Musings on Cricket and Life

Some experiences can scar you for life. They leave a certain block in the mind which is difficult to overcome. Lifelong behaviour is influenced by these scars that just don’t go away. Just when we seem to think that we have dropped the baggage for good, some incident or the other allows that part of the memory to surface with a vengeance -- it recreates the experience and leaves us perplexed, angry and bitter for a while. It feels as if we have relived that experience. I suppose this is what happens when we try to suppress such experiences.

The experiences that scar you for life can also lead to disastrous consequences. I still remember the scene in a Bharatpur village in Rajasthan more than three years ago. I was doing a classroom observation in a government school, sitting in the veranda. Overcrowding and lack of space had resulted in the veranda being converted into a classroom. It is still a common sight in many schools, despite massive investments in infrastructure over the last decade. I was sitting in one corner of the class, and could see the village beyond. Suddenly, a boy came running almost out of nowhere and jumped without hesitation into the well adjacent to the school. I was too horrified to react. Some of us, including the children who had seen the boy jump, instinctively got up and ran towards the well. The teacher followed suit. Soon, everyone from the school had gathered around the well. The boy’s brothers had come running after him within a minute. Quickly, to my amazement, a rope was tied in a crisscross manner round the elder brother’s shoulders and waist, and he was lowered into the well. Many villagers had turned up by then. The women were wailing, while the men could be seen arguing heatedly. The boy’s inert body was brought up after what seemed like an eternity. We had stationed our jeep just in case he had to be rushed to the hospital. Luckily, he survived. I learnt later that his elder brother had admonished him. Following an argument, the boy had decided to give it all up.

I was left wondering how fragile human nature is, after all. Steely determination, focus, energy and strong will that we see and experience sometimes gives the strong impression that human nature can withstand much onslaught. What surprises me however, is its fragility. Nowadays, we hear more and more and see more and more of this fragility, through examination related suicides, relationship problems and all other kinds of human issues. A friend of mine had once looked at suicide differently. ‘Contrary to the notion that suicide is an escape from the misery of it all, it is an assertion’, she had said, adding that extreme human will is required to carry out the act. She is right in a way. But I would still maintain that the human will can assert in ways that can prevent self destruction. Perhaps this can happen if one sees meaning in life. When this sense of meaning collapses, it is difficult to carry on. I’m still reading that wonderful book by Victor Frankl titled Man’s Search for Meaning, which talks of hope and emancipation even in as harsh a place as the concentration camps of the second world war. What an amazing story it is!

Then there are some experiences can leave you disturbed for a long time, till you find ways of dealing with them. Dealing usually involves looking at them in perspective, and in believing in oneself. What this essentially means is the development of a certain kind of detachment, and understanding the circumstances that led to those incidents. Subsequent accumulation of a wealth of experiences and wisdom as we grow up can help us appreciate why such a thing happened in the first place. I have usually found that ‘laughing it off’ (which often also involves laughing at oneself) is the best way to deal with the hurt that comes from such experiences. That is what I’m now able to do with my experiences on the cricket field almost thirty years ago.

The year was 1980, and it was the hundredth year of our school. Imagine! I was in grade six. We were all busy preparing for the centenary celebrations. As such, the normal, monotonous routine of the school was broken because of this huge event for which we were getting ready. We were all happy, as we didn’t have to sit through class after class everyday. During that period, I was asked to report for practice in the junior cricket team of the school. Apparently, someone had seen me play in one of those myriad matches that we used to set up during lunch time in the big field, often stacking up our bags or big blocks of stone as the wickets at either end. At any given point during lunch time, there would be at least twenty matches played on our famous big field. I remember that I had somehow developed the skill for producing a prodigious amount of turn with my off breaks. This troubled almost any batsman who faced me.

Iyer, an ex-student of our school, was our coach. He was probably 18 or 20. As soon as I reached for practice after school in the small field, he asked me to do a few rounds and then threw me the leather ball. Unlike the ‘cork’ ball, which was easier to turn, I was unable to turn the leather ball as sharply. But my good line and length and quick movement through the air was enough to still trouble most batsmen. Iyer seemed pleased and he said ‘You are pitching the ball in places that are difficult for the batsmen to play…’ I was pleased as hell and attended practice regularly. I don’t remember much about batting practice, but I remember bowling my heart out everyday. There were sixteen of us who were part of the junior team.

