Slide Show
Today Newton looks like a hippo, those days he was more like a rhino. Mathew may have caused the fight, but it was started by Newton. He had issues with me that went beyond cricket and provoked me knowing I would not respond. He didn’t count on noble, smashed-on-stolen-gin Ari leaping, quite literally, to my defence.
The ballroom smells of flowers, buriyani and thousands of clashing perfumes. Strategic buffet tables separate cricket refugees from social parasites. The deluxe section features the national team, some minor celebs film stars, models and people wealthy enough to own film stars and models.
The middle section is filled with aunties and uncles, media and business types. They have the best view of the dance floor and the band, neither of which seemed to interest them. And then there are us. The journalists, coaches, ground staff, B-grade cricketers, C-grade friends.
Our table sits ten: me, Ari, Newton, Brian, Renga, Elmo, a Pakistani from the Associated Press, his friend and a young couple who look lost. At the other end of the room, there is a bar serving scotch, vodka and champagne. Our table has a bottle of arrack and several glasses of passion fruit cordial. We are men of simple tastes: anything, or even with nothing, with arrack will do.
‘I should be drinking Chivas with Snow and Sobers,’ says Newton. ‘They must’ve misprinted my ticket.’
‘So go, will you,’ says Ari. ‘Maybe Mohinder Binny will ask you to dance.’
The band plays a synthetic love song and the happy couple hold each other and move from side to side. We make quick work of the booze. Everyone whacks two shots, Ari and I whack four. The Pakistanis, Allah be praised, do not drink. As the lights dim, I explore unoccupied tables for bottles to steal. When I return with gin, the conversation has turned to cricket.
Brian Gomez, ever the patriot, proclaims that this Sri Lankan team could be our greatest. Ari says they are OK, but nowhere near the true greats like Lloyd’s Windies or Bradman’s Invincibles. ‘Clive Lloyd’s team is the best I’ve ever seen,’ proclaims Renga. We hide our smirks. Every time Renga sees a film or witnesses a cover drive, he proclaims it to be ‘the best he’s ever seen’.
The Pakistani journalist talks of an all-time football XI featuring Zico, Best and Maradona. We sip stolen booze and begin fantasising. What if Ali fought Tyson? Or Navratilova played Billie Jean? It’s a good way to pass the time. Better than staring at the dance floor, pretending to grin.
We agree that Lloyd’s team were literally head and shoulders above the rest. Elmo offers that Bradman’s Invincibles were invincible only because of Bradman. ‘You eliminate him, good team. Invincible? That I don’t know.’ We all drink a toast to Clive Lloyd. The young couple slink off to another table.
Newton is petulant throughout. ‘Our team couldn’t even draw a two-day match with Bradman.’
‘Don’t say that,’ says Brian. ‘We beat New Zealand.’
The dance floor writhes with famous names and dolled-up women who do not belong to them. From the roar of the house band and the machinations of the dancers, it is evident that the alcohol denied to our table has been flowing freely on the other side of the room. Understandable. Dolled-up women prefer to have their bottoms pinched by international cricketers and not by those who write about them.
The Pakistani journalist begins scribbling on napkins. As the only man at the table with an education outside of Asia, he convinces us with diagrams and eloquence that the perfect cricket team should be composed as such:
Two solid openers
Three aggressive batsmen
Two genuine all-rounders
One agile wicketkeeper
Two unplayable fast bowlers
One genius spinner
Seduced by his Parthan lilt and logical arguments, we nod collectively The Windies were great, but not perfect. No spinner. No all-rounder. Lloyd had four types of hurricanes at his disposal: the elegant Holding, the belligerent Roberts, the towering Garner and the fiery Marshall. Who needs spinners, counters an argumentative Newton.
Booze flows and conversation splinters. Graham Snow toasts the GLOB and his bride, who begin doing the rounds of the ballroom. Ari and the Pakistani journalist whisper and scribble on napkins. The rest of us charge our glasses and clap as the band switches to traditional baila and a bald man with a moustache commandeers the mic from a bearded man in a hat. Both are middle-aged, potbellied and wearing leather trousers.
