Another early mentor

 

The formidable figure of Father Beckers came into my life quite by accident. But an apparently casual remark of his became my mantra as the months flowed into years.

 

We in school in the 1960s had nothing to do with him. Although we were quite familiar with the sight of a man in pyjama and khadi panjabi cycling in and out of Xavier’s, the school students were in no way connected with him. The well-built man with the receding hairline gave the impression of a man in a hurry. He had no time to waste. We did not bother; nor did he.

 

Ironically, perhaps, I first met him beyond the gates of Xavier’s. I was walking down to the maidan with my cricket kit in the afternoon just before the last period of class. In a grave voice he asked, “Missing class?” I nodded and added, “Yes, father, with permission from the prefect I am off to cricket practice.” Instantly his face lit up, “Ah! I see. Good. Try to utilize that activity for others benefit.” To be honest I did not realize the import of those words on that day.

 

Years later when I was playing serious cricket, he was to tell me on one occasion, “Raju, are you involving people into cricket? Why don’t you coach those who do not have the opportunity of formal coaching?” This was the last thing on my mind that afternoon. Here I was trying to put bat to ball in the best way I could, but a voice wanted me to assist others less fortunate.

 

 In time when my active cricket was over, it was the voice of Fr Beckers that commanded me to take up active cricket coaching, especially of children who were not privileged. Was he a visionary who could see beyond time and space?

 

Fr Beckers never taught in school. Chemistry was his forte. He made valencies and compounds palatable to generations of St Xavier’s College students. But more than mixtures and formulae, it was his chemistry with the young people that mattered most to him. He was in his elements with the social service activities of students in college. He was the catalyst of blood donation camps in the city as well as the initiator of schemes that motivated people to donate eyes and bodies after death. He had too many, just too many activities to keep himself engaged.

 

One of his greatest qualities was to make others feel relaxed and adequate in his presence. The huge man of handsome features never created an aura of invincibility or impregnability. He never cared for the prosperous and the prominent. The truth is that he had far more time for young students coming to St Xavier’s College from vernacular backgrounds as well as from the handicapped sections of society. He actually found Xaverians from the school to be too namby-pamby and self-seeking for his community-oriented outlook in life.

 

Once I had asked him about the pressures of living. He laughed, “Raju, when you have seen war, starvation, floods, drought and the torture faced daily by women and children, nothing else is pressure in comparison.” To my dying day, I would remember that we who are born with silver spoons have no right to talk about pressures and tensions in life.

 

The bi-cycle was his constant companion. The rugged man in sandals or Hawaiian chappals would be seen all over his favourite city of Calcutta. He was called “Babu” by his host of admirers. But other terms of endearment like Babu-da, Babu-chacha, Babu-kaku were not uncommon. Once two of us, Subrata Mitra and myself, approached him for guidance to become Jesuit priests. He casually looked at us and said, “Just be normal human beings. No one needs a tag to serve others or God?”

 

That was typical of Fr Beckers. He was far above sectarianism, parochialism, any distinction between people. I doubt if he ever even thought of nationalities and boundaries. He was what Tagore had in mind when the great man wrote on the Universal Man. He was the epitome of ideal and character. A man to admire. A man to emulate. An icon of rare fibre.

 

The common man on the street was his real friend: the sweeper, the rickshaw-puller and the puchka-wallah. Fr Beckers was the one in a million. He knew not arrogance, nor conceit. If it was the chemistry of elements and formulae he taught in classrooms, he personified the chemistry of life to people fortunate enough to cross him.

 

His was a life free of falsehood, of dishonesty. He did not seek publicity, nor worried about popularity. The baritone voice never quivered: from it emerged encouraging words on the harsh realities of life. The gentle soul did far more in one lifetime than many of us would ever visualize. May God always be with his humane soul.

 

Once I went to his 2^nd-floor room and confided, “Father, I want to commit suicide!” Without even looking at me the reply was, “Lovely idea. Just jump out of the window. Once decision taken, don’t waste time.” Seeing me hesitate, he said, “Don’t you realize you are like me? We are total non-entities. Even if we die, it will not make any difference to anybody.”

“But father I am not making any headway in life. I do not want to live.” I was in tears.

With a hand on my shoulder, the giant whispered, “Son, think of the millions who are worse off than you are. You have food, roof and clothes. They have nothing. Live for them. Try to do something for them. Now, go back to class and prepare yourself.”

