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I cannot be called, by any stretch of the definition, a cricket enthusiast.
I am only desultorily interested in the proceedings afoot inasmuch as I
cannot avoid it while going about the routine. Whether it is in terms of
conversations at workplace or elsewhere, whether I am browsing through a
magazine or reading a newspaper, it seems as though this country is doing
nothing else but watching cricket or writing editorials about it. Going by
the amount of interest that has been generated it would have been fair to
assume that our boys were the legitimate repository of our national interest
in terms of cricket and were best qualified to serve our interest abroad in
Lords and Old Trafford and other such places, and maybe even when they went
out shopping. The preparations were adequate. Insurance companies were
backing them to the hilt with the appropriate chorus line. There was
evidence to this effect in the media. They were knocking back soft drinks on
television as if there were no tomorrows. Britannia I think it was that took
the biscuit (Britannia Khao, World Cup Jao), the cake and everything in
between. The nation was mange-ing, Dil Se, that the cup be brought back,
held aloft by the very same hands that drank all that Pepsi, ate Britannia
and indulged in other such activity that had become the nation's prime time
staple. The nation was confident that the same people whose `straight
drives' were being improved through a judicious endorsement of `donut'
technology would, through an adequate display of the same on the pitch,
vindicate the responsibility the nation had placed on those shoulders. It
did not escape my notice that each of the player had prepared meticulously
in his own way for the rigours ahead. One player even went to great lengths
to ensure that dandruff would not drop all over the pitch and the team
wouldn't get into, shall we say, a jam? The use of certain kind of footwear,
apparently most suited for running between the wickets, was duly noted.
Even though I still fail to make the connection, one of our captain's in
waiting, or so I've been told by people more knowledgeable in these matters
(and here I do not allude to those people called Selectors who are rumoured
to live in some other planet and touch terra firma occasionally just to
produce postmortem reports as is the national fashion nowadays) has, for
some strange reason, been brushing his teeth with a particular brand of
toothpaste. I soon gave up my investigation into this aspect of the game,
in utter exasperation, the question being: How does oral hygiene help in up
close and personal fielding positions like silly point? Fleetingly, I toyed
with the idea that there could be merit in overwhelming the Opposition with
sheer bad breath, given that in the departments of batting, fielding and
bowling the team wasn't able to deliver. But if that was the case then no
batsman from the Opposition, in those snatches of the matches that I keenly
watched, ever complained about the bad breath factor. None of the learned
gurus of cricket who write all that poetry in the sports pages (and I
notice, with considerable alarm, increasingly in the front pages as well)
were able to enlighten me on this. It ultimately dawned on me that since
this reported aspirant to captaincy had gone public and was being explicit
on which the only muscle was that he exercised regularly, (twiddling thumbs,
I thought had limited overall tactical value) I concluded that this oral
hygiene business was actually a part of a well thought-out physical fitness
programme scientifically designed to encourage him to exercise the rest of
his body in general and some other parts of his body in particular in the
pursuit of the World Cup. The logic was simple, once I managed to grasp it.
After all, what better way to practise scoring in the World Cup than by
scoring consistently off the pitch as well? I am still in the dark on one
area though: Given the enviable stock of toothpaste, this version of cricket
viagra, in this particular player's bathroom, I wonder what the ideal ratio
is, I mean in terms of dosage. How much of toothpaste to score, let's say, a
decent full-blooded century or whatever it takes in the period that it takes
to complete 25 overs by Henry Olonga, Heath Streak and Paul Strang, for
example so that you don't lose by three miserable runs. I believe that the
uneven scoring by this player could well be attributed to this factor.
Either they gave him the wrong ratio or that this player was not following
printed instructions very carefully. In other words he may well have been
rubbing the toothpaste in the wrong place, and then may be not even in the
correct motion. I must also confess that I was more than somewhat
disappointed that Visa Power was not enough to go and get us the World Cup.
With the inevitable denouement that has ensued, I notice, very regretfully,
a rise in emotions, that I fear, if uncontrolled, could become our Indian
Cricket's version of the Spanish Inquisition. The consequences would be even
more horrific in terms of ramifications, than Kargil. That brings me to
another observation, and I wonder if I am alone in this. I am somewhat
astounded that while our men in uniform make unscheduled, untimely,
unfortunate appearances in wooden boxes with the national flag draped over
them all over our front pages, what the propriety is of advertising
campaigns that tell ecstatically of even more money collected and dispatched
to our esteemed cricket players in UK. But seriously, I would say, in that
it is my considered view we lost out the World Cup because of faulty
preparation and training. Next time they should try Coke.
V Sudarshan is not, like many Indian cricket fans, into full-time advanced S&M. Also, for some strange reason he has given up drinking Pepsi.
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