We’re an hour into the journey now. The landscape has changed, but the mist remains constant. A frail man sits on a parapet, his eyes fixed on a marijuana joint. He wears a cloak barely enough to cover himself. He takes a deep drag from his joint and glances at us, eyes glazed but content. He is oblivious to the cold. We, inside the car, of greater privileges shiver under ‘branded’ jackets. Thirty metres ahead, we come across a group of poor, road workers working hopelessly to repair a road. ‘Hopelessly,’ because the road they repair is irreparable. The women and the underaged children elicit sighs from the passengers. It is more pity than empathy. I am guilty of that offence too. Their bodies speak of malnourishment and hard times; but behind the face value I see a certain pride, a self-confidence that has hitherto escaped me. I feel a short, sharp pang of jealousy. I can’t help but look back at the marijuana man. He is but a silhouette now, a mystic figure living in the clouds. The picture’s appropriate.

The mist refuses to leave us, but the landscape (whatever we can make of it) is elevating, in all senses. The foliage is thicker. Trees grow with a freedom they should never be forced to let go of. The road seemingly has a life of its own, snaking to its destination. The river Teesta rages moderately. We cannot see it. We feel its power though. The driver, in all this madness, goes about his job unconcerned. It is just another day for him.

Two hours into the journey, the mountain ranges appear in the distant horizon. They are white, winter manifested in its truest form. The breeze is cold but homely. The houses are an amalgam of Scottish and native architecture, confusing to the untrained eye, but to a local like me a world within a world. I look through the windshield. The sky is blue. In front of me is the town of Kalimpong, exploding breathlessly into sunlit life.

Via: Wikipedia, Darjeelingnews

He is often overlooked when people list the great batsmen of the 90s. He was not born with the refulgent talents of Lara and Tendulkar. He never could manufacture shots like the great Trinidadian or bring wholesomeness to batting like the little maestro from Mumbai. In fact, his twin brother Mark was innately of greater gifts than him. But, if you have to choose one name who defined Australia’s cricket in the last decade of the 20th century, a period marked with the coming of a certain larrikin called Warne and others like Mcgrath and Ponting, look no further than Stephen Rodger Waugh. His success was founded on courage.

Waugh’s vulnerability against short pitched bowling was perhaps among the overstatements in cricket, in the 90s. In fact, he rarely got out to the short ball. His way of playing was doubtless ungainly and an eyesore for the purists but he generally was dismissed by the ball further up.

Tendulkar and Lara, in their respective primes, never had that flaw. Their speed of hand and eye were enough to evade and, at times, score prolifically of short deliveries. However, their armours show more chinks as time creeps up on them. Lara, for all his recent runs, has never looked comfortable with the short stuff. He is more Waugh-like now in that regard. Tendulkar is suffering from the same failing, a weakness born out of seventeen years of shouldering the burden of billion overbearing fans. However, in his case, the runs have dried up. The great man is no longer mentioned in the same breath as Lara, four years his senior. He has to act; and act now he must. The South African series may well be a make or break one for him. Fail, and he’ll slowly fade into oblivion. Succeed, and the second coming may well be more breathlessly good than the first. We, his fans, just can’t wait.

Via: The Hindu, expressindia

Here is a man who decided to go loggerheads with Greg Chappell and, for once, ended up losing. Here is one of the two protagonists of the farcical email imbroglio that showed up the ugly politics of Indian cricket. As much as it was needed, the former captain’s inclusion throws up intriguing questions. It puts a blot on the powers of Greg Chappell who, a little more than a year earlier, had seemingly put an end to Ganguly’s career.

The latter’s addition to the squad, if Chappell’s premise is to be believed, will disrupt team harmony.

This time around, however, Ganguly’s contribution will be strictly measured by what he does with the bat. The fielding placements, the bowling changes and batting orders is somebody else’s business. He is susceptible against the rising ball on bouncy tracks; that is as much a secret as Bill Clinton’s shenanigans with a White house intern some years ago. Sadly, India has no choice. Raina and Kaif are on their way back after sustained failures and the batting line-up smacks of the usual suspects that, not so long ago, made the Aussie’s chase leather in their own backyard. But time is a crucial player in this equation. The reflexes of the top five are no longer what they once were and their current from does not inspire confidence.

Whether Ganguly is selected in the eleven is another point. If Chappell has his way then he will be warming the bench. But Chappell, of the huge Aussie ego, is a smart man. He knows he has no other option. A Ganguly failure may well prove him right, but he’ll lose matches that way. A successful comeback from the most successful captain in the country’s cricketing history will probably save his job and his pride. Where there are no trees the chilli tree is the biggest tree, I guess. Except that, this chilli tree can be hot for both the opposition and his team; or, in this case, his coach.

Via: dnaindia, timesnow

Still, the elegant Hyderabadi of the same ilk as Mohammad Azharuddin inexplicably finds himself off the team rooster whenever the one dayers are on. Selectors bring out prudent points for his exclusion. One day cricket, they say, is a young man’s domain, played by fit athletes, where one liability in the field can cost the team a game.

