Playing It My Way: My Autobiography

by Sachin Tendulkar

  News soon reached home that I had hurt myself and my parents were very concerned. I tried to be brave and made out that it was only a minor wound. It wasn’t, and my father had to take me to a plastic surgeon friend of his, who put eight stitches just above the right eye. He gave me a couple of injections and I returned home feeling sorry for myself and frustrated. My mangled bicycle was parked close to our apartment, but my father told me that I wasn’t allowed near it until the wound had healed and that he’d get it repaired in the interim. This time I had to give in, knowing it was the only way I’d get it back.

  As soon as I’d recovered, I resumed cycling, and within a few months had become an accomplished biker. I could slow-cycle better than most kids and even went on to win a race organized in the colony. I rode with passion and within a few months had developed the ability to slide on one wheel, which took all my friends by surprise. In areas of the colony where there was sand on the concrete, I could get the wheels to slide for ten to fifteen feet, with my body bent at forty-five degrees. I wasn’t bothered about what this was doing to the tyres, of course, as the larger the distance covered, the better I felt. Showing off my skills used to give me a thrill and what added to the fun was that I had learnt these tricks in quick time.

  Nevertheless, things went wrong sometimes, causing me plenty of embarrassment and pain. In fact, I think I can trace my ability to withstand pain to my exploits as a child. I’d often get cut or hurt but rarely mentioned these minor accidents to anyone at home. So much so that my father got into the habit of examining my body when I was sleeping to check whether I’d injured myself. If he saw me wince in pain, he’d know I’d done something to myself again and he would take me to the doctor the next day.

  No matter what I’d done, though, my father would never shout or scream at me. More often than not, he’d try to set out the reasons why I should or shouldn’t do certain things, and his explanations left behind a lasting impact. My father’s sense of reason was his biggest virtue and I try to act in the same way with my children.

  In the wars again

  I had a lot of adventures as a child, but one that stands out is when I was cut under my eye while playing at Shivaji Park, the breeding ground of cricketers in Mumbai, and had to return home covered in blood. I was captaining my team in a match at Shivaji Park when I was twelve and after our wicketkeeper got injured I asked my team-mates if anyone could keep wicket. No one volunteered and somewhat reluctantly I stepped up to the challenge, even though I’d never tried it before. I was uncomfortable standing in the unfamiliar position behind the stumps and soon missed a nick. The ball came at me fast and, even before I could react, it hit me smack in the face, just missing my eye. The cut was deep and there was a lot of blood.

  I didn’t have the money to pay for a taxi home and was embarrassed at the thought of getting on a bus with a bloodied face. I asked a friend of mine to give me a lift on his bicycle, and anyone who knows Mumbai will realize what a difficult task that is, especially with heavy cricket kitbags in tow. There was a busy flyover between East and West Bandra, which my friend found too steep with such a heavy load. As a result, I had to get off and walk, with commuters gaping at me in shock. A young kid with a bloodied face and bloodstained shirt lugging his cricket kit over a flyover wasn’t an everyday sight.

  When I got home, I was relieved to find my parents out at work. My grandmother was in the apartment, but I asked her not to panic and told her it was a minor injury. She said she knew how to handle it and put warm turmeric over the cut, an age-old Indian Ayurvedic treatment for cuts and bruises. I did not bother telling anyone else and the injury healed faster than I expected.

  Suffice to say, that wasn’t the only time I got hurt while playing cricket as a kid. Injuries were frequent because we played on half-baked and overused pitches and our coach insisted we should bat without helmets and learn to leave balls by swaying out of the way. On such wickets, injuries were a certainty, but they hardened us for the grind in the future and as a result I was never scared of getting hurt. It was all part of being a professional sportsman. However, the ability to withstand pain didn’t mean I didn’t take due precautions and exposed myself to injuries unnecessarily – something I was once surprised to be questioned about as a fourteen-year-old during a match at the Wankhede Stadium.

