Of little teams, and big dreams

From Neeraj Narayanan, India

Once upon a time, and a really nice time it was, all that mattered in the world was an evening game of tennis-ball cricket. So even if the sun was blazing, we would run to the neighbourhood park and gather ourselves in poses just like our heroes on ESPN and Doordarshan. Some of us folded our arms and chewed gum like that great Australian captain, Mark Taylor. The bowlers in us swaggered just like Darren Gough each time we walked back to our run-ups. Hell, some of us even ‘did a Sachin’, obscenely picking at our groin, ignoring the fact that we had no guard there to adjust.

Coca Cola might have said it first, but it was we – the boys of Sector 55 Noida - who ate, slept and breathed cricket. So we played, and tried to live happily ever after but like always there was a twist in the story. Ever so often, there would be a group of older bullies who would come much later to the ground and take possession of it immediately, irrespective of the juncture at which our match was poised. Of course, you might ask the question as to why I did not stand my ‘ground’, and I will be honest enough to tell you that I would have, but I do not like spanking boys twice my size and age. It hardly reflects well on them, you see. The fact that the one time I did try and poke one of those fellows, albeit gingerly, in his stomach, they sat all over me and made me lick topsoil as well as sub-soil, is a secret that is dead and ‘buried’.

The only way we could persuade those ugly buffoons to allow us to stay on the ground was to involve them in a game. But despite their ridicule, we never distributed teams, and insisted on taking on their might and seniority. We lost every time, for they were bigger, stronger and sadly better. It infuriated me, the fact that we never came close to beating them, that we were always put in our place, that we were not good enough. But it made me and my darling team more united, for humiliation might wound and it might hurt, but it also brings one closer to those who suffer that fate. They could toy with our bowling, but not with our pride; they could skittle out our batsmen but not our spirit. Sometimes we came close, but always we lost. They also taught us to enjoy the smaller moments. Every wicket we took, every boundary we hit, the whole team would cheer, sing, cackle, hoot and sometimes even dance in an extremely ungainly fashion that only men can. And we did so because when you don’t have much to cheer about, it is these little moments that you make the most of.

And then one day we won. I do not know how or why, maybe they just played awfully badly, or maybe we were lucky, but we did. And I still remember the scenes of delirium. It wasn’t the World Cup, nor the ‘Ashes’, not even an official colony match, but it was our World Cup, our Ashes.

Sitting in my office, I was following a warm-up match online, cheering Canada’s every run in their chase against England. In the end they lost, and looked disappointed, but they ran them very close and one day they will beat them too. For that’s how sport is, and will always be. Goliath may crow nine out of ten days, but one day David will rise and beat him. Cricket is a wonderful game, not just because of Warne’s wizardry or Sachin’s genius or even Gough’s swagger. It is also made beautiful by a generously-built Bermuda policeman-cum-prison van driver who weighed 280 pounds and yet almost flew to take a blinder to dismiss Robin Uthappa, and celebrated as if he had won the World Cup. It is also made beautiful by eleven Kenyans kneeling down and kissing the pitch after beating the mighty West Indies in ’96. It becomes a better sport because it gives a war-ravaged country like Afghanistan hope and a little happiness as they notch one remarkable win after another against countries much bigger, much stronger and more fortunate. One day Canada will beat England, and they will know the joy that we knew one day in a small park in Sector 55 Noida.