Point taken. Laxman gives away about twenty in the field every time. But when the mood takes him, he will give you a hundred from his bat, under all conditions, against all attacks. With Dravid missing for the remainder of the ongoing series in South Africa, this is a gamble Chappell has to take. And Laxman is not too bad in the slips either. Plus, India is already carrying a lot of liabilities as of now. Suresh Raina is not and will never be another Tendulkar. Mohammad Kaif left his best form at Lord’s in that unforgettable evening in July, 2002. Whether he will ever regain that is pure conjecture.

It is okay to have an old team as long as they are good enough to win. Greg Chappell should know that. His Antipodean compatriots are winning with stunning regularity and their average Test team age is over thirty. Given, they have younger faces in the one day squad, but they are picked on the belief - similar to India -that they are good enough to deliver. However, unlike the Rainas, Mongias and Kaifs, the Watsons and the Mitchells always stand up to be counted when push comes to shove.

And that question of the ‘fit and athletic’ team? Yeah, right. We have eleven Jesse Owens in the team today.

Via: Cricinfo

After the genial John Wright announced his departure in the spring of last year, he did so with a decent record. Now Team India needed someone to take it one-step further. The underachieving bunch had turned into world class competitors and someone was needed to further metamorphose the team to world-beaters.

In came Greg Chappell, the second and doubtless most gifted of that special trinity of Aussie brothers. He was going to bring in resolve, new ideas and make legends of proven men and men of untapped talent. Yet, after more than a year of endless (and some say needless) experiments, tinkering with the batting order and weird training camps, the upward swing once promised has been more like a cycle running down a mountain slope. And, in the hands of perpetual underachievers, that could end up into a freefall. The end result, I leave to the imagination of the readers.

While it is easy to criticize Chappell, one can’t help but wonder what some of those critics can do with the Indian team. It is time for them to stop the maligning and take the reins themselves. Who knows, the magic potion may just be lying in this very country. Maybe, it is that marvelous little man from Mumbai who has over ten thousand test runs to his credit and lose nothing in comparison with the Aussie legend. Will people like him please stand up?

Via: Dailyindia, The Telegraph

Sachin Tendulkar was the ultimate cricketing machinery, an amalgam of peerless skill and rock hard resolve. For seventeen years he took on the best the opposition had to throw at him and generally came away the winner. But age is taking its toll. The mind is willing and yet the body refuses to comply.

Over the past year he had been hit on the helmet numerous times. His reflexes are a tad slow. The gait to the wicket parodies the once-giant steps that trod on bigger, threatening foes. And although he is still a very good player, the word great attached to his batting is more a tribute to his legacy than current batting ability.

Recently, critics have had the temerity to say that he is chickening out against genuine pace, a baseless claim against a man who, at sixteen, carried on with a bloody nose to save a match for his country in the harshest of all terrain - Pakistan.

Today, he is South Africa, carrying more questions than answers. He is doubtless in the final leg of his illustrious career. There is a famous Argentinean saying, ‘beware of the last kick of the dying bull in the Pampas.’ In the next couple of years, this cricketing Maradona may just provide that fitting coda to a marvellously written article. His fans deserve that. The cricketing world deserves that. More significantly, his genius demands that.

I would say no. Here are my reasons. When Tyson lost to Buster Douglas (a 42-1 underdog) in 1990, he fought a man with more courage than any other fighter he had come across. When people stood up to Tyson, there was no plan B.

Muhammad Ali always had a plan B... and a C and a D if necessary. His famous ‘rope a dope’ against George Foreman in Zaire in 1974 was perhaps the greatest example of self-belief in sports history. He stood on the ropes believing (not hoping) that Foreman would punch himself out. Big George duly did. Ali made up his mind to soak up punishment from possibly the heaviest hitter in boxing history. He left his body open to hammer-like shots till Foreman could throw no more. One sharp right hand in the 8th round and Ali was champion of the world for the second time.

This was Ali’s second coming as a boxer, following a three year forced sabbatical in the late 1960s. Tyson was never the same after serving his rape conviction. Ali was never knocked out in his career. Tyson looked up at the lights more than once as the referee counted to ten. Ali dominated inarguably the finest era of heavyweight boxing. In hindsight, when Tyson bestrode the division, he was in with pretenders and has-beens. He was a shark all right, but one manning mediocre waters.

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Today, they epitomise the short-lived glory of a human being. Muhammad Ali requires a supporting stick to hold his once-prefect-frame from falling. He speaks with a barely audible voice. He has Parkinson’s disease. Joe Frazier lives in a modest flat, a travesty for a once-famous champion who seemingly had earned enough to live prodigally for the rest of his life. In both their cases, life’s caprices sharply divided the line between harsh reality and fairytale endings. Such is the nature of fame; such is the nature of human glory.