  The match, which involved Mumbai’s Ranji Trophy Probables, started early in the morning and the plan was for a pair of fast bowlers to bowl at the batsmen for five or six overs before they were rested and a new pair were asked to bowl with a new ball. The aim was to give batsmen practice against a fast swinging ball. To make things even more difficult, a lot of grass had been left on the track. I went out to bat early in our innings and was wearing my Under-15 cap. I didn’t have a helmet at the time and the Under-15 cap was the only headgear I possessed. Raju Kulkarni, who was by then an accomplished Test bowler for India, was livid when he saw me taking guard in just a cap. All the senior batsmen had helmets, so how dare I, a fourteen-year-old, wander out without proper head protection? At first, I couldn’t work out why he was so upset. He bowled a barrage of bouncers – though in hindsight I realize they were intended to teach me a lesson rather than to hurt me – but I managed to stay calm enough to sway out of the way. When I finally understood the reason behind his anger, I did not know how to explain to him that Achrekar Sir had not allowed me to wear a helmet in school cricket – I wasn’t attempting to be brave at all. It was only later, when I was selected in the Mumbai team and came to know Raju well, that I finally told him the real reason for not wearing a helmet.

  Music: my second love

  Music was a constant presence in the Tendulkar household. All my siblings would regularly listen to the radio and always followed the weekly Hindi film music programme Binaca Geetmala (Garland of songs), anchored by the well-known radio personality Ameen Sayani. As a result, while I was too young to understand much, I was exposed to music from a very early age. The exposure increased when my father bought a cassette player, which miraculously allowed everyone to listen to music of their choice. Both my brothers were fans of the famous ghazal singer Pankaj Udhas. I couldn’t really appreciate his songs then, but I was always in the room when they were played and was privy to discussions on the nuances and finer points of music. On one occasion Nitin went to Dubai and brought back Pankaj Udhas’s newly released album. Even though he didn’t get home till midnight, we all waited up to listen to the cassette as soon as he got back, with our grandmother making us tea well past one in the morning.

  It was natural that music should soon become my second love after cricket and it has remained that way ever since. I enjoy listening to all kinds of Indian music, ranging from film songs to the more classical variety, and I always feel relaxed with my headphones on. Later, during tours abroad, I began to pick up on Western music and I now love listening to Pink Floyd, U2, Dire Straits and a host of others. I passed that taste for Western music on to Ajit, and it is now an important feature of the Tendulkar household.

  Turning to cricket

  Besides cricket and music, I was also a big fan of tennis as a child. John McEnroe, the legendary American player, was my favourite. As a ten-year-old I would mimic McEnroe’s look and antics, to the extent that I grew my hair into a curly mop and walked around wearing a headband. I was fascinated by the battles between Björn Borg and McEnroe and for a while I even contemplated choosing tennis over cricket.

  Ajit knew about my obsession with tennis but had also seen me play cricket with my colony friends. He had observed my natural bat swing and that’s what led him to believe that I might turn out to be a good batsman if groomed properly – though he never imposed anything on me.

  What he would do is give me both a tennis racket and a cricket bat and take me up to the terrace to have a hit. He threw tennis balls to me while I took turns at tennis and cricket. We didn’t have too many balls then and if they bounced over the walls of the terrace, I
would quickly run down four floors and fetch them (there were no elevators then, something that explains the secret behind my strong legs!). It was clear to Ajit that I enjoyed myself far more while playing cricket. However, the episode that led him to take the next step and bring me along to Ramakant Achrekar’s summer cricket camp in 1984, at the age of eleven, had nothing to do with cricket.

