones and all that. Sachin had now come to mean cricket; an icon of hope, a comforting presence that could soothe almost every agony. Cricket ceased to be a team sport and became a one-man show. And the team's fortunes became synonymous with Sachin's. With his presence, the championship didn't seem all that big to aspire for. It was the first time that we had dared to dream big. Only for that dream to be rudely snatched away. Hence that loss stung. The team had failed it's champion. Yet again. The riots in Eden Gardens rubbed salt into open wounds. Even manhandling the Pakistanis in the quarter finals couldn't provide succor and the four year wait would be a painful one. With only the recollection of 1983 memories providing some relief.
1999. College life would end in a year. Bigger opportunities were being pursued in life with gusto. A measure of uncertainty was always present and even acceptable, both in life and Indian cricket. Cricket was like a long time girl friend: you had your fights but could count on it when it mattered. Thanks largely to a team that had a genius and ten mortals, watching cricket often meant relishing valiant knocks from Sachin in losing causes. But Sachin's twin exploits in the Arab peninsula an year earlier in 1998 once again misled a nation into believing that the game was perhaps an individual sport. Only to be reminded by the Aussies that it takes collective performances from an entire team to lift the cup. The batting trio were finally in place: Sachin, Rahul and Sourav. But apart from a few sparkling individual performances, beating the Lankans and the Pakis provided the only high points in an otherwise indifferent tournament from an Indian stand point.
2003. Many firsts. First time watching the game in the US. First time with friends and alcohol. And of course, the first time paying out of my pocket to watch cricket. Grad school was fun and so was following cricket. For the first time in memory, I followed the tournament with an intense yearning. The fan inside me wanted the Famous Four to bring home the silverware. The maniac inside had not mellowed enough to realize that it was sport. The team had developed a spine, spunk and a personality under Sourav. The license to kill was acquired over a 3-test series against the Aussies in early 2001. The strong core was still resilient and the young blood held much promise. The 2002 Natwest series trophy win provided a glimpse of a hitherto unimaginable scenario: Team India winning despite a Sachin failure. The bowling had a bite and the batting had an edge. In my opinion, 2003 was the closest we came to winning as a team since, perhaps, 1983. Only to be outdone, rather embarrassingly, at the last step by a very strong Aussie team. A week's mourning with friends, replaying memories from the many sparks of individual brilliance shown by Sachin throughout the 90s and playing some actual serious competitive cricket helped mitigate the bad hang over.
2007. The tournament that never happened. Posing as a responsible adult, gainfully employed and a traveling job. Adulthood messes up priorities. Life was dealing a tough hand. Tougher than what cricketing victories could help soothe. Cricket ceased to be what it was and as if in reflection of my personal state, India had a very forgettable campaign. If your only recollection of this tournament is losing to Bangladesh, then you know it was a bad World Cup. The giants of Indian cricket were fast approaching their sell-by date. The last opportunity to win the World Cup for arguably the greatest generation of players that turned out for the nation was lost.
The only interest for me this time around was to see if we could win this for Sachin, the sole remaining member of the Famous Five (Shame on the ones that omit VVS). Between T20, the IPL circus and utter commercialization of the game, my appetite for cricket was significantly reduced. Or was it simply age? No more maniacal following, no more superstitious rituals during a game. Yet ahead of the QF, all the accumulated indifference melted away. The years were rolled back. There was a child like anticipation, a strong desire, a growing despair and the paralyzing fear of a familiar result of being so close yet so far. A fear of a void that could never be filled.
The clinical quarter final victory over Australia wasn't quite sweet revenge for the 2003 humiliation, yet it felt good. The semi final win over Pakistan was, dare I say, along expected lines; if it is the World Cup and if it is Pakistan, we will win. But at 31/2, chasing a non-violent 274 made by the Lankans, the feeling of staring down an all too familiar barrel was inevitable. And yet I clung on. Reconciliation would be very difficult this time. Even impossible. Would we have to rest on simpler laurels like the most number of runs and centuries? Would we have to settle for memories of valiant knocks from the past? Would the tag of "the greatest player to have not won the World Cup" be something to live with for the rest of eternity? Even if we won in 2015, the sight of Sachin in the stands, applauding in plain clothes would be too much to behold. But this group of men in blue were not to be denied. A seemingly tough challenge was surmounted. Victory seemed almost preordained. A sense of destiny was inevitable. Justice was done. Goose bumps. Moistened eyes. A lump in the throat that was very difficult to swallow. A wait comes to an end. A 19-year wait for me. A change, the seeds of which were sown a decade back, bore fruit. A relief sweeps over. A nation's collective fear that the game's ultimate award would somehow escape the game's greatest artist is laid to rest. Funnily, what started out as one man's struggle since 1992 has ended as a real team effort.
The quiet beer that I relished standing in solitude on my balcony on the morning of April 2nd, basking in the afterglow was the sweetest I've ever had. Thank you Team India!
The quiet beer that I relished standing in solitude on my balcony on the morning of April 2nd, basking in the afterglow was the sweetest I've ever had. Thank you Team India!