There were my off days as well. After some time, I had more off days than good days at bowling practice. Something was wrong. This resulted in Iyer not interacting with me much. He would only expect me to field and fetch the ball. I would wait longingly for a bowling stint which didn’t come my way for a long time. However, my lunchtime matches continued, and I continued to trouble many batsmen. One fine day, Iyer threw me the ball again. How I troubled Sharath, one of our best batsmen and junior team captain, with my flight and spin! He would dance down the wicket and I would pitch it just a wee bit short. At other times, the trajectory of the ball would draw him forward full stretch. I thought I had rediscovered my lost art. Suddenly, everything looked good. But Iyer still decided not to operate with me everyday at practice. He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong and what I could do to change things. No feedback, no conversation.

A few months later, we had the Cottonian shield. The matches were played in the small field of the Bishop Cotton School. We won the first two matches and suddenly found ourselves in the final. I didn’t get to play but got to watch from the sidelines. The final match against Cottons was a three day affair which we lost quite badly. Naturally, the team was dejected.

I remember the prize ceremony and the distribution of certificates. They started calling out our names. I waited for my turn to go up on stage and collect that certificate of participation. That moment never came, and I was too shocked to come to terms with what had happened. The gathering dispersed even as I heard many hurrahs for the winners. All my junior team friends were carrying their certificates on which their names were written. We got into the school van. Sitting quietly in a corner, I tried very hard to suppress a tear. Some of my friends noticed my turmoil but didn’t say anything. I suppose they couldn’t. In a matter of fact way, Iyer told me that there were only 15 certificates prepared. My name had been deliberately left out of that list. Why? Why me? After all those months of practice, and cold shouldering!

Tough times followed for some days. Eventually I got over the incident. Luckily, I didn’t give up cricket. The big field matches and the street matches near home continued as before. I loved the game too much to be bothered about Iyer. A couple of years later, Sharath asked me to report for practice in the senior team. Promptly, I got back to practice. We played many matches. We won some, we lost some. But we didn’t make it to the final of any tournament. I enjoyed the playing, though. I suppose that is what matters, ultimately.

Our school football team was much better. They won the interschool shield in 1984, just a day before Indira Gandhi was assassinated. I remember the extended holiday!

Looking back, I realise what a bad teacher and a bad coach can do. Only my self belief helped me to overcome those initial moments of despondency. Iyer was a bad and insensitive coach, who didn’t believe in open, honest communication, the hallmark of a good teacher. Perhaps he was too young to be one, in the first place! I wonder where he went.

I sometimes worry for my son, who’s taken to practicing cricket in an academy near home. It is a sixty year old club, perhaps the oldest in Bangalore. He practices thrice a week and we play endlessly in our living room and in the backyard. He’s got a good front arm bowling action, and has all the potential to become a good bowler. His batting is improving too. I’m happy he’s pursuing a game of his choice, given that the school he currently goes to does not even have a playground! We’ll change his school next year. I want him to enjoy his game, and will not expect anything more from him.

The beauty of cricket has very nearly been killed by the BCCI, which is run by a bunch of ruthless businessmen who want to milk from it the last drop of money. I don’t see much spontaneity in the way the game is played. We played cricket in every conceivable place without thinking where it would lead us. We enjoyed playing it. Period. Today, everyone seems to be making a plan to make it big. Parents want their children to get into the under 10 league and move up from there. The many different forms of the game have opened up avenues for raking in the moolah. Young children are exposed to it all through television. It is up to the parents and the coaches to tell their children, ‘Look just go out there and enjoy playing the game. It’s a game after all!’ As parents, we need to be careful not to thrust the burden of our expectations on our children. At the same time, we will need to prepare them to handle failure, through self belief. I can only hope that Iyer is doing well, if he is still a cricket coach.

July 2009