 

Those simple words changed my life…

 

Moti Nandi   Part 2

The eminent author Moti Nandi and I had nothing in common. Two extremities just bonded. My deep respect was reciprocated by his unconditional love. He gave me space as much that I did not stray…

Shakti Chattopadhyay, the famous poet, had a great liking for me only because I happened to be the cricket captain of his favourite club, Mohun Bagan. For Shaktida, neither Bengal nor India colours meant anything. His interest in sports began and ended with Mohun Bagan! Always addressed me as ‘captain’.

 Once Shaktida asked me, “Captain, I will take you to my drinking-den and spend time with my friends.” Motida very firmly said, “No. Raju will not drink with you in that place. You come with us to a proper club.” Shaktida, not to be outdone, replied, “Ok, I shall not force. But I have promised my friends that I shall bring the Mohun Bagan captain over one day. Now I will have to go back on my word.” Motida solved the matter in his distinctive style, “Raju and I will go with you, say ‘hullo’ to your friends and depart.”

To say this to Shaktida required tremendous guts. Shaktida had a bohemian approach to life and was a very outspoken personality. He believed in extremes. But on this occasion Motida’s firmness won the day. Motida understood that I would not be comfortable in the company of Shaktida’s friends. Accordingly the ever-thoughtful Motida took the decision to help a young man in dire need of guidance.

Motida made me write so very frequently that many people, particularly peer players and sports journalists, became quite jealous of me. I told him if I could go a little slow. He was amazed, “Why? Are you not enjoying writing.” I told him the real reason. He laughed, “Raju, do not worry about anybody. Why should their inferiority complex bother you? You just keep writing as long as you enjoy writing. You have to write a lot more.” He did not mention the reasons why I should write ‘a lot more’ but added, “You have a natural flair in English. A spontaneous and racy style, which I appreciate. Never try to copy anyone. You don’t need to.”

 After I had produced some very hard-hitting articles on cricket issues, Motida remarked, “Excellent. This is exactly what I expect from you. But always remember you have a pen in hand. The person you are writing about is unarmed and cannot hit you back. Never, never praise or attack anyone because of personal reasons. ” This is the kind of guidance Motida blessed me with.

Once after I had written 2 articles in one day, he asked me to produce another. I told him, “Am I not over-doing it?” He answered, “Certainly not. You have to keep writing on cricket till your last breath. This is the difference between you and others.” It seemed he never found any weakness in me!

Another time around 11 in the evening when I was sleeping soundly, the phone rang. From the other end Motida’s voice was distinct, “Raju, write an obituary on Dattu Phadkar now. He expired just a few hours back. I want the obit in tomorrow’s page. The ABP car will reach you in 20 minutes. Give the article to the driver. Do not keep him waiting. I am staying back at the office for the article.” I mumbled, “Am I the right person to write on Dattubhai?” He just uttered, “I know whom I have asked,” and put the receiver down. Can one imagine a celebrity sports-editor waiting for an article from a novice at midnight?

Next day Shantipriyo Bandyopadhyay, then the sports editor of Jugantar, phoned me, “Raju, an outstanding obit. By the way, when did you write it?” When I told him about Motida’s 11 pm command, Shantida said, “Moti really knows his man.”

Motida never liked sportsmen to write. Always maintained, “Most of them do not know what to write. In any case they do not write themselves. They utter a few irrelevant comments and the sports desk has to make a big story out of it. Apart from one or two, others write rubbish!”

Motida was always very categorical and frank. He had no time to impress or to flatter. He would be brutally forthright no matter the scenario. No respecter of the undeserving and lacking tact, Moti Nandi always vehemently maintained, even at public gatherings, much to my embarrassment, “Apart from Gavaskar and Raju, I do not find reading articles by other cricketers worthwhile!”

He could be very firm in his views, “When one goes through Charles Fry, Learie Constantine, Don Bradman and Jack Fingleton of the pre-war period and then in the later decades Frank Worrel, Richie Benaud, Geoff Boycott and Mike Brearley one gets to realize the huge difference with the rest of cricketers-turned-writers.” For his very straight opinions, he was disliked – of course, behind closed doors – by his local contemporaries.

