Some write about the sport and some write about sportsmen. Some offer vignettes of skill and some offer glimpses into their soul. I could claim no such familiarity though I have met Sachin a few times in my past. I guess he knows himself best. Surely his wife knows him well – maybe Kambli and Harsha knew him. Gavaskar and Shastri know pretty much everyone – so they must know Sachin well too.
I know this – he’s touched by a magic. There are others like him, living and past – men and women who were born almost incognito and burst forth on a scale unprecedented by dint of a skill, a talent, an idea, an indescribable something. Magic dust chooses a spot to settle – it settled on Marilyn, Lady Di, John F carried it like a badge, Che had it, Einstein yes, Gandhi check, Bach, Van Gogh, Leonardo, as far as the eye can scan history that pollen of magic has chosen its shoulder. Like Lycra, some have it. Arguably, Shahrukh has it. Sachin is it. Magic dust!
So yes, he gets out without a score sometimes – and on some days novices claim his scalp and jump in glee. And a few complain that when he fires, India combusts – but these surely are petty detractions for a man who on his day grips the idea of India like a stick of willow. Who is this guy, Sachin, does anyone know him? An idea scripted by a mother, perhaps – quiet, respectful, wearing his cloak of talent, at once, with a gravity and lightness, concerned citizen, a believer in hope and God [we have seen his pictures at places of worship on either side of the altar].
Journalists know him, they have written about him, haven’t they? The man, the friend, the husband, the father – the son who returned for the father’s funeral from a world cup match. Even the cricketer – yes, he can make the bat speak, the ball spin, the match turn – He can give the game hope on its down day. He is the man you want to stand next to in a group photo. You want him to hold the cup.
The players know him too. They want to take his wicket, and they want his guidance, his friendship, his number on their speed dial. Players going through a slump in form reach out to him for his word, his touch. The aspirant seeks to find his path. The retired should seek the place where he finds his calm. They must see him close and inspect the smile of a man who wears an armour of a hundred bruises. Why, even the angels must gather around a TV set when he gets down to batting. Yes, even Sir Don.
I met him once at his home many years ago. He is a Mumbaikar and a Bombay boy. He’s an Indian the world likes to like [now, how rare is that]. They know him in Goa where every taxi driver tells you where he has a home, and where he likes to eat his lobster. They know him at Lords, at MCG, at Centurion Park, at Wankhede – they know him well in every dusty street. Player, once captain, now Group Captain – yes, they know him.
What was once shyness and quiet has grown towards the sun into a calm maturity, a sense of fortitude and a steadiness of eye. His name has come to stand for a certain infinite quality that as a byproduct of its intensity achieves, breaks records and sets benchmarks. Hope has a name on a playing field. Commentators can meditate on it, spectators can forget to breathe, briefly. Surely Pele, Maradona and Beckham were like him – for a moment Armstrong and Schumacher looked like him. Even Tiger came close, briefly. But how does one describe one name by another?
He’s just Sachin – and we just, well, kind of like him a lot.
I know this – he’s touched by a magic. There are others like him, living and past – men and women who were born almost incognito and burst forth on a scale unprecedented by dint of a skill, a talent, an idea, an indescribable something. Magic dust chooses a spot to settle – it settled on Marilyn, Lady Di, John F carried it like a badge, Che had it, Einstein yes, Gandhi check, Bach, Van Gogh, Leonardo, as far as the eye can scan history that pollen of magic has chosen its shoulder. Like Lycra, some have it. Arguably, Shahrukh has it. Sachin is it. Magic dust!
So yes, he gets out without a score sometimes – and on some days novices claim his scalp and jump in glee. And a few complain that when he fires, India combusts – but these surely are petty detractions for a man who on his day grips the idea of India like a stick of willow. Who is this guy, Sachin, does anyone know him? An idea scripted by a mother, perhaps – quiet, respectful, wearing his cloak of talent, at once, with a gravity and lightness, concerned citizen, a believer in hope and God [we have seen his pictures at places of worship on either side of the altar].
Journalists know him, they have written about him, haven’t they? The man, the friend, the husband, the father – the son who returned for the father’s funeral from a world cup match. Even the cricketer – yes, he can make the bat speak, the ball spin, the match turn – He can give the game hope on its down day. He is the man you want to stand next to in a group photo. You want him to hold the cup.
The players know him too. They want to take his wicket, and they want his guidance, his friendship, his number on their speed dial. Players going through a slump in form reach out to him for his word, his touch. The aspirant seeks to find his path. The retired should seek the place where he finds his calm. They must see him close and inspect the smile of a man who wears an armour of a hundred bruises. Why, even the angels must gather around a TV set when he gets down to batting. Yes, even Sir Don.
I met him once at his home many years ago. He is a Mumbaikar and a Bombay boy. He’s an Indian the world likes to like [now, how rare is that]. They know him in Goa where every taxi driver tells you where he has a home, and where he likes to eat his lobster. They know him at Lords, at MCG, at Centurion Park, at Wankhede – they know him well in every dusty street. Player, once captain, now Group Captain – yes, they know him.
What was once shyness and quiet has grown towards the sun into a calm maturity, a sense of fortitude and a steadiness of eye. His name has come to stand for a certain infinite quality that as a byproduct of its intensity achieves, breaks records and sets benchmarks. Hope has a name on a playing field. Commentators can meditate on it, spectators can forget to breathe, briefly. Surely Pele, Maradona and Beckham were like him – for a moment Armstrong and Schumacher looked like him. Even Tiger came close, briefly. But how does one describe one name by another?
He’s just Sachin – and we just, well, kind of like him a lot.
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