Thank You, Sir!

I knew I had to write this little piece. That’s all I can do.

I was out somewhere in Statue, waiting to pick up a colleague when the news trickled in about what this little man was doing to the South Africans.
There was no way I could either go back home or to office to watch him do the impossible.

I sneaked in to the Orbit bar, and sat there in a dark corner in front of the television. There were apparitions huddled around tables. I didn’t see them for any details.

All I saw was this man whom I had watched first during my college days—in his first trip to Pakistan. The way he butchered Abdul Qadir, making the leg-spin wizard drop his jaw along with his magic wrists.

This man whom I watched live beating the Desert Storm in Sharjah. I still remember the way Australian skipper Steve Waugh threw down his sweat-dried cap in frustration just before the post-match meet-the-press. And, how an Aussie cricket writer shook his head in disbelief, leaning on a pillar.

We have seen it all from him. Sachin Tendulkar is India’s public property. There are no secrets about his cricket. Even the man on the street can talk about the quality and class of his shots.

We have seen him grow up from a green-horn stripling to a callow gladiator, and now to an all-weather statesman.

We have seen him wowing the world with his array of bold, bewildering shots. We have seen him conquering hearts with classic strokes. We have seen him making pundits happy with wise and matured exhibition of his rare talent.

But for some time, to be honest, I was not happy. I was missing those early shots.

Those daring thunders down the strip—over the head, between the bowler and the umpire, inside-out lofted and kissing the blades of grass—which forced Dennis Lillee say that the bowlers must be wearing helmets while bowling at Sachin.

The disdain of genius, the nonchalance of the chosen, and the blissfulness of the ethereal.

But then life goes through phases. Joy, tears, silence, exuberance, elation and solitude. Sachin’s cricket has gone through all of these.

But the innings at Gwalior which has made him the first man to score a double hundred in ODIs was a compilation of all three facets of his batting.

There were shots from the early stage—those salad days in the sun. The way he lobbed Langeveldt over his head, blasted Steyn down the line and took Kallis on the up and over the head. I was happy. I saw the glimpses of the callow youth.

During the middle of the innings, the boy made way for the regal. Classic strokes were on display, toying with the bowlers. The drives through the cover, the cuts and the pulls. They came out with that unmistakable stamp of class and authority.

Then we saw the matured statesman. Bat whispered to the ball, and tickled her down fine-leg, leaving behind panting fielders in despair.

With the innings, Sachin has proved a few points. That he hasn’t deleted all those
bold shots. That he is still young enough to last 50 overs. That his fitness is any youngster’s envy. That at 37, he is a combination of all that any cricketer yearns for.

In a career not as old as Sachin’s, I have used almost all of my favourite adjectives to write about this man. I am left with nothing new.

It is only fitting that he has become the first man to touch 200 in the ODIs. History is not a place for flukes and fly-by-nights.It takes qualities and efforts beyond the mortals to etch someone on the coveted coat of history.
And, who other than this gem of a gentleman bestowed with a favoured stroke from the Creator deserves a special spot?

He has dedicated the double to the people of India.
Thank you, sir. We are privileged.

(From Yentha.com)