Freddie, Yuvi, Roy, Boom Boom and the cool maan.

‘Ricky
is from Tasmania
But it’s tricky
for those who’re from Talisman-ia’

“Freddie is their talisman”. Through the Ashes, through the English summers, through every game that Freddie plays, you’re bound to hear, that cockney sparkle in Bumble’s voice announce, “make no mistake… Freddie is England’s talisman” It’s as if the word talisman was made to coexist with Freddie’s exploits. It didn’t matter how much or how little he did, he was Freddie Flintoff, he was England’s talisman – “and any ball now, any ball now, England could be released”

If Freddie is doing too little, or indisposed, that is easily explained by injury or lack of support from the other end – the price Freddie pays for being leader of the pack and being bowled into the ground or falling off the ship.

The closest to Freddie in the Indian ranks is Yuvi. Listen, how similar they sound – Freddie, Yuvi. And how both have similarly underachieved, yet in our heart’s eye, they’re simply the best. They can change the cricket world on its axis, and a game, with a glare. They aren’t entirely about cricket, nor can they be – their appeal is beyond sport, and for them, we are always game. We can't get enough of them – nor can the billboards or the bimbos. They are the quintessential star players.

Across the border, the closest such star that defies logic is Afridi. He has his own jingle – Boom Boom Afridi! It’s part of every Paki banner to every com box in every land that Boom Boom does or doesn’t do his Boom Boom in.

Another fascinating similarity between these players is how we accept them, almost in spite of themselves – “all is forgiven, come home Yuvi” Slack fitness, repeat injuries and offences are easily overlooked, rock star ways are wantonly indulged. It could have been Mick Jagger and not Freddie, and we wouldn’t have known the difference.

In the Windies, their super boy talisman is captain, Gayle. The yellow shades, the Rastafari swagger, every match is a T20 and I will bowl-a-few approach.

Australia had Symonds, and then Symonds had Australia, and then they both had enough – but teams like Pakistan, India, England, and even the Windies continue to challenge themselves.

Is it because these players do not just determine the outcome of a game, they dictate the very commerce of cricket.

Mildfred: What’re you rebelling against, Johnny?”
Johnny: Whaddya got?

They are the Johnnies, the wild ones, the rebels – and it doesn’t matter if they win a game, score a run, or run through the batting, the fact that they’re playing means anything can happen.

It’s as much their frailties as their super achieving powers that make them. We accept them not just because of what they do, but because of what they could have done.

We lost a game but had Yuvi fired we would have surely won. It is always within Freddie’s grasp. And like you saw, if Afridi gets firing you win the World Cup.

These guys do it on their own. With them it ceases to be a team sport. It is a one man show. And that’s what the movies are about. And that’s where we love to live. Because reality bites.



This piece started with this

You will rue

They roam the countryside
In search of victims
They roam all at once
As once Romans do

The gall of these guys
No Gaul could ever take ‘em
The gall of these guys
No Gaul could ever take ‘em
No ‘mount of magic potion too

They’re not out of comic books
They’ll throw your book back at you

You will rue
The day your paths crossed
You will rue
The day they set eyes upon you
You will rue
That you ever shook hands at a toss
You will rue
That you ever played such a lame game
You will rue
That you could never cop the blame
You will rue
That you could not sit naked in the shame
You will rue

For, you are but a blister
For, you are but a blot
A blot on the landscape
Of the game

Don’t for a moment think
Think that you can hide
Hide behind words
Written in your lapses
Hide behind words
Written in your sleep
Hide behind words
Written in a daze
Hide behind words
Written in an alcoholic maze

Don’t for a moment think
Think that your demons will
Leave you all alone
Sneering in your sleep
They will cuddle up cosy
Like some voodoo doll Josie
With an uncanny likeness
to you
All pinned and pierced by
Who else but You!

You will rue
That once you were a captain
You will rue
The day you became a pirate
You will rue
The day you highjacked the game
You will rue
That you ever called for a ransom
You will rue
That your price was just a bowl of rice
You will rue
That you are not in Somalia
You will rue

For, you are but a blister
For, you are but a blot
A blot on the landscape
Of the game.

You will rue
Yahoooo!

(to be performed by Bob Dylan+John Fogarty)

Australian for… what?

