Australia's freefall

Readers of my blog will probably recall a piece I’d written four years ago about the likelihood of Australia slumping in international cricket. In that period, Australia have not only conceded two Ashes series, but have also plunged to No.4 in the latest Test rankings. At the start of the decade, it was blasphemous to even suggest that they would one day have to concede their No.1 ranking, which was considered their birthright. The monopoly has ended, and the realisation of being reduced to lesser mortals was plastered across the glum faces at The Oval, hands folded and defeated.

It was a shock Ricky Ponting and his men had seen coming. The 2005 Ashes defeat threatened to knock them off the perch, albeit briefly, before normal service resumed. Just when obituaries were being written, they stormed back in the Super Series, demolishing the World XI, before caning England 5-0 at home in 2007.

Australia had turned their arch rivals to dust in the most convincing manner, but the celebrations had more than a tinge of sadness. When Ponting walked up the podium in Sydney, after the final Test, there was a lump in his throat. When he spoke, his voice choked. His best and most trusted aides had called it a day as the series progressed. Damien Martyn announced a sudden retirement after the second Test before the bombshell arrived. Justin Langer, Glenn McGrath and Shane Warne had all announced that it would be their final swansong. Ponting knew the road ahead would be rocky and that the seismic changes within the team would seriously test his managerial skills.

There was further evidence of that slump when India defeated them last year, before South Africa raided their own backyard. They hit back on the return tour of South African earlier this year and the picture looked rosy all over again. But the budding romance was nothing more than a passionate fling, which lasted just two Tests. They were hammered in the third Test and the one-dayers before ingloriously bowing out in the first-round in the World Twenty20.

The exodus was bound to bite them, sooner rather than later, as I’d predicted three years ago. It’s not to suggest that the players they’d picked for the Ashes weren’t world class. They were hard done by due to poor management. They were within their rights to gripe about the umpiring in the two Tests they lost, but Rudi Koertzen’s blunders didn’t turn the series. It was that of team selection which cost them.

Australia’s fortunes in England depended on the potency of their bowling attack. With Mitchell Johnson not at his knuckle-breaking best and Brett Lee unable to get match fit, the team faced serious questions. Why was Stuart Clark introduced so late in the series? Why was Nathan Hauritz not persisted with for all five Tests? Johnson had a terrific game at Headingley but just one good match out of five doesn’t cut it.

This is where the retirements of McGrath and Warne stung. It hurt the most when Australia failed to close the deal in the tense moments at Cardiff. Clark, considered the nearest substitute for McGrath, was mysteriously benched for the first three games. Hauritz is no Warne, but he performed above himself at the start of the series, despite rubbish being thrown at him from the media and the public. He ought to have played at the Oval, but omitting him on a dry pitch, with the ball gripping and turning, will haunt them no end.

His omission reflects on the lack of confidence the country has in its spinners. It also reeks of insecurity. Last year, three spinners landed in India with the A team, competing for Warne’s place. None of them were on the plane to England. Jason Krejza was dropped after taking eight wickets on debut, Bryce McGain was dumped after being caned in Cape Town, and Beau Casson was plain forgotten. Hauritz was suddenly the new messiah, who unfortunately had to twiddle his thumb in the deciding Test.

Australia still have the manpower to be a leading Test side, provided you mix them correctly. Ponting assumed his experiments would work and tried to convince the public that everything was fine. But it was just a façade. It was as if the team was in a state of denial throughout the tour, when it was clear that some plans weren’t falling into place.

I’m no Australia fan, and I must admit it’s a gratifying feeling watching other teams play catch up. Watching the new Australia fight it out was best summarized by the journalist Christian Ryan, who wrote a piece for us five months back. It goes: “Lately when he bats, Mike Hussey's hands squeeze his bat handle so tight you expect to see toothpaste spurting out the top. In the great lake of sweat on his forehead you can almost make out the bowler's reflection. Watching Hussey concentrate - concentrate so hard that sometimes he forgets to blink - is one of the many little fascinations of witnessing Australia's cricketers right now. They are all having to concentrate.”

Incidental to Transcendental

The setting couldn’t have been more idyllic. The wholesome goodness of the Maitreyi Vedic Village, near Pollachi (TN), hits you as soon as you walk into this ashram, which has a curious blend of generosity and simplicity. The misty Anamalai Hills form the ideal backdrop. There’s real purity in the air here. It’s where people from all walks of life (and the walk is mostly barefoot) converge for one basic passion – meditation. The surrounds inspire you to shove chaos out of sight and mind, find peace, and converse with your inner self.

