The Picador Book of Cricket

by Ramachandra Guha

  We shall see today in Birmingham. Mind you, it is a terrible thought either way, for Australia are not due to return to England till the summer of 2001, which means that this very day at Edgbaston may well be the last time the cricket lovers of England will ever see Shane Warne displaying his arts and sciences, his angles and geometry, his daring and mischief real or imagined: in other words just strutting his wonderful stuff.

  Single-handedly, Warne revived a dodo-dead skill, and resuscitated it with such gay garlands and flamboyant streamers that in just seven years at the century’s end he became one of the most crucially influential cricketers of an ancient pastime’s whole legend and lore. So relish him while we can, today for sure and possibly at Lord’s and the final act and denouement of this larky, thrilling enough little pageant on Sunday.

  He has had some depressions of late but last weekend he was full of the joys. ‘I just know there are more golden years up ahead,’ he said. And sure enough on Sunday, in that narrow-eyed but glistening contest of heroes at Headingley, it was heartening to be among that of-late too often contrary, not to say bovine, Yorkshire throng as they genuflected to their antique and eminent cricketing heritage to acclaim roundly Warne and all his works and pomps.

  He had crucially nipped out the middle of South Africa’s burgeoning innings just as it was set to blossom in the last-fifteen-overs charge. Springboks were smug indeed on the launchpad at 140 for 1 – when the second and fifth balls of Warne’s ninth over of an exemplary spell strangled at birth any cashing-in.

  A seemingly help-yourself twirler amiably pitched just outside leg stump to induce Cullinan, having the moment before posted his half-century, to celebrate with a heave to deepest midwicket’s cow-corner; the ball took the off bail clean as a whistle. Three balls later captain Cronje was walking back for a duck, jet-dark eyes seething, plumb leg before on his kneeling thigh having obviously misread the googly-to-hoick-over-square-leg for the zooter that comes straight on. Thank you and goodnight.

  At the end of his next over, when his highly commendable 10–1–33–2 (not to mention the two dropped catches in his spell) was announced, the crowd again gave lusty vent. Promptly he dropped at backward point a fiercely struck sitter off danger man Klusener. But next over, off Fleming, he hared backwards from extra cover to hold a spectacularly high-quality catch off the same batsman.

  At which every one of his ten confrères, even those on the faraway rim of the wide field at deepest long leg or midwicket, fair raced to converge on him in collective acclaim. Warne has always been a mighty popular one-of-the-boys team man and talisman.

  In the team hotel in Birmingham on Tuesday the great man was as smiling sunny as the weather outside. You know he is missing home desperately. He and his team have, to all intents, been on the road and living out of suitcases since Christmas and before.

  On 19 May, back home in Brighton, Victoria, his wife, Simone, gave birth to their second child, a bonny eight-pound boy called Jackson Shane.

  Next day Warne’s leg breaks were taking some two-sixer stick from New Zealand’s Chris Cairns at Cardiff, and Australia lost the match. ‘OK, fair dos. Chris and Roger Twose played great cricket that day and I copped it fair and square.’

  He copped it, too, against Zimbabwe: 5 overs for 44 when Neil Johnson crisply clocked him for four fours in an over. ‘Fair dos again, the bloke batted brilliantly. Fact is, any spinner puts his talent on the line in one-dayers and he’s there to be shot at.’

  There were three sixes conceded in an over against India but, as he cheerfully admits, he was probably lucky to get away with three that day, and he suggests there has never been a better one-day batting side than India’s and tells you to look up the facts.

  Even all those greats who have come after him acknowledge Warne as not only the pioneering rekindler of the faith but, still, as the keeper of the flame. Well, 315 Test wickets has already left behind every other spin bowler in the game’s long history. And all achieved in less than eight years. The good bloke’s a genius, and you can say that again and again.

  There will be a frisson today among the throng when he is called upon. Fearless, confident; the three-pace walk-up, the little judder of a quickstep to his delivery stride and, with a half-smile of devious intent and a half-growl of shoulder-straining urgency, down she floats and/or fizzes: ‘Bowled Warney!’ ‘Great one, Shaney!’

