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I meant Sachin Tendulkar. There, I caught your attention.

No, not for me to bear the brunt of a billion and more fans by seriously wishing that. And even if I did, I would be a fool to express my feeling on a public forum. And before someone burns my house down, paints it black or even burns my effigies for even putting it up as a title, I fold my hands and apologise. May he score a double in the IPL too. And win it for his team.

The problem I have is with some of those fools who call themselves Tendulkar fans. Mind you again, only some, lest more kerosene gets wasted.

Yesterday’s Mumbai game against Bangalore was one such example.

I was in the Brabourne with some of my pals, trying to enjoy, what we perceived could have been a gripping game. And there he was, this man, someone who had come there with his set of buddies to watch the maestro bat. Add the word, only, between buddies and to.

The man sat directly in the seat in front of me. So far, so, not so good. I felt it in my bones that it was not going to be good. The tingling sensation was there right from the time they tossed the coin.

For most part of the time before the game started, we were all on our toes, shaking our bodies to the music. Then the game began and we put our backsides on those things called seats. At least most of us. Because in this day and age of McDonaldisation, the physical fitness for most of us matches that of Humpty Dumpty. So, these sitting breaks are necessary and frequent.

Of course, like the way it is in most grounds across the country, an outside chance of the ball going to the boundary, or over it, or the bowler getting the better of his opposite number and the whole stadium would be on their feet again.

Which is only fair.

What is not is for that man in front of me to stand through the three hours of the game as if he had practiced the fine art of travelling in the packed 9.04 Mumbai local from Titwala to Churchgate right through the season to be able to flaunt it in the ground.

So, each time the maestro was on strike, and the bowler at the start of his bowling run-up, the man would spring to his feet like he had a Jack in his ‘Box’, and the poor little me, behind him, would miss it all.

Having tested my patience enough, I admonished him. If I thought, he would be apologetic, I was as hopelessly away from the mark as Titwala is from Churchgate. That was the last thing in his repertoire one thought.

Instead, he slammed it back; ‘Don’t you know, every time, I stand before the ball gets delivered to Tendulkar, he ends up hitting a four or a six’.

I gaped at him in sheer exasperation. Frustration. Incredulousness. Shock. Amazement. Bewilderment. Comprehension. Incomprehension. Miscomprehension. All at once, in a span of half a second.

So that had been Tendulkar’s secret to success after all. His mantra. He had installed his man in the stadium. Why did the John Buchanans of the world while away their time in discussing strategy against the great man? Should have simply emptied the stadium. Comb it away for the existence of this man, who was a security threat for the bowlers around the world.

In the meantime, while all these thoughts were sprinting in my mind like Asafa Powell, and with this man staring at me like I had disturbed him from his penance, Tendulkar was bowled by Vinay Kumar. No! The man cursed me in the din of the silence that had resulted out of the dismissal of the maestro. And then walked out of the ground muttering something to himself under his breath.

Broken out of my reverie, I suddenly rejoiced on two counts. I could probably trade this secret off to the Aussies for a hefty sum of money. Probably, even get myself to be appointed the assistant strategy planner team of the Aussies. And two, I could now watch the game without troubling my feet too much. Humpty Dumpy will not have a great fall.

Titwala is a far far place.

by Suneer Chowdhary
(The writer is a cricket rambler and can be contacted at suneerchowdhary@gmail.com. He will continue doing so for us whenever he gets that 25th hour of the day.)

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