Watching Sachin Hunt In Bush Country

We are a motley group of sports-crazy fans in Houston. Most of us share a common linkage to an institutioncalled IIT, ensconced in a small town called Kharagpur. Our normal fare includes Rockets matches, baseballworld series, college football and oh yes, the most manly of American pastimes - NFL. Yes, we do watch acertain tiger on the prowl on manicured lawns. No, circling fast cars have not made it to the menu yet. Weprove the myth "Brown men can’t know sports" wrong here in Bush country.

But it is the wonder of digital satellite technology that has ignited our hidden passion - cricket. Lastyear, we watched the epic Indo-Australia series at home. Thanks to a newborn, and fearing the mania whichfollows cricket, Arpita and I decided to pass this time. But Dhruba Ghose, a close friend, stepped in, withpermission from the mistress of his house.

March 1st, 2003 was circled for a late-night pajama party at Dhruba’s place, wives and kids in tow. I hadsent out an email, organizing various things for a raucous night of passion, suitably titled "Getting ducksin a row".

And like bugs attracted to light, we descended at Dhruba's. Even those outside our motley crew joined infor the party -- Anupam, Anil, Arup and many others. We had kids’ drums, samba CD (our choice of musicduring those ads) and our vocal chords. Needless to say, we were suitably dressed for the occasion -- blueIndia T- shirts, dutifully bought in India on our last trip.

By 1:45 am local time, we had all taken our positions in the first floor game area before the wide-screenTV. We were all pumped up: Abhijit (nicknamed "Jaws"), our main tempo man and honorary Kgpite, wasfidgety; Vishnu Bhotla, the Travolta amongst us, was nimble on his feet; Hemant, the jyotish, was readywith his predictions. Devasish, Santanu, Asish were all lined up along the wall: we were vicariously living asthe men in blue. Others were tense; wives were sitting with the baby monitors on the side, waiting for thisepic battle to begin.

Saeed Anwar began in a flurry; our adrenaline flowed; so did the slogans. "Jitega bhai jitega, Indiajitega." But the script seemed to have taken a twist unexpectedly in the opening scenes itself -- thesultans of swing in the England match were spraying all over the place. Pak was off to a flying start. TillDravid dived and took that amazing catch.

It was a cue for the dancing to begin as Samba blared from the Dolby surround sound. Inzy came and wentamidst unexpected shouts of "Potato". I have to take credit: I called a run out. But we could sense thatour volume was disturbing the kids; baby monitors were chirping. One surreptitiously glanced to see whetherthe wife left as the monitor went off, and sighed in relief when she was back.

Around 200, Shahid Afridi walked in primed for a murderous assault. We were scared; a few suggestions wereoffered. But, before he could take off, he went to a "flyball". "Jitega bhai, jitega, India aajjitega!" With Wasim hitting a few lusty blows, Pakistan finished on 273.

Wives went to check on the kids and get some breakfast ready. Piyali, Dhruba’s wife, made some fabuloussandwiches and we munched them happily. And since we were cloistered in a smokeless environment, it was timeto hurry down and out of the house. Quite a few smoked and discussed strategies outside the house, marvelingat all the Hondas and Toyotas lining the street in front. Here was food for thought -- here we are, wewondered, in this country which gave us the opportunity and we all chose to buy Japanese! A few of us wentover to McD’s for breakfast. Suddenly, it was 6:10 am and we hurried back up.

Let the hunt begin!

Shoaib, Akram and Waqar were supposed to be the pick of the predators. They were supposed to hunt downthose placid Indian batsmen, unfamiliar with a steady diet of intimidating pace. Or so they said! Quicklythough, the hunters became the hunted. Cellphones were soon buzzing with choicest words for those running latefrom McD’s.

Our little genius was preying on a flock; and we were happy to be along for the ride. Two drives and then,that majestic "what do you call the shot" for six over point that signaled an euphoric celebration. Drumswere beaten, samba was blaring, slogans were shouted and the kids, by now awake, were amazed as they gazedwide-eyed at their grown-up fathers AND mothers just going berserk. How do you describe that? Controlledmayhem? Shiva’s Tandava?

It was sublime yet ferocious.

Waqar came to salvage the Akhtar butchering. Amidst shouts of "Veeru", reminiscent of Sholay days,Sehwag uncorked another sixer, a few more rows backward of point. The disciple had taken the clue from themaster.

MAYHEM WAS ON!

You could see blood. Okay, metaphorically. Crazed fans all around me were jumping off the seat; drumschanged hands as people wanted a faster beat. With the kids awake, there was license to turn the volume on thesamba way high during those ads. You could say: "It’s just a cricket match". But you could feel it wasway beyond that.