An opportunity for the Aussie beer brand, Foster’s to extend its ad campaign, “Australian for beer” in India. Place Ponting’s pint sized face after the Brisbane defeat in their ad. Add the line: Australian for whiner. Sign off with Foster’s, Australian for beer.

Now, Foster’s could go the whole Hogg, and include the only just retired Chinaman bowler but that would be a tad overdone. But Brad Hogg (Australian for forgotten) if anyone, has reason to feel belittled, being excluded in his last international. Including Symonds and Hayden in any such sneer fest is tempting. But they are only the troops. Ponting is the General.

Yet Symonds & Hayden (Australian for assault) continue to be the focus of India’s scorn. Ponting, as if less evocative visually, and smaller in stature, almost Hitleresque sans moustache, camouflages with the collective Aussie antipathy. (Australian for gamesmanship)

Ponting is by no means the arrowhead. He is the archer. Invisible in his greens, on the greens.

And whether it was Symond’s shenanigans or Hayden’s heresy or Brett’s beamer or Clarke’s cuddle, were they mere shots in the dark? And in the dieing days of the Commonwealth Bank Series, if that wasn’t enough, Gillispeak (Australian for honesty) was anointed too.

Did the wives and girlfriends follow? Along with the cherubic children who made it for their Daddy’s retirement –did they point fingers at Harbhajan Singh too? And a witch-hunt, no less ensued. And the fanatic hordes of Sydney, Brisbane, Melbourne, took to hunt down Bhajji. Welcome to Salem, Australia, 2007-08. The trials never ended, even though the series has.

And bring back Muralitharan. And hang him with your words too.

In the meantime, Australia hangs on to every word. That could have been spoken, must have been spoken, will be spoken. As Ricky Archer will admit, a spoken word, and a sped arrow never come back.

Coming back to beating Australia, it’s so seldom, yet so sweet. But beating Ponting’s team was more about defying a nation’s scorn.

In the latter days of the series, it was almost like taking on a bunch of meandering mercenaries - who sensed they were playing on borrowed time. Thinking when that last bullet ball gets them, will it be a LBW or a run-out?

In the second final, it was as if both Symonds & Hayden were tempting fate – Almost a touch of Yeat’s “An Irish Airman forsees his death” in their dismissals. One over of poetry for the Indians by you-know-who Singh, and the ablest two lieutenants went down, somewhat predictably, run-out and LBW. It was over then. As General Ponting said so himself!

But when exactly did General P think it was over? When his IPL bid was upsettingly low? When India took Perth? Or when he let the Sydney test take him?

Does General P even recall where, why and when this Aussie summer started to go awry? And did he feed the flames and flies of Perth? When he’s alone, at home, flicking the lamp switch, on-off-off-on, will he in between see the light?

That he once was the best batsman in the world. That he captained the best team in the world. That not just Australia, but Indians too, not only feared but respected his craft.

Long before it became craftiness (Australian for mental). Disintegration just backfired with interest, mate.

PS: In spite of being twin bros. both Mark Waugh and Steve Waugh were quite unlike each other; they were Australian for Foster (‘s) brothers!

Desi Devils.
The bearded old man of cricket, W.G. Grace (1848-1915), in the instance that cricket becomes a wholly professional sport spake thus: "Betting and all kindred evils will follow in its wake, and instead of the game being followed up for love, it will simply be a matter of £ s d."

Good on WG that he had it all figured, marketing his wares way back then.

Since then however, the commercialization of cricket hitched a ride on a lazy locomotive. She’s a good old game, and that has forever been her bane. From Packer to pjs, always frowned upon. Her doomsayers, like some closet pervert, continued to loathe that which they claimed to love.

Pray, why does cricket make such contradictory idiots out of us? Why can’t we embrace cricket for what she’s worth? And set her free like a bird, like in that Lynyrd Skynyrd song.

If the IPL boomerangs, and sinks all its franchises, so be it. But if the IPL makes an AC Milan out of Mohali and a Barcelona out of Bangalore, then let’s accept that too. Their business models, however, do not dictate whether they will uplift or demean the game.

“Show me the money” was not the evil brainchild of the IPL. Nor was it just a smart-ass dialogue out of sport’s agent, Jerry McGuire’s repertoire. It is the basis of sport’s survival ever since it went pro. If anything, cricket’s been late on the take.