Ari and the Pakistani journo silence the table with an announcement. Elmo, Brian and Renga listen while wiggling their bellies to the bajaw beat.
‘Gentlemen. We have constructed the world’s greatest cricket team.’
Ari and the Pakistani have prepared a slide show of napkins. Dinner arrives at the table, but is pushed aside for the presentation. ‘Of course, I don’t agree with some choices,’ says the Pakistani.
First slide:
Openers
Jack Hobbs (Eng-20s)
Sunil Gavaskar (Ind-80s)
Newton raises his glass. There is much nodding. ‘The masters,’ says Elmo.
Next slide:
Middle Order
Don Bradman (Aus-40s)
Viv Richards (WI-80s)
Allan Border (Aus-80s)
There is applause. We grin at each other with appreciation. ‘How about Zaheer Abbas?’ says the quiet friend of the Pakistani journo. We all glare at him and he pipes down into his passion fruit.
Next slide:
All-rounders
Garfield Sobers (WI-60s)
Wasim Akram (Pak-90s)
I mention the word Hadlee. Ari and the Pakistani inform me that sadly there are no New Zealanders on this team. ‘What about Sri Lankans?’ asks Brian and we all snigger. This was 1994. We were drunk, but not stupid.
Next slide:
Wicketkeeper
Denis Lindsay (SA-60s)
And here the group erupts. Denis Lindsay over Tallon? Knott? Bari? Madness. Newton calls the list pathetic. The rest of the critics hurl their knives. Not me.
I saw Lindsay tour Sri Lanka as part of a Commonwealth side in the 1960s and keep wickets to the fire of Wes Hall and Freddie Trueman and the wiles of Chandrasekhar and Prasanna. I have never seen that level of agility in anyone outside of a cartoon film. Apartheid was responsible for many tragedies. Somewhere at the bottom of a long list would be the short careers of Graeme Pollock, Barry Richards and Denis Lindsay.
Next slide:
Fast Bowlers
Sidney Barnes (Eng-10s)
Dennis Lillee (Aus-70s)
Some say ooh. Some say aah. Some say Sidney who? I mention that the great Lillee took all his wickets in England, Australia, and New Zealand. That over a twelve-year career he never took a wicket in India or the West Indies. No one listens to me.
The clatter of plates and chatter of guests replace baila as the dominant noise. Across the ballroom everyone digs into the roast chicken and richly flavoured rice. But our table is undivided in its attention.
Who could the genius spinner be? A leggie like Grimmet or Qadir? An offie like Laker or Gibbs? A left-armer like Bedi or Underwood?
Final slide:
Spinner
Pradeep Mathew (SL-80s)
And pandemonium begins. The Pakistani shakes his head and says he had nothing to do with it. Renga, Brian and Elmo hoot with laughter.
‘Y’all are cocked, ah?’ Newton launches into a tirade. ‘If you want to put a Lankan, put Aravinda or Duleep. Pradeep Mathew? How can you call yourselves sports journalists? Bloody fools.’
Ari puts up his hand. ‘This list is based on stats and natural ability. Both Mathew and Lindsay have strike rates and averages that rank them with the greats.’
I step in. ‘I saw Lindsay in ‘63. Maara reflexes. Jonty Rhodes is nowhere. He jumped in front of the batsman to take a catch at silly mid-off.’
‘You bloody drunkard, it was ‘66,’ says Newton. ‘Y’all are idiots. Mathew can’t even make the current side.’
And in the econom
y section of the crystal ballroom, gobbling chicken buriyani amidst famous acquaintances, Ari and I begin telling them. About the multiple variations, the prize scalps, the balls that defied physics, and that legendary spell at Asgiriya. No one believes us.
Newton calls me a drunk a few more times. I call him a bribe-taking pimp. The rest of the table retreat, while Ari begins slurring.
And as the temperature rises, I look around and see the man himself in a circle of people, looking lost. At his side is a pretty girl, whispering in his ear is the Indian skipper, hanging on each syllable are career reserve Charith Silva and Sri Lankan cheerleader Reggie Ranwala.
