Kambli: all style, not enough substance

Not with a bang, but a deafening whimper. In what must be the most anti-climactic announcement since the ICC's recommendation that Zimbabwe Cricket's selection system needs an overhaul, Vinod Kambli has decided to call time on his international career.

Fine joke, you may say, for it has been nearly nine years since his last game of any significance for India. Me, I can't help but feel amazed at how inappropriate the manner of this exit is. After all, Kambli was someone who always did things in style. This had me wondering for the umpteenth time: why has a section of Indian cricket followers - specifically, those of us who grew up in the early nineties - chosen to confer cult status upon Kambli, overlooking his obvious deficiencies and celebrating his fleeting successes? Why do the lot of us continue to hold out for his recall, knowing fully well he would only embarrass himself?

The answer seems to lie in his flamboyance; that of his batting, as well as manner on the field. When he first arrived on the scene, India's batting was somewhat lacking in the 'style' quotient, being more sedate than sledgehammer. Kapil Dev was on the wane, Sachin Tendulkar was yet to fully come into his own, and Azhar was still a caresser, not a bludgeoner.

Kambli, with the bandanna and earrings, his predilection for spectacular lofted shots, his electric fielding and almost-West-Indian persona, injected the side with a dose of cool. This, allied to the weight of his runs, made him an instant hit among us impressionable boys. The answer also lies in the not insignificant fact that his Test career was done before he was 24; if Tendulkar was our Don Bradman, Kambli was our Archie Jackson - the whiz kid who (metaphorically) died young.

While it is a hackneyed exercise to compare the respective career paths of Kambli and Tendulkar, for a brief period it was impossible to talk of one without mentioning the other. During those three glorious years, it was uncanny how they shared a great sense of occasion, how they always seemed to be there for each other.

There was Eden Park, 1994, when Tendulkar - opening the batting for the first time - went about dismantling the Kiwi bowlers for 82 off 49 balls, while Kambli kept the momentum going at the other end, unleashing some spectacular Caribbean drives off Danny Morrsion.

Their partnership at Jaipur in 1993, when Kambli reached his first international century, was often replayed on TV as a duet made in heaven. And when Sachin himself finally got to his first one-day hundred the next year in Colombo, Kambli was around to finish the job by hoisting Shane Warne repeatedly over the top. This fire-and-ice combination meant the young Indian fan had never had it so good; cricket was sky-high in the coolness stakes, not the stilted old man's game it had seemed a while ago.

Kambli's subsequent fade-out has been well documented. Ironically, the very attributes which made him a much-loved cricketer were to bring about his downfall. In Men in White, Mukul Kesevan likens Kambli, in the manner of his attitude and flourish, to how Brian Lara might have been without the genius: "He could have tightened up and become a less ambitious, more reliable batsman, but he bet the house on style ... the over-the-top crowd pleasing on the field..(it) didn't add up to runs on the board."

It is unfortunate that for most fans, the one lasting image of the man is from the closing stages of the Eden Gardens semi-final, 1996; Kambli was reduced to tears, obviously believing against the odds he could win it off his own bat. Such a demonstration of his raw, emotive side was completely in keeping with his spontaneous brand of batsmanship, but this moment was the beginning of the end for him. He was omitted soon after for reasons which have never really been made clear.

He made several comebacks to the one-day side thereafter, prompting unfavourable comparisons with Graeme Hick and Phil Simmons. But, even allowing for the fact that his average of 54 could be put down to mediocre opposition on flat pitches, how could the selectors not be compelled to recall him to the Test side?

It is generally agreed that he never fully recovered from being bounced out by Courtney Walsh and Kenny Benjamin at home, but he was never given the opportunity to redeem himself, either; during a four-year period in which India toured England, South Africa, Australia and the West Indies, the batting line-up was being juggled about in a bid to find a stable combination, and everyone who impressed in the Ranji Trophy, from Vikram Rathore to Hrishikesh Kanitkar, was given a go. And yet, Kambli's name rarely even came up for discussion.

Looking at the case of the similarly flamboyant Yuvraj Singh - whose extended run in the Test team can be put down to the strong cushion provided by India's batting heavyweights - one wonders if the comeback kid might not have re-established himself in today's Indian side, with a solid middle-order to lean on.

Those of us who care will have to make do with 1993, instead. My mind is cast back to a Pepsi advertisement, closely tied in with its epoch. Kambli and Sachin enter the room after a training session, dripping in sweat. Their eyes simultaneously turn to the sole bottle of Pepsi in the room, and they make a mad dash for it. Their hands reach the bottle at precisely the same instant, so they decide to settle it with a round of arm-wrestling. As the duel is about to be decided, in walks Azhar, who helps himself to the bottle and remarks: "Chillax boys! Have a Pepsi." That was another time, a time when I enjoyed being bombarded with ads, and a time when I preferred the cavalier to the orthodox.