For cricket, unlike any other sport, will never stay put. Her life unfurls in front of our eyes, almost akin to that of a human life. Were we lost in her childhood all along? Did her adolescence annoy us? Are we alienated, now that she’s old enough to buy her meal ticket? Do we not trust her judgment? Do we suspect that she will change in some horrible way – into something we will never quite fathom? Or are we craving for one last hug? Not able to let go.

Worse, it doesn’t seem like a test cricket vs. one-day vs. twenty20 slugfest? It’s a lame, look how much money that guy’s made overnight, argument. Or how they’re selling their souls ‘n’ skills to the Devil Incorporated. Much like the nouveau riche, everybody loves to hate. Give it a few years, this will be old money, worthy of your respect, sires.

And if the bent commie mindsets are agog at the evils of new leagues of club nations, then they should take a chill pill. Or get out - and make some money too!

Have talent. Will sell. Cricket is surreal, but she lives, breathes in the real world.

Childish, how the morality-police creeps up whenever money sniffs out cricketers - the 1st commandment of cricket: when the dirty dollar comes hither, the cricketer will whither. And so, all Sachin Tendulkar’s career slumps are attributed to the ills of money. And from hereon, if and when M.S. Dhoni loses form, you know whom to blame: his Chennai franchise and the prohibitive sums that cannot be mentioned here for obvious reasons – they’re prohibitive!

Of course, going by this logic, the world’s wealthiest people should have been bankrupt many times over. Or at least misplaced their innate abilities to create wealth, thanks to the ruinous lure of money.

For reasons best known to monks who never traded in Ferraris, the IPL is allegedly the darkest hour in an honourable, if not austere life span for cricket. Even before the first million-dollar IPL ball is bowled, they stand in judgment: Not of the cricket, but of the money disproportionately involved. Not their money, not their family’s either, but money with the devil’s designs on cricket.
And then, to add credence, Delhi goes and names their IPL team Delhi Dare Devils. And the IPL anthem: Sympathy for the Devil by The Rolling Stones.

“And look Ma, they even signed on Symonds for prohibitive amounts!” They must be evil! Censor IPL. They’re the Desi Devils! With the odd Videshi villain thrown in!

The devil of small things.

The makeshift commentator idled away: “Thank You Umpire!” Seemed like a long time anyone, leave alone a commentator, had thanked an umpire – that too for signaling a wide ball. But this was an inter-school cricket match at St Paul’s, and there was a tad more bonhomie than in that 2007-08 India-Australia test series, Down Under.

Of course, this was only a Ten10 tournament – and any way you look at it, ten-over a side games will generate far less friction than locking adversaries in for five days. And once they become sworn enemies, is there any point in playing – that too, twice a year, as if the annual reports of their cricket boards cannot be inked without their blood. No thank you, I’ll pass.

Meanwhile, Commentatorji was wired to a white-noised neta’s loudspeaker, and rambling repeated thanks to the umpire – while I was sucked to the backroom’s rear window. Suddenly another classic film title rolled past, and mine was a room with a view. Not quite Hitchcock, but the batsmen were going for the kill.

Still, I approved of the overtly conservative field placements – there wasn’t one but two third-man positions. Can’t fathom why most captains are dead against a third man - Is it because the cheap ticket holders hang around there? Mind you, right now I was the only crowd behind third man; almost like pole position, literally, or hanging Mirinda manlike from a billboard, only more secure.

In spite of me, the cheap ticket non-holder, the third man fielders weren’t budging. Not even when the ball zipped past. Reckon that’s why the wicket keeper was standing way back to tiny tot’s out-swingers – a new cherry can do amazing things, even when placed in a little hand. Even from a distance, I half expected a Sachin Tendulkar uppercut.

But the batsman (boy?) was more intent square off the wicket – and as the cheerleaders and their followers were all stationed there, you can safely say, like Sehwag, he was playing to the galleries. And naturally to the gallows!

But no matter what, the watching school kids remained unmoved, like mute spectators– almost akin to an India-Australia World Cup final in neutral, non-cricketing Switzerland.

Thanks to the commentator, it dawned on me this wasn’t because of any eviction notice or stringent spectator code, but the playing teams were both from outside. Is that the way forward – no home series to secure best behaviour? But then, is there a corner in the world that the “Bharat Army” or the “Invincibles” won’t go to – Tierra del Feugo, here we come! Falklands, here we go!

