It is that time again — when a long-serving, much-respected cricketer has questions thrown at him, which, in summary is: isn’t it time to retire, buddy?
Years ago, Anil Kumble’s young son wore a T-shirt with the legend: It’s time to call it a day. It probably referred to his bed time, but those who saw it couldn’t help thinking it was a gentle reminder for his father, who, however, was smart enough to pick his time of departure.
Mahendra Singh Dhoni, who has quit Tests, is now being questioned over his relevance to the white-ball format. He would like to play the 2019 World Cup — and has the support of national coach Ravi Shastri — but spirit and flesh aren’t always in consonance towards the end of a sporting career.
Sport is a wonderful servant when you are young and fit. It will joyfully carry you to the top, unmindful of your occasional mistakes, with the promise that whatever happens there is always tomorrow. But it’s a terrible master as you grow older, demanding, unforgiving of lapses, reminding you constantly that your tomorrows will never match your yesterdays.
Ageing cricketers make a pact with time: let me make one more century, bowl my country to one more win; it doesn’t matter if the century is unrecognisable from the one I made ten years ago or if my bowling lacks bite. Just once more, and in gratitude I promise to quit.
But few players keep their end of the deal. Kapil Dev was carried around in the end like a grandmother everybody had to be kind to because she was responsible for all the family wealth. His goal? Richard Hadlee’s then world record 431 Test wickets. When past admiration combines with present pity, it is not a pretty picture.
When Brian Lara retired, he asked his fans, “Did I entertain?” For the average fan, it is impossible to understand or even imagine the feelings of a national hero, who once played as if there was no tomorrow but suddenly realises that there might not be a today even. I think it was Hemingway who said retirement is the ugliest word in the language.
Can you go easily from playing the world’s fastest bowlers, guiding your country to victories, having a whole stadium, perhaps a whole nation chanting your name, and being, to quote John Lennon, “more popular than Jesus Christ”, to an ordinary life of buying groceries and and attending PTA meetings while watching someone else’s name being chanted nation-wide? If you think about it, ex-cricketers are prime candidates for post traumatic stress disorder.
This, despite the easy familiarity which cricketers develop with the big issues that are usually pushed into the back of the mind. Cricket — in fact, all sport — prepares us for loss, failure, even death. A batsman dies symbolically every time he loses his wicket. Yet, there is always another innings, another match, another year which converts apparent finality into something temporary, something one gets over in time.
Retirement is different. The finality is final. Only so many ex-players can coach, commentate, write or get into administration to maintain their connection with the game. Others are pulled out of obscurity on special occasions, like the World Cup. Till 2011, players who had won India the 1983 World Cup were featured in the media every four years. Now they will have to share the spotlight with the Class of 2011, if at all.
Retirement can be traumatic. Few teams invest in a system that makes the player’s transition smoother and more natural. For most players, cricket is the only thing they know, and when that is gone from their lives, the void can be difficult to fill. Some fill it with alcohol.
There is an organised system which prepares a gifted youngster to play for India. He is given technical, temperamental, tactical, strategic guidance as he graduates through the age-group tournaments. And then, in the early or mid-twenties, he plays for the country. It is the start of a wonderful ride.
If he is good enough, he plays on for a decade and a half, or more. But there is no similar organised system at the other end of his career. Unlike a couple of generations ago, today money is no longer a problem. But relevance is, self-esteem is, acceptance is. It is difficult to walk into a room and realise that you no longer turn heads. You might still sign autographs, but then might have to answer a young fan’s devastating question: “What’s your name?”
Some are happy to leave, to put the training and discipline behind them. Steve Redgrave, multiple gold winning British rower once finished with, said “I’ve had it. If anyone sees me near a boat they can shoot me.” But the more common feeling was expressed by the US jockey Eddie Arcaro: “When a jockey retires, he becomes just another little man.”
Dhoni is capable of walking away without looking back. He has other passions. But till he does, the question will follow him everywhere.