  The turn to cricket was prompted by a group of friends – myself, Sunil Harshe and Avinash Gowariker – getting into a spot of trouble. At the time in India Doordarshan, the national broadcaster, would show a classic film every Sunday, and on this fateful day it was Guide, starring Dev Anand, one of India’s legendary actors. Most of the residents of our colony were engrossed in the film, allowing us three the opportunity to climb up one of the trees and take some mangoes. Sunil, who was on the heavy side, and I were on a branch together, but it broke and we fell with a crash from quite a height. As we got up and tried to run away, we were caught and brought to book. It was evident that something needed to be done to channel my energies, especially during the school summer holidays. Ramakant Achrekar’s coaching camp, where a lot of Mumbai’s top cricketers had learnt their game, was Ajit’s answer.

  2

  LEARNING THE GAME

  From a very early age I played tennis-ball cricket with my colony friends. I loved watching cricket on television and in our games I often tried to emulate the mannerisms of my favourite players, Sunil Gavaskar and the West Indian legend Viv Richards. But it wasn’t just the batsmen that I studied. I also loved bowling and tried my hand at different kinds of deliveries – medium pace, off-spin and leg-spin – all with a tennis ball, of course. I even experimented with tactics like the slower ball and bowling from wide of the stump. Throughout my career I have actually bowled a lot in the nets. As soon as I’d finished with my batting I’d pick up a ball and start bowling to whichever batsmen were around at the time.

  The transition from playing with a tennis ball to playing with a cricket ball happened under the watchful eyes of Ramakant Achrekar, then cricket coach at Shardashram Vidyamandir school. Achrekar Sir, as I refer to him, started playing cricket at the age of eleven in 1943, which is the age I was when I went to him for the first time. He played for a number of Mumbai clubs, including the Gul Mohar Mills and Mumbai Port, and played a first-class match for the State Bank of India against Hyderabad in 1963. When I was growing up he was undoubtedly one of the most accomplished coaches in Mumbai.

  From his own schooldays at Balmohan Vidyamandir, my brother Ajit knew that compared to other schools in Mumbai, Shardashram was by far the best organized in its approach to cricket, and that’s why he took me along to Achrekar Sir’s nets in Shivaji Park to try my luck at being a part of his summer camp.

  Anyone could come for a trial at the camp but then it was up to Sir to decide who to accept. There were nets for players from all age groups, starting with the sub-junior (Under-15) and junior (Under-17) levels. I was eleven years old and trialled at the sub-junior nets to start with. The Mumbai Cricket Association had an Under-15 team and most candidates from the sub-junior section eventually vied for a position in that team.

  I had never batted in nets before and felt somewhat overawed with so many people around. When I was asked to bat, I was not at all comfortable. With Sir watching me so closely, I failed to make an impact. After I had finished batting, Sir called Ajit aside and informed him that I was perhaps too young to make the camp and suggested that he should bring me back when I was a little older. I wasn’t party to this conversation and had no idea what was discussed at the time. My induction into the Mumbai cricket circuit could have ended in failure – but for Ajit’s insistence.

  Having seen me play in the colony, Ajit knew I was capable of performing far better than I had in front of Achrekar Sir. He explained that I was nervous and asked Sir to give me one more opportunity. However, he suggested that while doing so Sir should pretend to go away and then watch from a distance. Sir agreed. Before long I was asked to bat again and, without Sir’s trained eyes scrutinizing me – or so I thought – I felt more at ease and soon started to hit the ball well. This time, Sir agreed to let me join the camp. I was delighted and I must say it was an opportunity that transformed my life.

  Participants in the summer camp had to pay an admission fee of 65 rupees (less than a pound) and a monthly fee of 10 rupees (10 pence). In my case I don’t remember having to pay the monthly fee after the first few months. The camp involved a session every morning and evening at Shivaji Park. I would practise between 7.30 a.m. and 10.30 a.m. before making my way home for lunch, then I’d come back in the afternoon and train till late evening. The schedule was rigorous and I would be exhausted by the end of the day. Travelling to Shivaji Park took forty minutes from my house in Bandra and I had to catch an early-morning bus to make it on time.

  For the first few days Ajit accompanied me, to get me used to the routine, but once I was familiar with the journey, I’d travel to the camp on my own. During the bus journeys he would talk to me about the nuances of batting, and I always enjoyed these conversations a lot. In fact, the one thing that I have kept with me all my career is a note that Ajit gave me containing some thoughts about batting. It served as a very personal coaching manual.