Apart from Neville Cardus, his favourite author was the Caribbean author CLR James, “Raju, your suggested book Beyond a Boundary opened my eyes to the fascinating socio-economic world of cricket. Earlier I preferred Cardus for his literary flavor. Even as a reporter Cardus did not report very accurately. He used to write in a trance with literature and characterization in full flow. But James brought in a different dimension to cricket writing. Now my favourites are Cardus and James. I owe you a debt.” So very typical of a well-rounded personality. Extremely fearless and generous, he suffered from neither superiority complex nor inferiority. He had no hesitation in acknowledging his gratitude to people who were nowhere near him in comparison.

Another issue he hated was taking quotes from players and administrators. “Why? Why should we ask them for quotes if we have our own journalist at the venue? If the journalist cannot think by himself and produce a worthwhile piece, then why is he there at all? Is he a courier or what? The quotes of players and administrators are invariably biased and full of irrelevant nonsense.”

Motida was vehemently against the idea of giving ‘honorary doctorates’ to people, “Why should prominent people, including industrialists, musicians, authors and sportsmen, be given honorary doctorate titles, I fail to understand.” He quite rightly thought that unless one went through the discipline and system of acquiring an academic doctorate degree, he should not be offered one.

Dear readers, please note that Rahul Dravid happened to be among those exceptional individuals who refused to accept the ‘honorary doctorate’ title conferred on them.

Motida admired his contemporaries Rajan Bala, Kishore Bhimani and KN Prabhu but was adamant, “Why do they ‘ghost’ books for others? Just because they are paid huge sums of money to become ghost-writers?”

It is true that these very prominent authors invariably ‘ghosted’ for others. Motida was extremely stern, “If a person cannot write himself, it is not another man’s job to write on his behalf. Why should an author become a proxy on behalf of a parasite?” Strong words but very true, no doubt. But, to be honest, cricketers are known to be very stingy! Did they “really pay huge sum of money” to their ‘ghosts-writers’? I doubt it.

Moti Nandi would not accept gifts or invitations from anyone, either organizers or players. This was the image that set him apart. For a vernacular daily sports journalist to get the kind of respect Motida received around the country was nothing short of a miracle. They all would come and pay their respects to him.

 I remember Dicky Rutnagur – a widely acclaimed senior Indian journalist – once saying, “Moti, with a famous novelist like you in the Press enclosure, our status goes up. We feel honoured by your presence.” Never heard of such a reaction for any other sports journalist. Sundar Rajan, Wadhwaney, KN Prabhu and Rajan Bala – doyen among sports journalists – too had the highest regard for his knowledge, analyses and principles.

On another occasion at our terrace we had a small party of journalists who had come to Calcutta to cover a Test match. Motida as usual was on time. The late-comers as soon as they entered and saw Motida waiting apologized for getting delayed! Marathi writer and prominent author Bal Karmakar told all those present that translation of Motida’s sports-fiction were bestsellers in Maharashtra. Wonder if any other vernacular sports writer can come close to such popularity.

He knew the art of converting an ordinary subject into an object of curiosity. He knew the art of gripping the readers’ attention.  He always kept his backbone firm and straight. He always maintained, “The way the media personnel are going about, our credibility and integrity will suffer in the years to come.” What a visionary he was! How did he visualize the contemporary scenario almost 40 years back?

He was a fearless journalist. He still remains among the foremost of short-story writers in the Bengali language. His books have been translated into many different languages and he has earned great renown. But till the last day of his life he remained an epitome of virtue. 

To me, however, primarily he will always remain my affectionate teacher. The man who helped me to put pen to paper. The man who encouraged me to stick to my individuality. The man who gave me courage and confidence. Most importantly, he gave me genuine affection and guidance.

The great author even had the magnanimity to dedicate a book of his in my name! The book is a biography of Sir Donald Bradman. This is certainly among the highest honour I ever hope to achieve. I must be the luckiest man in the world to earn such unconditional love from my teacher!

Motida, pronam neben.

 

Moti Nandi    Part 1

Today 29 July is Guru Purnima, the birthday of the great author of Mahabharata, Ved Vyas. On this holy occasion I can think only of a man who was to transform my life way back in 1972. He moulded and motivated me into putting my thoughts in black and white. He gave me the opportunity and the confidence to write whatever I spontaneously felt like.

