At the club, the conversation was veering towards serious matters when a dear old friend walked in and plonked himself on the one vacant chair at our table. We raised our glasses in toast to him — for, back in college he used to be a stylish batsman. I still remember the late cut he executed with flair. So late yet so sure was he when playing this delectable cut that the bat almost seemed to come down after the ball had crossed, but in the next split second we would see the ball speeding away between gully and third man towards the boundary.
I always wondered at the impeccable timing. Another friend, who used to be his teammate and was involved in several partnerships with him, recalls his cover drive executed with such finesse that the ball sped to the boundary all along the carpet as much in appreciation of the artistry as in the technical perfection of the shot. A truly gifted batsman he was.
I myself was a last-wicket batsman, and had difficulty seeing the impatient ball and bringing my bat down in time. More often than not, it would sneak through the infinitesimal, almost imaginary, gap between bat and pad to rattle the woodwork. I still find it difficult to believe how a hard ball could squeeze through a gap less than half its size without touching anything! I preferred very much to stand at the other end, the non-violent end, and keep the bored umpire company, watching him transfer little pebbles from one hand to the other and still contrive to miscount. I was a dependable runner, especially quick when turning round for that second run which would take me back to the safety of the non-striker’s end.
As a bowler, I was more comfortable conjuring up the slow ball which glides in at a little over head height and hovers for a split second before swooping down like a kingfisher and taking everyone by surprise. Sometimes, this ball got me a prized wicket, sometimes it cost me four runs. Sadly for me, when I was trying to gain entry at club level, there were too many spinners and slow bowlers all over the country, all of them adept at bowling this self-same delivery. I guess the selectors had no need of my services in this department and the bus omitted to pick me up.
As a fielder, I was most happy left alone to guard the fine leg fence. I got plenty of solitude at that position, though of course, the crowd was right behind me and ever ready to chat with me. I had to work a bit to keep them happy.
But fielding at fine leg allowed me enough time for contemplation about worldly and other-worldly matters. I remember once taking a good catch just inside the boundary to help my team score a facile win.
I was aided in no small measure by a couple of eagle-eyed spectators sitting just behind me, who were watching the ball all along as it traced a parabolic path in the sky, shouting clear directions to me to position myself and virtually guiding it into my safe hands.
While I took the catch quite confidently, I shudder to think what they might have done to me had it not fallen into my hands!
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