Thank you for all the memories

After nearly 15 years of watching him run back to his run up; skip, hop and fire some googlies, it’s finally time to bid adieu to Jumbo.

Easily one of the most humble as well as gritty players on the field, he never made his presence felt since he wasn’t the flamboyant kind. You would never see him lead any of the endorsements on TV, yet when it came to the field, he’d take charge and always deliver (pun intended). I guess that’s why it came as a sort of surprise when he quietly decided to say good bye to the game.

He was the learner, the studious kind with the determination to conquer any batsman who challenged him. He seemed like the checked shirt clad problem cracker in your IIT-JEE coaching class who would never get perturbed by any thing thrown his way.

Never a huge turner of the ball, his biggest strength was his line and length, deadly accurate. The number of times the batsmen missed and were bowled or caught leg before the wicket is simply difficult to count. And then there was the faster one. Kumble could easily pass off as a medium pace bowler. No wonder Nayan Mongia( India’s then wicketkeeper) started wearing a helmet while keeping up to his deliveries during the late nineties.

If asked about the three greatest performances of Anil Kumble, I’ll list them as:

Firstly, his awesome spell in the finals of the Hero Cup. At the end of it, he came out with figures of 6/12 against the West Indies. Here he just tore through the West Indies middle order.

Then the 10 wicket haul against the Pakistani Team at the Ferozshah Kotla. There was a little controversy surrounding this performance, the reason being the first wicket of Shahid Afridi was not out. However, such is the game of cricket. It’s about capitalizing on the opportunities that come your way. And capitalize he did. Only the second bowler ever to achieve such a feat.

And of course thirdly, one of the most memorable photos to have ever been shown on Indian Television. A bandaged clad Kumble jubilant after capturing the wicket of Lara

This particular performance in the West Indies wasn’t really anything spectacular as far as the result of the game was concerned nor did it bother the statisticians much, but the amount of patriotism that it spread throughout the country was extraordinary. Kumble was suddenly a war hero.

Over the years, he just kept on picking up wickets here and there. Little did one realize that he has accumulated 619 of those.

It was a very tough decision, especially when you have performed for 18 years and been so competitive," he said at the presentation ceremony after the match had ended in a draw. But the body helped me make the decision. This injury also helped."His departure from international cricket couldn’t have been more fitting.
-Anil Kumble, Jumbo.

Thank you for the memories!

As Forrest Gump would have put it in his own words, "That's all I have to say about that!"

As I type this entry, each muscle, each ligament is screaming out in agony. Begging me to somehow cast a magical spell over it, Harry Potter-esque (or maybe Hermione since Harry is plagued by juvenile delinquency). Actually, it’s more of a silent scream. If every part of my body had its own independent vocal existence, it would very well give the impression of an intrinsic mass orgy taking place, since moans would be the only things surfacing. Screaming is just too much of a bother.

My body, which had renounced from any form of hardcore physical activity, took centre court yesterday. With a racquet in my hand and a couple of balls in each pocket I warmed up (which is essentially just standing on my toes). Suddenly all the memories came back, one flash at a time and it was a reminiscence of an archaic life, a time when I’d find solace in sports.

Back then, I had tried my hand at everything, tennis, cricket, swimming and had a decent command over all of them if not rising to the status of a pro. Somewhere down the line priorities changed and interests shifted.

Whoosh!

I fired my first ace!

I was having a great time running all around the court, as though tracing out a probability density function. Guess I still had the ol’ touch, or was it beginners luck? For things can only get worse with time, right?

After nearly an hour of panting and sweating from all possible pores on my body I reclined on the steps with a smile that exuberated confidence and a rage that I’d long forgotten dwelled inside me. Fiery eyed I bounced back within minutes to take on any Federer/Lendl.

All the hulla gulla aside, I knew the truth. I knew that these emotions wouldn’t last outside the court. Outside the court there’d just be one thing.

And then it bequeathed! Oh the pain! The fother mucking pain! Oh how it slowly filled me up, meticulously navigating its way into all my tissues and organs. I revolted; it was a struggle but finally had to give in. There was no use fighting it, might as well embrace it, hoping for it to forge an alliance and go away.

But it didn’t!

And it doesn’t!

Every inch of my body moans and groans, reminiscent of our great fore fathers who laid down their lives in order to achieve independence! So what the fuck was I fighting for? Why did I have to torture myself like this? Those two hours of supreme arrogance transformed me into a gimp. Blisters have infested my fingers, a testimony to the eroded grip of the racquet. Even my toes ceased to infer the nerve sensations; they were doing their own bit, wriggling aimlessly. Asked Mamma to feed me dinner for my arms had long turned atheist and wouldn’t budge. I’d try to sit down but my pelvic muscles would retaliate swearing at me for subjecting them to this torture: You don’t give us pleasure, at least don’t gift us pain. Stating that I was comfortably numb would be a lie as blatant as Pamela Anderson saying that she believed in natural products.

Guess will have to sweat it out again day after tomorrow!