He was an intellectual but did not believe in exhibiting his intellectualism. He was a novelist who preferred to pen masterful short-stories. The man was unique in his own way.

He did not have the looks to draw attention. Nor the bearing. Neither the flamboyance of a celebrity-author. He made no attempt to impress or to camouflage. His whole life was an open secret; totally transparent. He led no one; more important, allowed no one to do ‘dadagiri’ on him.

This person was none other than Moti Nandi. His humble family background was no impediment to his passion for literature. No obstacle, no circumstance could upset his determination to study Bankim, Sarat, Tagore in the original as well as Tolstoy, Homer and others in translation. He revelled in Neville Cardus and Somerset Maugham.

Such a conscientious effort could not go down in vain. His short-stories began to appear in leading magazines and created an immediate impact. He became without meaning to be the O Henry of Bengali literature. Although his forte was short-stories, invariably publishers rushed to have the rights to publish his novels as well. Nonida Not Out, Striker, Stopper and Coney among others had the readers in total thrall. 

The man without any so-called ‘background’, without any so-called ‘backing’ was now the cynosure of the voracious but highly discerning Bengali-language readership. Even cine-films began to be made based on his fabulous sports-oriented fictions. His famous line ‘Fight Coney, fight,’ has become a quote in Bengali idiom. The great artiste Soumitro Chattopadhyay’s histrionic skills made the quote widely popular.

 He was the ideal man to write on sports. He had tried his hand at cricket at a maidan club, Star Sporting, and found that he had very little talent. But he had seen enough of the maidan life to realize that the virgin territory needed to be acknowledged in print. His novels and short stories were full of the real world of Calcutta maidan sport with its awkward scenarios, its challenges, its corruption, its do-gooders and its fabulous humour.

Motida came into my life under peculiar circumstances. At Howrah Station, the East Zone team boarded a first-class compartment on its way to Delhi. Before the train left almost all the senior players were seen chatting with a man at the platform. I had no idea who he was and did not bother. As luck would have it, while travelling I met the man on the corridor outside our coupe. He asked me, “Are you not Raju Mukherji?” I answered in the affirmative. He continued, “Rather surprising. Raju is an unusual first name for a Bengali.” I mentioned my actual first name was Satyabrata and told him that the nickname Rajon became Raju in the cricket arena!

When I asked him his name, he mentioned it with a faint, modest smile. I asked him if he was connected with cricket as most players seemed to know him. He just said, “I happen to work in the sports department of a Bengali daily.”   Then he asked me to accompany him to the coupe beside mine where his berth was. We chatted late into the night and most of the conversation was restricted to my personal life, my academic background and nothing at all about cricket.

Suddenly the huge frame of Rajan Bala appeared on the door of Motida’s coupe. “Ah! I see Raju is here. Moti, do not spoil him. He is my boy.” Motida smiled, “If I have assessed him right, he will never be anybody’s boy. I have as much right as you have to converse with him.” I could not agree more. Rajanda – my benefactor in many ways – laughed, “Moti, you assessment is 100% correct. Ok, Raju, you take my berth and chat with Moti, I shall go and lie down on your berth.” Matter settled with ease with two of the finest sports journalists I would ever get to see.

Following day for hours I could not take my ears and eyes off him. We discussed politics, literature, religion and finally cricket. He asked, “Have you heard about Neville Cardus?” I nodded, “I have read all his books.” “How come?” he was really surprised.  “Well, my dad’s collection.” It seemed I had passed the first examination with distinction. As the day prolonged it was apparent to me that I was meeting a very modest gentleman of exceptional knowledge and memory.

In that first-class debut of mine against Bishen Bedi’s North Zone at Feroz Shah Kotla ground, Motida accepted me with all my superstitious follies. I preferred to bat in a torn shirt. Everybody discouraged me. But not Motida.  He was softly firm, “If Raju feels comfortable in that particular shirt, what’s wrong with it? There is no law against it!” A match-winning partnership with skipper Ambar Roy in a very low-scoring tie settled the matter and I continued to wear my ‘lucky’ shirt.

He seemed to like my company. We met often enough over the next decade during Bengal and East Zone matches. We discussed cricket of course, but more importantly he diverted my attention to various other topics. Little did I realize then that he was guiding me to become interested on a variety of subjects.

