My Word Cup debut: Out, first ball
The uniforms turned colour, the cricket ball turned white and it all began for me. Or at least I thought it would.
- NDTVSports
- Updated: February 16, 2011 05:00 PM IST
The uniforms turned colour, the cricket ball turned white and it all began for me. Or at least I thought it would. If I did watch the 1987 World Cup on TV, I have no recollection of it. In 1992, I was 11 years old and a budding cricketer myself (I could dance down the track and hit a pacer for a six above his head, but was too embarrassed to dance like Sreesanth in celebration). I remember being all excited and could not wait for the school to get over so that I could go home and watch India play England in the tournament opener.
Australian and New Zealand time-zone was all wrong and matches would either begin at 3 am or the first innings was over by the time I reached home from school. I tried acting sick that morning but my mother had already been briefed by my father (a big cricket fan himself) about me trying to feign illness and she would have none of it.
Back in school, the bell finally rang after what seemed like an eternity and I was out of the classroom door, in a flash. We were not allowed to run in the school corridors especially at the end of the day, but I risked it. I ran all the way out and boarded the bus. I sat in the driver's cabin, hoping to catch some commentary on my way back. Now I just sat there and urged (and prayed) for the bus to move towards the television set in my living room at the speed of light. As luck would have it, the bus had a flat. I muttered an innocent curse (which an 11-year-old is not supposed to know) under my breath.
I sat there silently waiting and watching the road ahead through the windscreen as if it was the television. I had images in my head of what a world cup match would look like. The players seemed to be bigger and brighter, the grass greener, the whole scenario a little surreal. You can't blame me; I didn't know what a world cup match looked like. I was an excited 11-year-old with his imagination running wild. Anyways, I sat there waiting for the tyre to be fixed and considered for a moment if I should tamper with the radio and replace Kumar Shanu with Tony Greig. Even Dr. Narottam Puri would have done fabulously well at that moment. I somehow controlled myself and sat there fidgeting as if I badly had to go to the washroom.
After what seemed like 3 days (but were actually 20 minutes), the bus finally started to move. I took a deep breath and focused on the road looking hard and clearing my mind of everything, as if I was ready to face Vikas, the left-arm pacer, who was the fastest bowler in our class. Budding star Sachin Tendulkar on strike, facing the legendary Ian Botham. Short outside the off stump, Sachin cuts it over gully. The ball's running towards third man, no fielder there; four!
Fifteen minutes later, I was still staring hard at the road, while the vehicles from the opposite direction whizzed past us like chest high deliveries from Craig Mc Dermott or Mervyn Hughes. Suddenly I noticed something that should have not been there; a building which was not on my regular route. I panicked and turned around for the first time since I had sat in the bus almost an hour ago. I was in the wrong bus; route 11 instead of route 19! The make-believe commentary which was playing in my head suddenly started to fade away as the horrors of reality took over. It definitely was not my bus; no familiar faces. I searched for a teacher so that I could go up to her and tell her my sad saga. Surely, she would ask the driver to take me home immediately. Alas, that was not to be! Either no teacher travelled on this route or she had gotten down already. This must have been that exact moment I started crying.
Soon many kids, including a classmate of mine Priyanka (whom I had a crush on) came up to me to find out what the matter was. I explained between sobs, obviously skipping any details of my excitement for the India-England tie. A senior (thank god for seniors in school) calmed me down and told me that it was not a big deal as we could call my parents after we got down at his bus-stop so that they could come pick me up. I told him that both my parents worked and I used to let myself into the house as I was a big boy now (the irony of that phrase totally escaped me then).
With not many choices, we had to follow his plan. We got down at his stop and started walking towards his home. The India-England match reared its head again inside mine. Kapil Dev to Robin Smith, right arm over the wicket, bowls a yorker... clean bowled! However it was not meant to be as soon we reached the building with a signboard which read 'Agarwal Tuition Centre'. I looked at 'Bhaiya' and asked him if he lived in a tuition centre (How was I to know then that it would be me who would practically 'live' in a tuition centre throughout school and college). He laughed and told me that he had maths tuitions straight after school as the final exams were coming and class 11 maths was very tough. Having no personal experience of the Class XI mathematics or any other subject for that matter, I had to take his word.
I called my father, who being disturbed from watching the match in office was annoyed and gave me a mouthful about my stupidity. I did not have the courage to ask him the score. Just gave him the address of 'Agarwal Tuition Centre'.
For the next two hours I sat there listening about vectors, differentiation, integration and probability. It was not funny how the probability of me watching the match had gone from 1 to 0.
Another two hours went by and my father finally arrived, looking at me scornfully as I had made him get away from work and now he would have to go all the way back after dropping me home. I sat quietly on my way back home, urging him to turn the radio on. But he did no such thing and worse still, never said a word to me.
As soon as we entered the house my father gave me my due earful. I was asked to go straight to my room. No lunch that day. I went straight for the pillow, buried my head and started crying. It was much more than my 11-year-old brain could take and I drifted into a sleep.
In the 8'o clock news that night, they told me that England had beaten India by 9 runs in a very close encounter. I muttered another curse under my breath. India was playing Sri Lanka next and I had five days to plot my plan to watch the match. But before that I had to think of how to salvage my reputation in front of Priyanka. After all she had seen me crying!