  As a child I had only one set of cricket clothes and the routine was to wash them as soon as I’d returned from the morning session. While I had my lunch, the clothes would dry out in the sun and I would wear them again in the afternoon. The pattern was repeated in the evening, so that I could use the same set of clothes the following morning. The system worked well – apart from my pockets. There was never quite enough time for the pockets to dry out completely and for the entire duration of the camp I played with wet pockets.

  Changing schools

  By the middle of the summer camp, Sir had started taking an active interest in my batting and at the end of the two months informed Ajit that I had the potential to be a good cricketer if I practised all year round. He had made a few changes to the way I batted and the impact was immediate. I was now practising with the older boys from the junior section. However, my school – the New English School in Bandra – did not have cricket facilities and Sir was keen for me to change schools if I wanted to pursue cricket seriously.

  One evening Sir called my father and asked if he would speak to me about changing schools. Ajit was in the room with my father at the time and they both accepted that it was necessary, if cricket was to be my priority. However, neither of them ever forced anything on me and when I got home they asked me what I thought of the suggestion. By that time I had started enjoying my batting and was keen to play throughout the year. Without any hesitation I agreed to the move. My father sat me down and explained that while he did not have any objections to me changing schools, I should do so only if I was really serious about playing cricket. I assured him I was, and so it was agreed that I should move to Shardashram Vidyamandir, where Achrekar Sir was a cricket coach.

  The move meant I lost contact with a lot of my New English school friends, but I soon made new ones at Shardashram, mostly through cricket. All the cricketers in the school were friends with each other and even though we were in different divisions and sections, such things hardly mattered. We played together during lunch breaks and discussed cricket all the time, and Achrekar Sir would coach us after school. Cricket was fast becoming my first love. All my excess energies were getting channelled into cricket, which acted as a kind of a safety valve. Everyone at home was very supportive, but my father always said that all he wanted me to do was give it my best effort without worrying about the results.

  Joining Shardashram undoubtedly helped my cricket a great deal. It allowed me the opportunity to play competitive matches regularly and my game rapidly improved as a result. There’s nothing like playing matches to get better, because only in competitive situations are you forced to out-think the opposition and improvise. Net practice can never be a substitute
for matchplay and Achrekar Sir was an ardent believer in this principle.

  I did not excel in my first ever match for my club, the Kamath Memorial Club, run by Achrekar Sir, which a host of my colony friends came to watch, I was out for a golden duck. I was the star batsman in the colony and it was natural that my friends would come to see me play. It was embarrassing to be bowled first ball and I had to make a series of excuses, saying the ball had kept low and the pitch wasn’t good enough for batting. In the second match I got out for another duck and it was only in our third game that I managed to score my first run, having survived seven deliveries. I was seriously relieved to get off the mark. I used to keep a diary at the time that contained all the information from these games, but unfortunately I don’t have them any more.

  My debut for the school wasn’t quite as bad and I managed to score 24 runs in the match, which we won comfortably. However, I will always remember the game for other reasons, because I learnt a very important personal lesson. It taught me never to resort to unethical ways and to play the sport with honesty and integrity at all times. The incident in question involved my first appearance in a newspaper, which should have been a happy occurrence. The rule in Mumbai at the time was that a player’s name only appeared in print if he had scored 30 runs. I had made 24, but there were a lot of extras in the team’s innings and the scorer decided to credit six extras to me, increasing my score to 30. The scorer’s logic was that it didn’t matter because the overall score did not change. I had consented to this without appreciating what I was getting into. The next morning, when my name duly appeared in a Mumbai paper, Achrekar Sir was seriously unhappy with what I had done and told me off for consenting to have runs added to my personal tally when I hadn’t scored them. I acknowledged my mistake and promised never to allow such a thing to happen again.