As my playing days were coming to an end, one day Motida suddenly asked, “Raju, would you like to be a writer?” I was truly stunned, “Motida, of course, I would love to but my written Bengali is definitely not up to the mark. I shall write heeji-beeji.” 

“Those are the exact words I want on ABP sports-page. You just relate the stories as you tell me.”

I was apprehensive, “Do you honestly think I am good enough to write for ABP?”

He nodded, “Yes, yes, you are a natural writer. I am very impressed by your articles in various publications. You just put down in print whatever you want to say in conversational Bengali. Do not think too much about spelling and vocabulary. I shall do the editing myself.”  For the next 20 years I became a regular columnist of ABP. The Telegraph, Sportsworld, Desh and Anandamela followed in quick succession as a freelancer.

One amazing incident goes back to the 1980s. I was covering a match at Mumbai. After sending the day’s report by telex from the post office, I realized that I had made a minor mistake. Desperately I tried to contact the ABP office at Calcutta. Those were non-mobile days. Finally around 10 pm I was able to establish contact with Motida. Very embarrassed, I apologized, “Motida, I have made a silly error. Please erase that point.” Moti, as cool as ever, laughed, “Raju, nobody reads your match reports apart from you! Don’t worry.” Immediately he put the receiver down. Felt very embarrassed because next morning I would lose my credibility with thousands of readers. I was very dejected with my stupidity. More so with Motida’s extremely cavalier attitude.

Next morning to my utter surprise, that particular point was corrected and an impeccable report was published. How did it happen?  Took me a while to realize the greatness of this genuine editor. He had the knowledge to identify my mistake and the magnanimity to rectify it. He had done the job much earlier than my late evening phone-call. What do you say about this famous celebrity-novelist who spent time and effort to help a novice find his feet?  How beautifully he signed off and dented my silly ego.

Motida could be brutally frank, especially if one tried to be too smart. Once at the ABP office, he ticked off the ABP editor by saying, “We are discussing CB Fry. Don’t interrupt with other topics.” The editor tried to reason, “I was trying to say that there are other cricketers too with Oxbridge background. Tiger Pataudi, for instance.” Motida flared up, “We are discussing a man who got a first-class in academics, world record holder in long jump and a double international in football and cricket.” The editor beat a hasty retreat.

Whatever little I have learnt about writing has been learnt at the feet of this wonderful human being. He took it upon himself to shield and guide me. Motida and I would spend hours over rum and peanuts at the Press Club. He always had four small pegs and no more. He was very particular that we both would pay for our own ‘drinks’. Excellent lessons of parameter and perspectives he taught me by sheer personal and practical examples.

He had very non-conventional insights. While discussing fame and awards related to writers, Motida was very categorical, “Trophies, titles, awards, film-themes mean nothing to me. Only when my books are pirated and sold on road-side stalls and by hawkers at discounted prices, I feel really happy. That means genuine readers appreciate me.” This is the forthright Motida at his best.

Another on Moti Nandi will follow next week. Cannot help it. He was the man who led me into putting thoughts into paper.

 Motida, bhalo thakben. Guru Pronam.

 

 

Bombay School of Cricket

Between 1920s and early 1980s, there was an acknowledged thought in cricket circles in India. The Bombay School of Cricket. None quite mentioned the admiration openly, but all cricketers grudgingly accepted the fact that Bombay played its cricket better than as well as differently from the rest of the country.

The thought did not restrict the territory to the metropolis only, but it extended to include the Bombay Presidency region. The approach of its players reflected the inherited wisdom of Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj: courage, skill, intelligence, planning, determination and patience. All six qualities were equally emphasized. This was particularly true throughout Maharashtra. Reams can be written on this but I shall restrict myself.

If Prof Deodhar laid the foundation at Pune, then the best exponents in the early days were the two Vijays, Merchant and Hazare. Next arrived Polly Umrigar and Vijay Manjrekar. Finally the great tradition rested on the broad shoulders of Sunil Gavaskar. No monopoly of any, all creeds contributed to the inheritance as the great patriot-warrior had always advocated.

By the time Sachin Tendulkar came to the forefront, the approach in Indian cricket had undergone transformation. The 1990s Bombay’s approach changed from the earlier nine decades. While discussing legendary players there is always a tendency to think that only the top players adhere to the regimen. No, not necessarily so. It is the average performers who best exemplify the picture. The tenacity of attrition and the courage to fight till the very end was certainly an influence of Shivaji Maharaj.