Mathew is glaring at me, as if he knows his name is about to cause a brawl. As if he knows I will spend the next five years searching for him. As if he knows he will never be found.
And then, Newton calls me a talentless illiterate who should be writing women’s features. And then, Ari stuffs a chicken into Newton’s open mouth. And then, all is noise.
Willow and Leather
The ball is made of leather with a hard seam running its circumference. The bat is made of willow. The sound of one hitting the other is music.
Birds
Today I cannot write. There are birds outside my window. They are being shrill. People, mainly birdwatchers, think birds are treasures of Lanka and their songs more melodious than the collected works of Boney M and Shakin’ Stevens.
I find a fish market more melodic. These sparrows and parrots remind me of parliament during my reporting days. I cannot write. I cannot think. There are birds outside my window. So I will drink.
Spinners or Plumbers?
The GLOB once claimed that just because he could hit a ball with a bat it didn’t make him better than anyone else. Was he being falsely modest or genuinely humble? Like many of our local umpires and selectors over the years, I will give him the benefit of the doubt.
But there is some truth to what he says. Does Sri Lanka need more schoolteachers, more soldiers, or more wicketkeepers? What’s more useful to society? A middle order batsman or a bank manager? A specialist gully fieldsman or a civil engineer? A left-arm spinner or a plumber?
I have been told by members of my own family that there is no use or value in sports. I only agree with the first part.
I may be drunk, but I am not stupid. Of course there is little point to sports. But, at the risk of depressing you, let me add two more cents. There is little point to anything. In a thousand years, grass will have grown over all our cities. Nothing of anything will matter.
Left-arm spinners cannot unclog your drains, teach your children or cure you of disease. But once in a while, the very best of them will bowl a ball that will bring an entire nation to its feet. And while there may be no practical use in that, there is most certainly value.
Pitch
The battleground. 22 yards, punctuated at either end by three stumps. If the pitch is grassy and moist, the ball whizzes through. If it is wet or bone dry, the ball will spin. The pitch serves as a scapegoat for many failures, though it is seldom referred to by those celebrating success.
The Articles
Inspired by napkins and wedding punch-ups, I decide to write short articles on the ten greatest Sri Lankan cricketers of all time. I will not tell you who are on my list. I am already sick to death of lists.
At the risk of sounding like Renga, I will say that the articles are the best things I have written in forty-one years of wielding a pen. Despite this, or perhaps because of this, the Observer refuses to publish them.
The Observer and I have a history. I was there from ’58 to ’71, winning Ceylon Sportswriter of the Year in 1969. I left to find my way in the world. I then lost my way in the world, and returned a prodigal in ’91. In between I had won a few more awards, done a stint in radio, been sacked twice from reputed newspapers and acquired a reputation as a belligerent drunk.
I’m not sure why the editor of the Observer despised me. It could have been my debonair, devil-may-care swagger. Or it could be the fact that I spilled brandy on his wife at a Christmas party in ’79. He could not sack me before I was pensionable, for fear of labour courts. So, sadist that he was, he kept me away from the sports pages and put me on parliament duty, the role of a glorified stenographer.
He refuses to publish my articles, claiming, maliciously, that they are poorly written. The Weekend doesn’t think so. They publish three before going bankrupt. Or more specifically, before going bankrupt due to their printing presses being set on fire by men with gold jewellery and cans of petrol a week after publishing a story involving the government and an address that was too accurate for its own good.
Kreeda, a magazine I helped start, publishes all ten, but has the circulation of an illustrated porn rag. Palitha Epasekera agrees to translate the articles for Ravaya, but that never happens. But then in ’95, over a year after they are written, Sportstar say they are interested in three: Aravinda, Sathasivam and Mathew. Sportstar pays handsomely, which is just as well, because the Observer is in the process of terminating my employment for freelancing for other publications.
This too is just as well. I am tired of sitting in parliament, watching fat men braying like mules and squabbling like infants. I send a letter to the company accountant on 26 April, the day of my birth, informing him of my recent elevation to the age of pensionability. I now never have to work or worry about drink money ever again. There are some perks of ageing.