Then, there was that uppish cover drive, held by a smiling Afridi. "Babumoshai"/"Dada" strode in.The Pakistani players were baying for blood. Quite a few of us, originally from Bengal, were shoutingencouragement in Bengali. The very first ball held its line and a deafening appeal followed. He was gone andthe pendulum had unexpectedly swung the other way.

We were upset as we saw some words being mouthed at our captain. But, that is sadly something you've cometo expect. We were nervous, apprehensive about yet another Indian batting collapse and loss of face.

Sachin took over again. He kept the momentum going with fantastic hand-eye coordination and absolutelysuperb shot selection and execution. Kaif kept running the singles and Sachin kept hitting the shots. We? Wewere like kids in the candy store; slogans were back, samba time again between overs.

"Jitega bhai, jitega, India aaj jitega"

Dhruba, Jaws and myself, the trinity of tempo, were all in the last row, with backs to the wall. We werechewing nails, discussing subtle cricket points. But whenever there was a reason for worry to show through,the MAN in the middle just came through.

110 runs in 12 overs; 120 in 15. 

We were cruising and we were enjoying the ride on a great rocket ship.

And then a few insulating ceramic tiles fell off. Sachin got cramps; someone said that Raja commented on TVthat if you could not get Sachin out, get him injured. Passion flared. We lost Kaif as Sachin bravely carriedon. We were on the edge, shouting encouragement to Sachin. You could feel the burden of a billion diaspora,weighing on the shoulders of this short superman. Hunched back in my seat, I probably spared a tear for thatman. I marveled at his determination, competitiveness and, yes, passion for the country. 

A few prayers were muttered; kids were surprised that their dads were all concerned about this man lyingprone on TV. One of us explained: "He is like MJ, injured in the fourth quarter of Game 7 of NBA Finals."They nodded.

Shoaib got Sachin with a real nasty snorter. A healthy Sachin could have brought it down; a wobbly Sachinbarely got his gloves to the ball and got out. Our shoulders slumped again. But Rahul and Yuvraj took theattack by the collar, playing sensible cricket and running the singles and doubles. As the target came close,we had periods of non-stop samba music, dancing, drums and shouting. We could barely sit down as any boundarywas met with raucous cheering and wild dancing. We could still go back to the hostel days; we could still do ajig. Wives were clapping; the kids followed Travolta aka VishnuBhotla around in a train.

"Jitega bhai, jitega; India aaj jitega"

Finally, we did it. In the immortal words of Hary Carey, the Cubs commentator, you could blurt: INDIA WINS!INDIA WIN! INDIA WINS!

We shouted "Jit gaya bhai, jit gaya, India jit gaya" We gathered round the TV, waiting for thepost-game interviews and the Indian celebration. We loved every minute of it. We didn’t know what to do. Wehugged; I took my three-year-old son Ishaan up in my arms. I wish he knew what we all felt good about. He justsaid "India jiteche? ("Has India won?")" We hung around discussing this awesome exhibition ofbatting skills and sheer determination. We fumbled for comparison. Being die-hard sports fans, we thoughtabout Sachin and MJ. As much as I revere that basketball genius, Sachin wins over MJ because of two factors.He handles the pressure and expectation of a billion screaming fans regularly, knowing the ship may sinkwithout him. He also faces demise every ball he handles; MJ may miss ten shots to start with and still comeout winner.

As I drove back from Dhruba’s place, Arpita and I mulled over Tendulkar’s interview. He had thanked histeammates, praised the younger ones AND mentioned the four World Cup victories over Pakistan. He was part ofevery one of those. He had the guts not to be politically correct but verbalize what all his countrymen wantedto shout themselves hoarse about. He said that as the world watched. It was his way of saying: "Take that."

Too much abuse has been heaped on this little man from across the border. From the day he took strike inPakistan as a sixteen-year-old to this day when he got out after a blistering match-winning innings, he hasbeen verbally abused. He has felt the passion of a billion fans to get this critical win. It may not have beenD-day, but it was definitely a watershed: the victory of a man in face of adversity, the victory of passionover provocation and to some, just victory! Say that to the jawans protecting the border in the rarefied airof Siachen glacier. When one realizes what happened in the early morning hours of March 1st, you just feelgood…proud to be an Indian. Men in blue returned fire with fire and came up winners. We saw one of thegreatest cricket innings ever.

When he gets time from building extremely complex mathematical models to fathom how global markets work, Partha Sarathi Chatterjee cheers for Indiaand Mohun Bagan.