 All the best cricketers from the Maharashtra region had almost the same approach: Borde, Contractor, Wadekar, Chauhan, Hemant Kanitkar, Sudhir Naik, Ashok Mankad, Dilip Sardesai, among others. What about the ‘first-class’ performers? Yes, they too had the identical attitude of attrition. For me, two of the best examples would be Vijay Bhosle and Mahesh Sampat because I happened to be on the receiving end, once as the 12^th man and later as a player.

Bhosle the middle-order batter from Bombay would share the dressing room with men who had scored thousands of runs in Test cricket. He was least concerned about their heroics. He had no time to crib about frustrations, no inclination to copy others’ styles, no desire to impress the audience. He had come to fight. And fight he would in his own style and method. A Maratha by blood and guts.

Both Vijay Bhosle and Mahesh Sampat came to Calcutta to represent a Bombay team deprived of its stars who were serving India in international matches. It was the semi-final of the Ranji Trophy in 1970-71 at Eden.

But Bhosle (58) was least concerned about the historic venue or the greenish pitch. He never bothered about match situations and playing conditions. Hail, rain or sunshine Bhosle would not care. He had a sword in hand to defend his motherland with sweat and strength, bravery and blood. With limited means at his disposal, he planned and waited.

At the other end was Mahesh Sampath (141), a tenacious left-hander who had no time or inclination towards artistry. He was a blood-soaked warrior who would fight till his last breath. After an early collapse, the two of them through patience and perseverance helped their team to win from an almost lost cause. Much like the grand predecessor, who pioneered the guerilla warfare tactics to unseat strong opponents.

Six years later yet again Mahesh Sampath (93), again a semi-final at Eden, rescued Bombay from a certain defeat with remarkable determination. No fuss, no glamour, the unknown warrior resisted all our attempts to dislodge him. A rock that drew its inspiration from those brave Maratha warriors of yore.

Let us go back to Eden of 1970-71. A young Bengal spin bowler was making his first-class debut. Against the might of Bombay. Alok Bhattacharya was only 18. Hardly played any cricket at the competitive level. He was somewhat like Bhagawat Chandrasekhar. Unorthodox action with remarkable pace off the pitch for a spinner. He generally bowled fastish leg-spin which was very accurate but hardly turned. But his wristy off-spin would literally turn yards. That was his trump card, used with due diligence.

As Alok bowled to Bhosle, the experienced man played his fastish leg-spin with ease and seemed to have little trouble. However the first off-spin delivery he received absolutely bamboozled him as the ball pitched outside the off-stump, found the gap between bat and pad but just missed the leg stump. Bhosle gave Alok a calm, non-emotional eye to eye look.

Bhosle settled down to face the next ball. Then onwards, every delivery he faced he shouted “Leggie” or “Offie” as he played the ball! It was an unusual experience for all on the field. Inexperienced Alok in his own words, “I just could not concentrate while bowling to him. He seemed to know what I would do!” Bhosle took over the entire responsibility of tackling the unorthodox, deadly accurate spinner. Vijay Bhosle resorted to no abusive words or crude gestures. Only a cool stare to convey his domination.

 Both Sampath and Bhosle exemplified the true spirit of the Bombay School of Cricket like no other. I personally feel among other reasons, it is the rocky, hard soil of the region that makes these hardy warriors. It is the history of the brave Marathas that has inspired the Bombay School of Cricket.

 Sir Gary at Eden Gardens                                    

Just two names will appear in every cricket follower’s world XI: Donald George Bradman and Garfield St Aubrun Sobers. Forever they will be enshrined in the ultimate XI of Test cricketers.

Till 31^st December, 1958, we in Calcutta had not seen Gary Sobers. Had only known that he was the world record holder with 365 runs. And in the previous two Tests on this tour of India with Gerry Alexander’s West Indies team, he scored two hundreds, 142 not out at Bombay and 198 run out at Kanpur.

At Eden Gardens West Indies won the toss and batted.  Openers Hunte and Holt left early. At no. 3 handsome Rohan Kanhai walked in. As the 2^nd wicket fell, the crowd stood up in expectation of the man they had come to watch. In the NCC enclosure where I was, the spectators began to cheer “Sobers”, “Sobers”. The huge NCC score-board too put the name of Sobers on the appropriate space.

