It was time for the final. M S Dhoni had a key decision to make before the match -- a no-brainer for many -- should he pick Ashwin or Sreesanth? I had no tuppence to add. I had my own dilemma to grapple with. While the FIFA World Cup was all about choosing a team to back, the Cricket World Cup shooed in something more subtle; I do bleed blue.
Being a sports fan is a bit like going on a trek; it's a voluntary exercise in exertion, albeit solely emotional. Like all treks, each one has the choice of picking from amongst trails that differ in their ability to deplete/inspire dread and awe. From experience, I can vouchsafe that resorting to reason during a match is usually a good way to mitigate the heartburn in the event of an unfavorable result for one's team. The trade-off, of course, is that a victory for the team becomes less exhilarating!
Yes, India were in the finals. They had defeated the mighty Australians and the fickle Pakistanis en route. Yet, the Indians - having got a close glimpse of the Cup prior to their last final appearance in 2003 - had cowered, and the Lankans have always been formidable. So, I had to choose between reason and reckless cheering for Team India. I picked the latter.
While Team India had their mettle tested in the match, my resolve was tested right from the toss. MSD certainly believed he had won the toss, and if the match referee hadn't heard the call, he shouldn't have been checking as to what side of the coin was up. Inevitably, MSD lost the toss and India were to field first. He had chosen the latter of his two options as well. I reconciled myself to backing the bowlers, even Sreesanth. All said and done, India's winning the Cup was the only essential.
India did start well with the ball. Yet, one could suspect that the Lankans were being circumspect as they tried to prize their wickets. An assault toward the end of their inning was imminent. India did pick wickets every now and then, and at one stage, 250 seemed to be the score they might have to get to prevent the Cup from leaving Indian shores. A final in Bollywood's backyard couldn't be devoid of drama, could it? Sri Lanka's top four batsmen, with their form and experience, were expected to shape their team's prospects in the final; and when the first three failed, it was upto Mahela to marshal the middle-order. He began his inning at a near run-a-ball, and finished it with a flourish. India put in one of their better fielding shifts, but Mahela cut gaps through the field with the composure of a surgeon and the ingenuity of a tattoo artist. The changes in field placement didn't amount to much; the futility was akin to that of a cloud trying to desperately cover the sun, only to find beams of light emerging at its contours through its gaps. Yet, Mahela ensured that the white-leather ball was not lacerated and its seam had not become unseemly as he went on to score an 84-ball hundred. Coincidentally, Zaheer Khan, for the first time in the tournament, floundered in his final spell; India had chased the Cup all the way to the Wankhede, and now had to chase a target of 275.
The Indian openers, Sachin Tendulkar and Virender Sehwag, walked into a cauldron of cacophony. The roar, though, turned into a rumble as the Slinger snared Sehwag leg-before. It seemed ominous, but we, India, had to believe. In the interval between the innings and a little into the beginning of the Indian one, I was busy swapping channels. I watched Manchester United portray resilience and tenacity as they overturned a 2-goal deficit to win 4-2. Buoyed, I turned to the Indian batting in the hope that India might do a United; and Sachin, through some confident strokes, was doing his best to rake up the runs, and raise a racket. Malinga, though, squelched the spectator spirit again, as he dismissed the Master Blaster.
Hopes had hit an ebb, and the desolation divided the drawing rooms and the stadium. For once, I wasn't ready to resign myself to a defeat; not with so much of India's batting line-up yet to take to the field. The prayers might have been in different languages, but the 330 million odd deities were being supplicated to fulfill a single desire: that Team India may continue to believe and play their best cricket. India's top-ranked ODI batsman, Virat Kohli, and Gautam Gambhir calmed their own nerves and that of a Cup-craving country. Every boundary enjoyed a loud cheer, as did many a scampered two. Dilshan eventually got rid of Virat with a scintillating piece of fielding off his own bowling. To everyone's surprise, the Indian captain walked in with his willow.
After nearly gifting Dilshan a caught-and-bowled opportunity, MSD slipped into a sort of poise that precluded the possibility of an Indian defeat. As his partnership with Gambhir thrived, with Sri Lanka seemingly losing grip of their own fate, every run was accompanied by whistles, applause and joyous cries. Gambhir was inching towards a grand ton, but the wait was apparently irksome, and he was bowled on 97, with India still fifty-plus runs off the target. Yuvraj Singh was the next man in.
To borrow from Sir Alex's vocabulary, it was squeaky bum time! It was also the time for superstitions. At our home, neither would the tele's volume be turned down, nor would I stop clapping every run, irrespective of its being off the bat, the pad or even the generosity of the bowler and his fielders. The simultaneous analysis was not going to stop anyway!
When Dhoni hit that picturesque stroke and his gaze followed the ball over the boundary, presenting the scribes with a photo op, it was the cue for rapture. Dhoni, with an undefeated 91 that was amassed through some sublime batting, had won India their second World Cup. Jubilation, exultation, ecstasy, rhapsody, joy, euphoria - bring on the synonyms. It was an occasion to feel, rather than know, the meanings of these words. An involuntary applause that lasted a couple of minutes, at least, was my only reaction.
Being reckless had paid off, and how. No, I am not speaking of the Indian team; and that's partly because I am an egoistic sports fan, but mainly because there is no way I can fathom Team India's fervor, frisson or felicity. Yes, there was a good chance that this post might have been bitter and a berating, but the allure of that triumphant moment was too much to be traded for reason. Well, I guess, that is true of all moments. Thank you, Team India.