  Should the plump, already mighty rich but still affably smiling maestro decide after this World Cup, and after a rest and some contented baby-bonding and Australia’s tour to Sri Lanka, to accept a fortune for one summer in English county cricket, then OK, we shall have him again among us, but it will not be the same. He is a one-off.

  It was all of six Junes ago (Friday 4 June at Manchester) that Warne dramatically announced himself to England (Gatting b Warne 4). In spite of his certainty of ‘many more golden years ahead’ it seems probable, all things considered, that we shall not see him again at the peak of his fabulous game.

  If such is the case, at Edgbaston today or Lord’s on Sunday: many thanks, all hail . . . and farewell.

  ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

  The one batsman who has always dominated Shane Warne is Sachin Tendulkar. In a few weeks in the spring of 1998 he hit four masterful hundreds against the Australians – two in Tests, the other two in limited-over internationals. At the end of it all Warne went to Tendulkar and, in perfect sincerity, asked for his autograph. Later that year another Australian chose to compliment Tendulkar. This was Sir Donald Bradman, who invited the Indian to his Adelaide home on the occasion of his ninetieth birthday. The Don has said that of all the batsmen who have come since, it is Sachin Tendulkar who most resembles him. Here an English and an Indian writer offer their own assessments.

  MIKE SELVEY

  Sachin of Mumbai (1997)

  It was one brief moment in time. The World Cup, India/West Indies in Gwalior, and a single stroke of such exquisiteness that the old maharajah surely would have had it carved in ivory and placed on a plinth. In essence, it was no more than a leg-side flick to the boundary and, in a competition that gorged itself on hitting, might have been worth only transient acclaim. But this was a gem: a length ball from a high-class pace bowler met initially with a straight blade, and then, at the last nanosecond, turned away with a roll of the wrist and such an irresistible alliance of power, timing and placement that first of all it eluded the fingertips of a midwicket fielder diving to his right, and then it did the same to the boundary runner haring and plunging to his left. Skill, technique, confidence, awareness, vision: pure genius, and four more runs to Sachin Tendulkar.

  The young man is probably the most famous and feted man in India, outglitzing even the stars of Bollywood movies. With endorsements over the next five years estimated to be worth at least $US75 million, he is also the highest earner in cricket. He has become public property in a country of enthusiasms that can spill over into the fanatical, but has managed to maintain a dignified, mature outlook, remaining aware of his responsibilities while protecting his privacy. When he married Anjali, a doctor and friend from his childhood, he rejected massive sums from satellite TV for live coverage, keeping the ceremony a family affair. He knows his worth, and is wealthy beyond the dreams of almost a billion Indians, but he is not a grabber. His father, a university professor, imparted a sense of perspective and a work ethic.

  Tendulkar averages over 50 in Tests and is the supreme right-hander, if not quite the finest batsman, on the planet. He is a focused technician, who offers a counterpoint to Brian Lara’s more eye-catching destruction, fuelled on flair and ego. He has, it seems, been around for ever. In the third Test at Trent Bridge last summer, he scored 177, the tenth century of his Test career and his second of the series: yet remarkably, at twenty-three Tendulkar was younger than any member of the England team, with only Dominic Cork and Min Patel born even in the same decade. His figures have been achieved despite a lack of Test cricket, particularly at home. Seven of his centuries had been scored bef
ore his twenty-first birthday, a unique record. Had India not rationalized their Test-match programme so much that, prior to last summer, they had played just one three-match series, heavily affected by rain, against New Zealand, in the previous eighteen months, there is no telling what he might already have achieved. With time on his side and a return to a full Test programme, he could prove Sunil Gavaskar right and rewrite the records.

  Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar was born in Bombay on 24 April 1973, and, since childhood, has trodden a steady, almost inevitable, path to greatness. He attended the city’s Sharadashram Vidyamandir school, where the Harris Memorial Challenge Shield, a competition for under-seventeens, provided the chance to bat for hours. From the age of twelve, when he scored his first century for the school and came to notice as a special talent, he indulged himself. When fourteen, he compiled not-out scores of 207, 329 and 346 in the space of five innings, one of them contributing to an unbroken partnership of 664 with Vinod Kambli, a record in any form of cricket.