However as an eight-year old cricket-crazy youngster, I told my mom beside me that the player was not Gary Sobers but Collie Smith! The gentleman beside gave me a condescending smile and furrowed his eyebrows. As Smith took guard as a right-hander, the score-board changed the name and the gentleman gave me a warm pat on the back.

Kanhai scored a blistering 256, followed by Basil Butcher’s 103. In the meantime one left-handed artist –this time batting at number six – remained unbeaten on 106. The style of his languid walk, the grace of his movements captivated the Eden Gardens connoisseurs and the common man. Never seemed to hit the ball, merely caressed it.

 On reaching the landmark hundred, he raised his bat but lowered his head in a gesture of utmost modesty. What a lesson to learn. The West Indies with their free flowing mannerisms and smiling faces transformed Eden Gardens forever. Cricket at Eden was never the same again. The mad rush for Test match tickets at Calcutta began with Sobers and Kanhai, Hall and Gilchrist.

Next Sobers arrived with Jim Swanton’s XI followed by Mohun Bagan AC’s platinum jubilee match in 1964. On either occasion sheer artistry flowed till the customary century was recorded. Wherever he went around the cricketing world, his phenomenal performance was invariably overwhelmed by his lazy elegance and graceful gait.

Next time at Eden he was in 1966-67. Before the start of the 1^st day’s play Sobers, now the captain, was having a bat-ball ‘warm-up’ knock-about on the practice pitch without nets in front of the NCC enclosure. I was close to the scene holding onto the low fencing, gaping at him. What I saw was amazing to say the least.

 One of the reserves, Rex Collymore, a left-arm spinner was bowling to my cricketing God. He was softly pushing the ball back to the bowler. I was thunderstruck when I noticed he was using the narrow width of the bat! He was not using the broad blade of the bat but batting with the edge! Batting with the edge without being beaten even once! In all my experience never have I seen anybody else do this with such ease and elegance.

On the 2^nd day of the match, the CAB organizers sold more tickets than the accommodation available! The crowd went berserk. They climbed the low iron fencing around the ground and chased the police and the administrators. The day’s game had to be abandoned.

The West Indies players quite rightly were unwilling to continue the Test because they felt insecure. The local manager of the West Indies team was Dilip Ghosh, an erudite man and superlative administrator. He rushed to Sir Frank Worrell, who was on a lecture tour at Jadavpur University.

Worrell impressed upon his protégé Sobers that the representatives of West Indies Federation had to be impeccable guests. The match continued. Within months, Sir Frank was no more.

The greatness of two cricketing knights – one earlier in 1964 and one later in 1975 – showed the world what cricket and international relations were all about. They were the two pioneer personalities whose selfless sportsmanship made the West Indies men the most respected and the best cricketers in the world.

Met Sir Gary just once, at Nottinghamshire CCC in 1977. I was in the 2^nd XI while the genius had finished his superlative career with the county club in 1974. His prime message was, “Enjoy the game and give enjoyment to others.” Wherever he went he was the foremost ambassador of cricket. His generosity, his genius and his sportsmanship are beyond words and ages.

 Sobers needed no appellation or awards. But generations bowed their heads to him and hailed him as “The Greatest”. The One and Only.

 

 

India & Football World Cup

13 July is a very important date in the world football calendar. On this day in 1930 began the football world cup at Montevideo between France and Mexico. The first nation to host was Uruguay.

 Indian football was still unheard of in the western world. No one thought of inviting India to take part. However 1947 altered the whole scenario. With independence came an invitation from the Olympic authorities to take part in the 1948 London Olympics.

India sent a team to London. The Olympic authorities were dazed to learn that the Indians would play in barefeet! This was against all norms. The world had moved from the cradle days to adulthood. In India, who cared?

 In India we thought that we were doing something heroic by playing without boots against ‘booted’ opponents. We had no exposure to the outside world of football: its technicalities, its strategies, its methods. We actually thought – and some still feel – that we were doing something very courageous!

We were adamant that we would play in the Olympic in barefeet. Although vehemently against the whole concept of one team in barefeet and all the other teams in boots, the hosts Britain convinced the Olympic committee to relent.

The real reason was of course international relations. India had just got their political independence. The former colonial masters Britain to be politically correct allowed India to play in barefeet!

