Joy Forever

Sachin Tendulkar scored his 50th century in Test matches this week. The news made headlines. Of course, the feat deserved it. At one point of time, say only a decade or two ago, it was way beyond anybody’s comprehension that a tally of 50 could ever be reached, especially that modern day cricket was getting more and more competitive. Those who wrote on cricket then would talk of 30s as a benchmark; none could even think that half a century of centuries could actually be accomplished.

So the feat was definitely special, worth printing in gold. But for fans it was something even more. It was an end to their wait, for they were waiting for the genius to reach there. As if some divine being had told them, this is a part of their pre-planned journey – watching Sachin making history.

Right after he scored his milestone ton, one colleague of this scribe asked him, “Don’t you think he’ll play for another five years?” Now take that for a question. And in certain ways, the question itself was an answer. A manifestation of their belief in the man, that stood just 5-foot 5-inches above the ground, yet towering above most of his contemporaries.

For one thing, Sachin Tendulkar would stand above all, that is for gathering the most number of fans across the globe, just the way we see him gathering runs in his pomp.

This scribe, among many of his generation, is one such self-declared a fan of his. The generation that took to adulthood in 1990s – which also included some Nepali cricketers who played in recent times – watched him take his first steps in international scene. The whole generation read as many pieces written on him as possible. For some, it was statistics; for some food for thought; for some a way of learning cricket; while for some, one more topic to talk at the tea stalls. And that would either precede or proceed with the highlights of his innings on TV, which for many of us, were always a ‘masterpiece’. The magazines like ‘The Sportstar’ were the new bible, but any issue that did not carry a story on him was ‘a piece of trash’ and not worth buying.

Growing up in 1990s was not easy. Nepal was an infant democracy, trying to learn how to walk the democratic path. The panchayat era influence on Nepali sports was there, although weakening; the newer controllers were trying to learn how to rein it in; the free market economic policy was the buzzword, although the younger lot were still to grab the concept; the insurgency was just flaring up in some remote part of the country; prices were going up and pocket money was not able to match with those; the curriculum wasn’t getting easier and the career path appeared limited; the IT revolution had started in our neighbourhood and we were not part of it – all enough to keep teenagers frustrated.

But then there was Sachin Tendulkar. In some of the most ferocious strokeplay we’d ever watched, we found peace. With a young boy looks (then he was young as well), and a heavy willow in his hands, he was trying to prove that there was hope, amidst frustration. The mortals suddenly appeared elevated, for there was some heavenly charm in those innings. The 90s had become bearable, despite frustrations it held for so many of us.

Come 2000s, we felt – journalists can be cruel people, especially with their questions. They talked about his decline. They asked him – When would you retire? And as most players, who spend a lot of time with PR coaches these days, he’d skirt away without an answer.

The fans looked sideways to find an actual answer. When there’s a lull in any player’s career, how do we know that he or she will not overcome the slump? Although journalists are quick to write a player off, fans are not.

And celebration of Tendulkar’s innings is vindication of fan’s faith in him. For they knew, it would come. It had to, even if it meant 7 centuries within a year.

And that’s a toast to Sachin Tendulkar, probably the greatest modern day cricketer, who could hold on to his fans, even when he could not do so, at times, with runs.

(The article originally appeared in The Kathmandu Post, 25th December, 2010, in a weekly column of Yours Truly)

Lessons to be Learnt?

Deepak Maharjan was mere 7-year old when Chitra Bahadur Gurung won Nepal a bronze in the 1990 Asian Games, incidentally in Chinese city of Beijing. So it's highly unlikely that he might have been inspired by that event. And after that, we could never see the podium finish at the Asian level, as far as the pugilists are concerned.

Incidentally, it had to be China again, where the medal drought finally ended for the sport. And incidentally, it had to be another humble player who finished at the podium. In sports, it is said, you don't win silver, forget bronze. You only win gold.

But then, we are celebrating a third place finish. And why not, if it was not for Deepak Maharjan, our bag would remain empty. The media could have blamed it on the officials; after all they were the ones who had almost put the entire contingent's trip in jeopardy. After all, they were the ones who went to Guangzhou with the players, and were spotted in cities like Hong Kong and Macau, during the Games itself, while the players would hardly find a couple of hands clapping for them.

So what if it was only a bronze that he won. So what if he could only score one point against the 6-footer Indian boxer. Deepak Maharjan did not create magic, or set the ring on fire, and perhaps it was not even expected of him. For he was not the one who would give juicy soundbites to camera or make promises even before setting his foot in the ring. Before heading to China, he did not tell you he was going to break any record or a neck. What he did tell us was that he's going to try his best. What we conveniently forgot was he had won a gold in South Asian Games, last time around.

And now, he is a celebrated name. He even has a page on the Wikipedia now. And perhaps, he is not even aware of it. For he is a simpleton, a man who's likely to remain unnoticed unless you want to interview him. And there are chances you might regret interviewing him, because his lines are terse and hardly likely to incite anyone. But if you listen to him carefully, you might be feel differently.

When everyone who knows a bit of sports in the country, including media, was busy criticizing the sport officials for spoiling the environment even before the Asian Games, he would not even speak about it.

Upon his return he said, "Our job is to prepare well, and not concentrate on anything that happens outside." But it must be tough, not reacting to what is happening around you. He tells you, "That hampers preparation."

Terse, but to the point... Ask him how he feels after grabbing bronze at the Asian Games, and he would grope for words, often mumbling and trying to thank the entire family, friends, fans and god knows who not. But you would rate him for what he does in the ring, and not the speech he would deliver after receiving the medal. Doing both well would be great, we'd have a showman. But here, we are in dire need of flag bearers rather than stars.

Post Asiad, I could not help but notice 3 things.

Deepak came back for a hero's welcome, with his villagers thronging the airport just before midnight.

So did the other officials, one of whom was manhandled, by those who call themselves players.

A senior official from Sports Council - who shall here remain nameless and for his lack of understanding should remain jobless - told me, "Forget my talks on TV. We cannot even pay proper salaries, forget big plans for future."

Makes you wonder: Are we learning our lessons?

(The article originally appeared in The Kathmandu Post, 4th December, 2010, in a weekly column of Yours Truly)