  He was 16 years and 205 days old when he made his Test debut, in November 1989, in the National Stadium in Karachi – for a young Indian, perhaps the most fiery baptism of all. The following year, at Old Trafford, he hit his first Test century – not a scintillating innings, but an exercise in technique, concentration and application beyond his tender years, which saved a game that might have been lost. Had it come thirty-one days earlier, he would have been the youngest century-maker in Test history. During the winter of 1991–2, he went to Australia, where they still talk in awe of the centuries he scored in Sydney and in Perth.

  A few days after his nineteenth birthday, Tendulkar came back to England: to Yorkshire, no less, as the county’s first overseas player. It would have been a massive responsibility for anyone, let alone a teenager from India, and it did not quite work. Tendulkar assumed the mantle conscientiously, and posed with cloth cap and pint of bitter, impressing colleagues and supporters alike with his understanding of public relations. But, in the end, he failed to come to terms with the county game, scoring only one century and barely scraping past 1,000 runs in his only season. Hindsight would tell him that it was part of his education, but a mistake nonetheless.

  In 1996 he returned to England, a teenage prodigy no longer, but a seasoned Test batsman fit to stand alongside his first hero, Gavaskar. The pair have much in common: Gavaskar was slight of build and, of necessity, a supreme judge of length. Tendulkar, too, is short. There is a lot of bottom hand, but he drives strongly, on the rise, such is his strength of wrist and the control in his hands, while he is devastating off his legs, pulls well and – given good bounce – can cut wide bowling to ribbons. If the delicate and unexpected talents of Sourav Ganguly provided a distraction last season, then Tendulkar’s two hundreds in three Tests were ample demonstration of the team’s premier batsman leading from the front. The first of them – at Edgbaston, where he made 122 out of 219 – was a stunning display of virtuosity in adversity.

  In August, aged twenty-three, Tendulkar succeeded Mohammad Azharuddin as captain of his country. Had he craved it and pursued it with a passion, he would surely have got the job earlier, perhaps even while a teenager. Rather, it was a position that was being held in abeyance until the time was right. His leadership has a firm base of experience to it now. His first Test in charge was against Australia. He made 10 and 0 but India won, just as one almost assumed they would. Some things just seem part of a wider plan.

  SURESH MENON

  Tendulkar of the World (1999)

  At twenty-five, Sachin Tendulkar is like the Taj Mahal. There is nothing new to be said about either. Still, there are two strains worth pursuing. His impact abroad, and what it means to be Bradmanesque. In nearly a decade of international cricket, Tendulkar has done what no other Indian has – ensured that in his fans’ minds, there is a split between his performance and that of his country. Even when Sunil Gavaskar was making centuries in lost causes, he didn’t evoke that kind of response. It is almost as if fans are saying: ‘The result doesn’t matter, so long as Tendulkar makes his runs.’ In one-day cricket, there’s a link between the two – when Tendulkar scores, India wins – hence the prayers of Indian expatriates wherever he plays. But the exclusivity is disappearing. Tendulkar is moving out of the confines imposed by nationality, and is seen as that rare sporting idol, the universal hero. In this he’s closer to basketball’s Michael Jordan than any cricketer.

  The India–Pakistan rivalry is still strong, but even in Sharjah, where it was stifling, some of the intensity has gone. Tendulkar can take the credit for this, for suggesting that a loss to Pakistan is not the end of the world. There is great joy in the Pakistani sections of the crowd at the Sharjah Stadium when Tendulkar is dismissed, but, I suspect much regret too. People come as much to see their country win, as to see Tendulkar bat.

  Some Pakistani friends of mine have, without being aware of it, repeated the modern version of Neville Cardus’s prayer. Cardus was an Englishman, of course, but he revered the Australian great Victor Trumper. To reconcile patriotism with hero worship he would pray: ‘Lord, let Trumper score a hundred for Australia in England’s win.’