Meanwhile, the commentator thanked the Umpire for signaling a no ball. Next, a wicket fell, and all hell broke loose. You’d be forgiven for thinking Harbhajan Singh had knocked Rickie Ponting over again. Or Australia had just won No. 16, the Sydney test. Frankly, if you play cricket, a big wicket always warrants a big celebration. No matter how small you are. Though somehow, in front of these school kids, the players in that 2007-08 India-Australia test series, Down Under, seemed a lot smaller. And no matter what, I just can’t get that bad taste out of my mouth. They were to me, to warp a phrase, the devil of small things.

For the entire series of "Rear Window & Room with a View" pictures click here

Ghost in the machine.

“I see dead people” - Now, I may not quite be Cole Sear from “The 6th Sense” whose long unattended claim that was, but when it comes to cricket, it’s something like that.

I was watching the Australian innings unfold (fold?) in the last one-day game. Hopes was at the crease, playing a well ironed innings. Murali Kartik the bowler, about to deliver the 35.5th ball of the Aussie innings. Isn’t the suspense killing you? But I’m getting ahead of myself: after the previous ball (35.4th ) Hopes had a peculiar expression – nearly a half grimace, not a very comfy look if you ask me. I stood there and Boing! I pronounced him dead – he’ll have to go! And then lo, behold, Murali became Mackenna and struck gold – he bowled Hopes all ends up. Murali didn’t look over the moon, just another wicket in a day of excess. Maybe he knew something I did – that the end is nigh, it’s utterly hopeless for you-know-who.

When you look back it all fits in: Hopes’ expression after the previous ball, his obvious discomfort, the well thought of faster, skidding one that finally cleaned him up. Suffice to say, my reaction was no different from Kartik’s – after all, I was expecting it.

Of course, most cricketers have the gift, they’re sort of 6th sensed: but while playing Australia this instinct crumbles into a negative force, and they almost expect doom - why else do they give in so meekly? That too, without embracing any new thought whatsoever.

Shouldn’t Indian cricket use all its intuitive powers, and at least challenge this Aussie bully? Dare say, normal cricketing acumen isn’t enough to overpower Oz - they have to resort to guerilla warfare, like opening with spin or someone other than the usual suspects.

India opened with Harbhajan Singh after they made a measly 148 at the Vadodara ODI– but why alone do desperate times call for such extreme measures? Is it too tricky for Indian cricket to think out-of-the-box? Is the proverbial, what if, always haunting Indian cricket? Is the fear of criticism stopping Indian cricket from exceeding itself?

Experiments are essential versus Australia as they’re a far better team. However, their superiority is augmented when we serve them the same eleven-course meal repeatedly. How often, if ever, has India bothered to counter Aussie might with unconventional new thinking?

Granted, Zaheer Khan had an exceptional last game, and Kartik pulled off more rabbits than Hugh Hefner has bunnies – but usually India’s playing catch-up with Australia. Throughout the series Australia won handsomely while India’s wins were anything but that. And along with Shakira’s hips, facts don’t lie either: In this series, India won vs. Australia (chasing) after a gap of more than nine years.

Also, Australia is known to lose the last game in a dead rubber, maybe some of them are human too. But as Rameez Raja said of Symonds, “He is not human”.

So, how does one beat the machine? Not by calling it a monkey. Not by sledging alone. If it was so, Symonds would have rolled over and not been the man-of-the-series.

Face it, just like in those Hollywood fantasies, you beat the machine by staying human; true to your instincts, your own strengths, and not by aping the enemy. It may not work instantly, but it will push them harder – Australia will have to scrap harder to win games. No more one-sided 9-wicket wins. No more dreary defeats by a hundred plus runs. No, none of that.

Eventually, the doubts will creep in. That’s when the machine will show signs of mortality.

Now, pace alone cannot counter the Australians. Chances are, spin alone won’t do the trick either, but at least it will make them think out of their comfort zone. Even though the Wankhede wicket turned square, it’s worth asking, how often in the past has India gone into a one-day game vs. Australia with two specialist spinners?

Never too late for Indian cricket to face facts: the ghost in the Aussie machine is beatable. But first, we must beat the ghosts within our own machine - our screwed-up system – that which runs Indian cricket. And unless we put our own house in order, the cracks will only widen. And that like Hopes’ dismissal, I can see that clearly.