In fact, India did quite well. Lost the only match they played by 2 goals to 1 against France. India missed two penalties as well. The Indians actually returned with head held high! They actually thought they had shown the world that the game was ‘FOOTBALL’ and not ‘BOOTBALL’!

In 1950 India received an invitation from FIFA to take part in the football world cup at Brazil in 1950. But FIFA made it clear that it would stand ‘no nonsense’ about ‘barefeet’ football. India protested but to no avail. FIFA was very firm and did not have to prove any political correctness to anybody. Thus the first invitation went down the drain.

The 2^nd invitation to the world cup in 1954 at Switzerland came from FIFA. This time our over-smart football administrators could not send the acceptance letter on time!. FIFA rightfully was firm and had no time for India’s lethargy and false sense of importance.

In between the two world cups, India again went to the Olympics at Helsinki in 1952. Again the lenient Olympic authorities allowed India to play without boots. This time, however, the ‘barefeet heroes’ were thrashed 10 goals to 1 by Yugoslavia. You may well ask the reason for this disastrous defeat considering that they had played quite well in barefeet in 1948.

The issue is very simple. In 1948 at London, fortunately the ground was bone dry and in barefeet one could play normally. But in 1952 the playing surface was slushy and it was impossible to control the ball without studded boots.

 After the embarrassing defeat in 1954 we learnt our lesson. Now India were willing to play in boots. We would send our application to be considered to play in the football world cup. But by then the popularity of football was so high that every nation had to qualify to participate in the final round of the world cup. The ‘welcome invitation’ days were over.

India would participate in the preliminary, qualification matches but could never cross the Asian hurdle. Invariably big defeats stared at India on almost every outing. India never participated in the actual world cup. Whenever they played they got eliminated in the Asian round qualifiers.

India is ranked well behind hundreds of nations in the world at football. For us to reach the World Cup final rounds and the Olympic Games, we first need to do well enough in the Asian Games. This appears to be a distant dream...

 

 

 

 

 

 Football World Cup & Cricket

Football World Cup & Cricket

With the ‘Greatest Show on Earth’ in full swing, how about bringing the ‘Most Eccentric Game on Earth’ in the picture?

Only one man has played in both the world cup of football as well as in the world cup of cricket. His name? Sir Vivian Isaac Richards. The great batter’s exploits need no repetition to cricket followers. His football career was a world cup qualifier for Antigua in 1972 against Trinidad.

He actually represented his nation first in football (1972) and only later the West Indies Federation at cricket. Please note Richards made his Test debut in 1974 and his first cricket world cup match was in 1975.

Another man with remarkable similarity is Willie Watson of England. He represented England (altogether 4 appearances) in a football World Cup qualifier match against Ireland again in a qualifier in 1949 for the football world cup held in Brazil in 1950.

Willie Watson was an outstanding batter for England in the 1950s. His international cricket debut was in 1953. At the time there was of course no cricket world cup. Watson too represented England at football (1949) before cricket (1953).

But one first-class cricketer stands supreme in relation to football world cup. He is Geoff Hurst of England. In 1966 he helped England to win the football world cup. In a highly controversial final against the might of Germany, Hurst actually scored a hat-trick. The only man to do so in a world cup final. He was knighted for his magnificent effort.

His outstanding achievement in football completely overshadowed the fact that he was a first-class cricketer as well. He played just a single match for Essex against Lancashire in the county championship in 1962, but soon enough realized that he would prefer to kick a ball rather than to handle it!

Here too in cricket Hurst left behind an unenviable statistic. He is probably the only first-class cricketer to have played just one match and scored 0* and 0 in two innings, did not bowl but took a catch. To end a first-class career with no runs and no wickets is indeed unbelievable. Yes, he played just one match!

There are of course a few other cricket and football double internationals. CB Fry, Denis Compton and Arthur Milton (all England) come readily to mind. These sportsmen are at a rarefied level all by themselves. They have utilized their God-gifted abilities with intelligence and devotion.

They never craved for wealth or for political influence or for cheap publicity. They never degraded themselves with any aura of showmanship or petty mercenary issues or political flattery. They never spent time and money to become media-created heroes.

 In contrast they highlighted the ideal of the genteel approach of genuine sportspeople. They served their sporting disciplines with honour just as they served their countries and provinces. They were the genuine ambassadors of sports.