  The ideal solution, thus, for many Pakistani spectators is for Tendulkar to score a hundred and Pakistan to win (leaving patriotism unstretched). In recent years, the most popular Indian cricketers abroad have been Sunil Gavaskar (in the West Indies they sang calypsos about him), Kapil Dev, Bishan Bedi (in England, Jim Laker said his idea of paradise was Lord’s in the sunshine, Ray Lindwall bowling at one end, Bedi at the other), B. S. Chandrashekhar (in Melbourne, where he had Test figures of 6 for 52 twice in an India win, they’re still trying to figure him out).

  These players have been fussed over, loved, respected, but there was always an air of condescension, for they did things that weren’t easily grasped. They were oriental stereotypes, with supple wrists and boundless enthusiasm, and an air of mystery. Tendulkar, on the other hand, is easily understood in Anglo-Saxon terms. He can be explained in terms that are English, Australian, West Indian, South African. If Steve Waugh, for example, had a better eye and more strokes, he could be Tendulkar who isn’t a stereotype, but demonstrates what’s possible if Anglo-Saxon batsmanship were carried to its heights . . .

  Over the years, Tendulkar, who gives of his cricketing talent so generously, has learned to hold back as a person. He presents a dignified, statesman-like image to the public. In private he can be fun, and speak unguardedly, but in public he will not put a foot wrong. The cultivated aloofness is a shield any icon must wear against exploitation. That was Don Bradman’s fate too. He had to be Bradman at all times, just like Tendulkar has to be Tendulkar at all times. The comparison with Bradman is inevitable. Both acted as the repository for all knowledge of batting available till their time.

  Tendulkar is, like Bradman was, a one-stop shop where state-of-the-art batsmanship is on display. You could go to different displays for specifics like the cover drive or the cut or the on drive or the pull – or you could get them all under one roof, as it were, with Tendulkar.

  The obverse side of such near-perfection is there’s no single shot with which he is associated. Bradman’s defining shot might have been the pull; he sometimes finished facing the wicketkeeper at the end of it. But Tendulkar’s? The straight drive off the fast bowler with hardly any feet movement? The variations on the on-driving theme? The flat-batted swat through cover? At sixteen, Tendulkar was a finished product, in the manner of Ernest Hemingway, who found his voice at twenty-one and didn’t need to work on it. The man Hemingway was indistinguishable from the boy Hemingway.

  In Peshawar nine years ago, the boy Tendulkar, then not a serious contender for the one-day series, made 53 from 18 balls hitting leg-spinner Abdul Qadir for 27 runs in one over. The first two sixes cleared the stadium; the third exhibited a perfect marriage of youthful exuberance and mature self-confidence. As Tendulkar stepped out, he realized he was not to the pitch of the ball. He was, technically, beaten – yet went
through with the shot, relying on his strong forearms, and a natural sense of timing to see him through.

  Compare that with his blistering knocks against Shane Warne last year, or his last innings in Sharjah against a marauding Zimbabwean Olonga. Again, he was beaten by the ball which he hit for six – nothing had changed in a decade, for nothing needed to change. ‘The best is yet to come’ sort of adage holds true for Tendulkar only statistically. Yes, he will emerge the highest run-getter in either form of the game (Test cricket willing); he will get a double-hundred and more.

  He will be using the same mixture, though: only the proportions will be different. ‘Tendulkarine’ is an adjective awaiting entry into dictionaries.

  Watching Benaud Bowl

  Leg-spinners pose problems much like love,

  Requiring commitment, the taking of a chance.

  Halfway deludes; the bold advance.

  Right back, there’s time to watch

  Developments, though perhaps too late.

  It’s not spectacular, but can conciliate.

  Instinctively romantics move towards,

  Preventing complexities by their embrace,

  Batsman and lover embarked as overlords.

  ALAN ROSS

  LITTLE

  HEROES

  Having doffed our hats to the true greats of the game, let us now praise less famous men. Our ‘Little Heroes’ section begins with a charming recollection of an early tour of England by a side of Australian Aboriginals. A century later another tour was organized to commemorate the first. When the members of this latter side went to meet John Arlott, the great writer and broadcaster remarked, ‘I could have taken you for a regular Australian side – except for your manners.’