From Afar: Part 2 - The Day I Learnt to Believe

The elements probably conspired to turn me into a kiwi loyalist on the 22nd of February, 1992. I blogged about that opening game of the World Cup here. Later that very same day, I watched a less-remembered game between India and England at Perth. It featured a fascinating little duel between an 18-year-old upstart and 36 year-old fading star - the only time these titans would ever cross swords on the international stage. My viewing of this clash proved to be a small but vital baby-step as I started to tread my way through the cricketing universe.

England v India at Perth - February 22, 1992
England 236-9 (Robin Smith 91, Graham Gooch 51) (50 ov) beat India 227 (Ravi Shastri 57, Dermot Reeve 3-38, Ian Botham 2-27) (49.2 ov)



They say in order to follow cricket you need a little bit of insanity. But to love the game, you need something more demanding; you need naivete. Or, to put it another way, you need blind faith (ask those who compare the sport to a religion). You need to free yourself of scepticism and quit cringing when you hear phrases such as "bowling a maiden over". And all this involves buying into the myths and legends of yesteryear. So when present-day reporters wax eloquent on the Bodyline series and Frank Worrell, or when Sanjay Manjrekar says "The young Tendulkar ranked with the Viv Richardses and the Barry Richardses of the world" despite never actually having seen Barry Richards bat, they are doing just that - they are celebrating the mythic and the legendary. When did you start to believe?

My first acquaintance with cricketing names was as an eight-year-old in the autumn of 1991; I had a cricket-based board game thrust upon me, and I needed twenty-two names to fill in the accompanying scorecards. India were playing Pakistan and the West Indies in a Sharjah tri-series at the time, and before I knew it my cards were full, and I was familiar with most of the contingent of those sides. India's difficult tour of Australia followed, so by the time the World Cup was underway I was familiar with the Aussies too. But, on the eve of this particular game in Perth, I looked up England's lineup and could recognise only one name - Ian Botham. And I instantly went, "What's so great about this guy anyway"?

If ever the term "household name" applied to a British sportsperson in India, it must be Ian Botham. The house was strewn with my dad's copies of videos and books of Botham's Ashes, and his biography by Dudley Doust. He was also prominent among the photos of the cricket books I went through for no apparent reason apart from being bored of the board games. In my cricketing infancy, I suppose I had an affinity for big-built mustachioed players. Not suprprisingly, my earliest Australian heroes were David Boon and Merv Hughes. In a similar way, I was drawn to beefy. But by 1992 he was deemed overweight and washed up - and crucially, his was no handlebar. No, I wasn't convinced yet. The scepticism of an eight-year-old is way more intense than that of an adult. But it is also more brittle, as I was to unwittingly prove later in the day.

Even if the other character involved in the duel I speak of needs no introduction, a little background is necessary. As an 18-year-old, Sachin Tendulkar actually seemed like one of the crowd to us kids, not at all distant like the other cricketers. He could have been one of us, so young did he appear. When a baccha like him is out there trading blows with the big boys, the idea of becoming a cricketer when you grow up becomes a lot more tangible. Suddenly, cricket seemed as realistic an aspiration as police-work or becoming a doctor or an astronaut. When we were done with with our rounds of robber-police on the playground and turned our attention to cricket, each of us would proclaim ourselves to be Sachin. Since there can be only one Sachin, this invariably resulted in a fight. In short, this was what Sachin Tendulkar meant to a generation of eight-year-olds who were tasting cricket for the first time in the early nineties.

The story of the game is simply told. On a hot day at the WACA - whose images of a lush outfield, bright lights and sunburnt bodies in the stands are permanently etched in memory - India scripted a defeat which had become all to familiar to those who had followed the recently concluded Australian tour, although England were an excellent one-day side and certainly held the upper hand for most part. It was fun watching the English unknowns bat in the first half, although Botham was sent in to open and was dismissed by Kapil Dev for nine. Robin Smith found the hard and bouncy wicket to his liking, unleashing his trademark square cut quite often, and his 91 lifted England to 236. India began extremely well through the big-hitting Srikkanth and the stodgy Shastri, but when the former was dismissed on 63 the momentum was lost, especially since Shastri was perpetually stuck in second gear. Wickets fell at regular intervals, and though the game went to the last over to keep Indian hopes alive, it was always a bridge too far. In the true spirit of an Indian run-chase there were four comical run outs. Best of the lot was Shastri's dismissal; he skied a return catch which Philip DeFreitas shelled, thought about a single in the meantime and decided against it, but before he could get back DeFreitas had thrown the stumps down!

But as far as I was concerned, that day featured a Botham versus Sachin match with the India-England clash being incidental, happening to take place in the background. During his 44-ball stay, Tendulkar looked ready to take on the world. He enjoyed the Perth wicket, having scored a marvellous century there in the test match a few weeks earlier. Despite being diminutive in stature, he loved getting on the back-foot and riding the bounce that this pitch provided. Then came on Botham. I expected Sachin to put the old geezer in his place, but nothing of the sort happened. Botham was now 36, devoid of the pace and outswing of his prime, but canny as ever. By clever changes of pace he was able to pin the batsmen down. He was mostly on target. Then came that delivery.

The perfect legcutter or outswinger can be a thing of beauty. While the pundits may prefer to drool over a Shane Warne ripper pitching outside leg and hitting off, or a searing Joel garner toecrusher delivered from nine feet above, for me a good legcutter is as breathtaking, something like a Keith Richards guitar solo - seemingly innocuous, but deadly when it hits you. The fact that it can make a batsman look downright silly - even an 18-year-old god who can do no wrong - simply adds to the effect. The sequence of events, as I remember them: Botham pitches it on middle-and-leg, it moves ever so slightly away from the batsman. Sachin is squared up, and routinely shapes to cover the line of the ball. But the ball somehow manages to tickle the edge of Sachin's bat, and like a moth to a flame lands in Stewart's gloves. For a moment I sit in stunned silence, and then go awkwardly berserk. I'm a believer.