There’s something about cricketers. I have to admit, that one of the biggest apprehensions, as years of cricket journalism rolled by, was that I’d meet my heroes and they’d turn out to be awful human beings and my image of them would be shattered forever. It’s happened once or twice, when someone you thought was a legend of a man turned out to be merely someone who handled a bat well, and not much besides.
But still, I’m old fashioned that way. Just that fact that someone has played cricket at a high level, forget international – but a good spell at club cricket in a competitive league, or first-class – and you have me. I’d be glad to have a chat, preferably over a few drinks, at an old club, and listen to stories about games that took place when I was still in short-pants.
So imagine my surprise, when at the end of a long queue for accreditation – the efficient ICC desk at the Library at the Sardar Patel Gujarat Stadium was handling every pass issued, from media, to ball boys, to sponsors, to catering staff – was an unassuming man of average build, a letter in hand, quietly waiting his turn. “Myself Mukund,” was all he said, and to some of us journalists from outside Ahmedabad, this meant little.
The gentleman in charge of accreditations asked Mukund to wait till he was finished with the media, and off he went. There were plenty of niggles for the ICC to handle – improperly filled forms, forms that never reached, people who had wanted to collect their passes from one city but changed their minds later – and unlike the BCCI and its state associations, a majority of which act as though they’re doing you a favour by granting you accreditation to cover a game, every request was handled patiently and efficiently.