Life between 317, 119 and 310

On that Sunday evening I was spoilt for choice. As an incorrigible sports fan, I could not have asked for more.

Thanks to E-vision, though I had to cough up Dhs500 for a World Cup upgrade. On channel 310, I had that deadly pair – Federer and Nadal – playing another classic on French clay. Surf down to 119, and Indian batsmen were making merry at St. Lucia. Run down to 317, there was live action from Mexico versus Iran.

I passionately wanted the gentle Swiss to get this one through the matador boy. Federer is all today’s class but Nadal is what tomorrow will look like. While Federer skimmed on clay like a dream, Nadal whacked the tennis ball as hard as a Gordon Greenidge square cut. His meaty left hand swivelled like a mighty windmill and unleashed awesome power into his shots. He chased down the ball with the vigour of a bull and cracked it back in unbelievable angles. The deeper Federer placed his sumptuous volleys – on the fringes of the baseline – the better the boy returned.

He has an uncanny ability to beat Federer. The way the world champion played in the first set, Nadal did not stand a chance – he was outplayed and outclassed. But the Spaniard rallied as if he was powered by an in-built motor.

As I had begun to get lost in their world of mastery and muscle, cricket tempted.

The way the Indians batted in the second Test forced me to gather some wool on a tanking theory. The team which beat Pakistan 4-1 in Pakistan and stunned a higher-ranked Sri Lanka at home had to play abysmally to lose the series 1-4 against the West Indians. Was there any script to act out? I am thinking the unthinkable.
At St. Lucia, Sehwag woke up from a prolonged slumber and mid-summer dream of drought, and blitzed his way to a big hundred. He took apart Dwain Bravo for no reason other than characteristic belligerence. Skipper Dravid was back in his office, and Kaif treaded into the Test hundred territory.

I loved watching Federer’s poetry, and Nadal’s exuberance. But football beckoned and I flipped the channels and almost missed Mexico’s first goal by a whisker. I flipped back and watched Federer’s signature volley in replay. How could I ignore my first love – cricket? I raced up the list, and caught Kaif on an off-driving spree.

The St. Lucia pitch was as clumsy as a bad haircut. Lara – hamstrung by the absence of the injured Fido Edwards – had a toothless attack. None of the fast bowlers, except Pedro Collins, could induce an edge from the Indians. The pitch looked as flat as my frying pan.

Federer was losing – more than Nadal was winning. I remembered what the Spaniard said of Federer after beating him in Dubai earlier this year. “He is the best. I am his fan.” That’s humility. And, Federer, who habitually beats every other player on the earth, feels he has to improve his game because Nadal repeatedly gets the better of him. That’s, again, humility.

Finally, the boy did it. He defended his crown. He threw his racket away, pulled off his head and wrist bands and lay, all limbs stretched, on the dirt. He rolled over and got up smeared in red clay. As he climbed up the stands to hug and kiss his family, kids rubbed themselves against his sweaty biceps.

The Mexicans won the match and the Iranians the hearts. The Indians built up a pile of runs. Dravid got out to the worst ball he had faced – a wild, hopeless away turner pitched under his own nose by part-time leggie Sarwan. Dravid stretched out to eternity and scooped it to an amused Lara at gully.

Federer and Nadal left the monitor. Portugal and Angola came out to settle their old colonial score. The Indians got rid of Ganga, Sarwan and Lara. And, I woke up in the wee hours of the next day and found myself asleep in the drawing room.

(On an evening during the Fifa World Cup 2006)