There are also some perks of working forty-one years in journalism. Free buffets, free booze, free hotel rooms, free invites to functions, free tickets to matches. In exchange for no pay, no respect, and the very real possibility of being bludgeoned to death by a government-sponsored thug.
Cheerio to the lot of you. You will not be missed.
Sales Pitch
If you’ve never seen a cricket match; if you have and it has made you snore; if you can’t understand why anyone would watch, let alone obsess over this dull game, then this is the book for you.
Definitely
Ari Byrd is my next-door neighbour. He teaches maths at Science College in Mount Lavinia and lectures at the University of Moratuwa. He calls himself a fixer of gadgets, but I would describe him as more of a breaker. His front room and his garage are littered with carcasses of video players, walkmans, spool machines and Polaroid cameras. He buys these gadgets through the Sunday Observer classifieds, obsolete technology with broken parts at a cut price.
‘Wije, God has given you a gift that you are wasting,’ he says. ‘You must write a book.’
This was many years before the stomach pains.
‘Yes. Yes,’ I reply. ‘One day, the stories I will tell… Definitely.’
Promises uttered by Sri Lankans ending in the word definitely have a high likelihood of being broken. We use the word as the Mexicanos would say mañana.
My friend Jonny Gilhooley likes the articles and is not a man given to insincerity. He says, ‘WeeGee, me bonnie lad, you should write for Wisden.’ Renganathan calls me and says ‘Karu, those were the best articles I have ever read.’
Of course, there are the critics. My sweet, darling Sheila in her kind, gentle way says, ‘What, Gamini? Those three were hopeless, no? Your Duleep and Arjuna ones were better.’
Thankfully, the years have given me the maturity to deal with criticism.
I bump into my nemesis Newton Rodrigo at a club game.
‘Heard you got sacked from the Observer?’
‘I retired. Unlike some, I know when to quit,’ I parry.
‘If that was the case, you would’ve quit in the 1970s,’ he chuckles.
‘When I was at the top. True,’ I muse. ‘As I recall, even in those days you were feeding at the bottom, no?’
He stops laughing. ‘I don’t have time to talk baila with you. Why are you obsessed with that Mathew? Your articles were OK. In the hands of a better writer, they could’ve been good.’
I submit the articles to Wisden, and receive no response. So in th
e early months of retirement, I spend my minutes hidden in my cluttered room, trying to write more words for syndication. I end up wasting afternoons arguing with Sheila about our son, Garfield. The boy is just out of his teens and shows no interest in anything other than listening to noise in his room and pretending not to smoke.
My favourite waste of time is daydreaming unanswerables about Mathew. Who did he get his talent from? Why did he not play regularly? Where did he disappear to?
I haven’t yet told you about the Asgiriya test. I’m hoping there will be world enough and time.
The phone rings. The phone is always for Garfield. Giggly girls and boys shouting swear words. I have ways of dealing with them.
‘Could I speak with DubLew Gee Karoonasayna, please?’
‘Speaking.’
‘You been writing for the Sportstar on Shree Lankan cricketers?’
‘That is correct. To whom am I…’
‘Great stuff. Especially that piece on the spinner Mathew. I saw him, you know, in the ’87 World Cup… um… hold on, please.’
I hear the same voice barking in the distance. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake… I thought we weren’t going live. OK. OK. Now piss off.’
‘Hello, Mr Karoonasayna…’
‘Call me Gamini…’
‘Mate, I’ve to go on air. Can you make it to the Presidential Suite at the Taj at 10?’
‘Of course.’
‘Oh, and come alone.’
‘Definitely.’
And that was how I got to meet Mr Graham Snow.
Presidential Suite
It has its own entrance and its own lift. Both are carpeted and plated in silver, shined to the point of reflection. The lift is as big as my office room, designed, presumably, to transport bodyguards and entourages to the seventeenth floor in one go.
The Legend of Pradeep Mathew Page 2