PS: The title is meant to be a reverential remembrance of Immanuel Kant's work. No offense intended.
Being a sports fan is a bit like going on a trek; it's a voluntary exercise in exertion, albeit solely emotional. Like all treks, each one has the choice of picking from amongst trails that differ in their ability to deplete/inspire dread and awe. From experience, I can vouchsafe that resorting to reason during a match is usually a good way to mitigate the heartburn in the event of an unfavorable result for one's team. The trade-off, of course, is that a victory for the team becomes less exhilarating!
Yes, India were in the finals. They had defeated the mighty Australians and the fickle Pakistanis en route. Yet, the Indians - having got a close glimpse of the Cup prior to their last final appearance in 2003 - had cowered, and the Lankans have always been formidable. So, I had to choose between reason and reckless cheering for Team India. I picked the latter.
While Team India had their mettle tested in the match, my resolve was tested right from the toss. MSD certainly believed he had won the toss, and if the match referee hadn't heard the call, he shouldn't have been checking as to what side of the coin was up. Inevitably, MSD lost the toss and India were to field first. He had chosen the latter of his two options as well. I reconciled myself to backing the bowlers, even Sreesanth. All said and done, India's winning the Cup was the only essential.
India did start well with the ball. Yet, one could suspect that the Lankans were being circumspect as they tried to prize their wickets. An assault toward the end of their inning was imminent. India did pick wickets every now and then, and at one stage, 250 seemed to be the score they might have to get to prevent the Cup from leaving Indian shores. A final in Bollywood's backyard couldn't be devoid of drama, could it? Sri Lanka's top four batsmen, with their form and experience, were expected to shape their team's prospects in the final; and when the first three failed, it was upto Mahela to marshal the middle-order. He began his inning at a near run-a-ball, and finished it with a flourish. India put in one of their better fielding shifts, but Mahela cut gaps through the field with the composure of a surgeon and the ingenuity of a tattoo artist. The changes in field placement didn't amount to much; the futility was akin to that of a cloud trying to desperately cover the sun, only to find beams of light emerging at its contours through its gaps. Yet, Mahela ensured that the white-leather ball was not lacerated and its seam had not become unseemly as he went on to score an 84-ball hundred. Coincidentally, Zaheer Khan, for the first time in the tournament, floundered in his final spell; India had chased the Cup all the way to the Wankhede, and now had to chase a target of 275.
The Indian openers, Sachin Tendulkar and Virender Sehwag, walked into a cauldron of cacophony. The roar, though, turned into a rumble as the Slinger snared Sehwag leg-before. It seemed ominous, but we, India, had to believe. In the interval between the innings and a little into the beginning of the Indian one, I was busy swapping channels. I watched Manchester United portray resilience and tenacity as they overturned a 2-goal deficit to win 4-2. Buoyed, I turned to the Indian batting in the hope that India might do a United; and Sachin, through some confident strokes, was doing his best to rake up the runs, and raise a racket. Malinga, though, squelched the spectator spirit again, as he dismissed the Master Blaster.
Hopes had hit an ebb, and the desolation divided the drawing rooms and the stadium. For once, I wasn't ready to resign myself to a defeat; not with so much of India's batting line-up yet to take to the field. The prayers might have been in different languages, but the 330 million odd deities were being supplicated to fulfill a single desire: that Team India may continue to believe and play their best cricket. India's top-ranked ODI batsman, Virat Kohli, and Gautam Gambhir calmed their own nerves and that of a Cup-craving country. Every boundary enjoyed a loud cheer, as did many a scampered two. Dilshan eventually got rid of Virat with a scintillating piece of fielding off his own bowling. To everyone's surprise, the Indian captain walked in with his willow.
After nearly gifting Dilshan a caught-and-bowled opportunity, MSD slipped into a sort of poise that precluded the possibility of an Indian defeat. As his partnership with Gambhir thrived, with Sri Lanka seemingly losing grip of their own fate, every run was accompanied by whistles, applause and joyous cries. Gambhir was inching towards a grand ton, but the wait was apparently irksome, and he was bowled on 97, with India still fifty-plus runs off the target. Yuvraj Singh was the next man in.
To borrow from Sir Alex's vocabulary, it was squeaky bum time! It was also the time for superstitions. At our home, neither would the tele's volume be turned down, nor would I stop clapping every run, irrespective of its being off the bat, the pad or even the generosity of the bowler and his fielders. The simultaneous analysis was not going to stop anyway!
When Dhoni hit that picturesque stroke and his gaze followed the ball over the boundary, presenting the scribes with a photo op, it was the cue for rapture. Dhoni, with an undefeated 91 that was amassed through some sublime batting, had won India their second World Cup. Jubilation, exultation, ecstasy, rhapsody, joy, euphoria - bring on the synonyms. It was an occasion to feel, rather than know, the meanings of these words. An involuntary applause that lasted a couple of minutes, at least, was my only reaction.
Being reckless had paid off, and how. No, I am not speaking of the Indian team; and that's partly because I am an egoistic sports fan, but mainly because there is no way I can fathom Team India's fervor, frisson or felicity. Yes, there was a good chance that this post might have been bitter and a berating, but the allure of that triumphant moment was too much to be traded for reason. Well, I guess, that is true of all moments. Thank you, Team India.
PS: The title is meant to be a reverential remembrance of Immanuel Kant's work. No offense intended.
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