This eco-friendly ashram teaches a form of meditation known as Transcendental Meditation (TM), created by Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, made famous to the Western world by The Beatles, particularly George Harrison.

We had an interesting meeting with one such practitioner over the dinner table. Mr Suresh* has been practicing TM for over 35 years, much of it under the guidance of the Maharishi himself. He held an important portfolio with the central government, one which would have guaranteed a cushy life after retirement. But in the early 90s, Suresh gambled with his career, despite the fact that he had a young family to support. He decided to take a two-year sabbatical from work to migrate with his family to Netherlands to work for the Maharishi, where he was then based. Suresh’s bosses turned down the leave request and warned that if he took such a step, his job would be in grave danger. The fear of disciplinary action didn’t deter him and he went ahead with his bold plan. Retirement was still a long way off. Would he regret this decision for the rest of his life?

He explained his dilemma to the Maharishi, who matter of factly replied saying he wouldn’t lose his job. How was he so sure? “That’s the power of TM,” Suresh told me. “You wish for something, it will come true through TM.” The stunning turnaround in fortunes for Suresh on his return to India was something he would never have gauged and it had us listening in amazement. Not only was his job intact, he also gained a double promotion! The Pay Commission had meanwhile revised its rules on government pensions for those who skip years of active service, which meant that his pension wasn’t affected either.

Inspiring enough? Perhaps time to find out more about TM.

For a person like me, with brief forays into the world of spiritual rejuvenation, I thought to myself: Time to make the switch from Incidental Meditation to Transcendental Meditation.

* name changed to protect privacy

Not the Melbourne I knew

As I write, for all you know, a helpless Indian student is getting bashed up somewhere in Melbourne. His dreams trashed, his confidence and ego scarred for life, the sacrifices his family must have made in financing his foreign education all down the drain. The thought of where his immediate future lies is just as depressing as the graphic image of him lying in a coma surrounded by tubes and drips. The scenes over the last few weeks has made us all sick in the stomach and it pains me to write this because I can scarcely imagine this is the same city I swooned over, nine years ago.

Back in 2000, I made my first and only trip to Australia. My sister Kadambari had gone to Melbourne for her masters in international business at Monash university. Me and my mom set off for a three-week trip in May, just when autumn was setting in. We stayed with her in a two-bedroom student-type accommodation in the north-east suburb of Kingsbury, bang opposite La Trobe University. Through the eyes of an 18-year old kid, Melbourne looked a dream, with its efficient transport system, squeaky clean and neatly planned suburbs and opulence near the city center. Add the whiff of cool air and you just wanted to hang out outdoors the whole day.

We spent a weekend each in Sydney and Phillip Island, leaving the weekdays to explore Melbourne. My sister would leave for work/uni early in the morning and the two of us would cook, clean and set off after lunch. We were the prototype of the typical tourist – maps and guide books in hand, asking people for directions and help in bus/train and tram routes. And we were never left disappointed or insulted. The locals didn’t see us as encroachers – they sometimes went out of their way to guide us. The politeness was touching.

A lady at a posh boutique store in Flinders Street was kind enough to draw out a map to help figure our way through the complicated business district. We once hailed a cab to the Imax Theatre and nearly shrieked at the sight of the driver – a 40-plus hippie who looked doped from head to toe. If looks could deceive. He was the friendliest bloke - gave us tips on how to get by, asked about our stay, recommended places to visit. The lad at the convenience store near our house would never fail to say “hello, how are you.” The lady at the information desk at Flinders station always patiently answered our questions – no matter how dumb they were. A cab driver in Sydney asked if I was in town to catch the AFL game. I said no, and we ended up chatting about cricket. At a lonely subway near Jolimont, I was slightly intimidated at the sight of a massive, rugby-toned guy in khaki pants walking in the opposite direction. He held out something and asked, “Hey lad, d’ya smoke?” I don’t know what crap he offered me, but I just smiled and politely turned him down. Cut to the present and he’d have stabbed me.

The only time I encountered rudeness of any kind was in St Peters station in Sydney. I was a bit lost, not knowing which train to take and the guy behind the counter appeared to look at me as more of an intrusion than a customer. At least he led me to the right place.

The courteousness took me by surprise. Melbourne was THE friendliest place I’d ever seen – if it wasn’t, the swarm of Asian immigrants (esp the Chinese and Koreans) would have cleared out long ago. The attacks on Indians may be entirely racially driven, and if it’s true, it would be a sad reflection of what the city has become. The victims claim that they never instigated or provoked the attacks. A section of drunk, unemployed youth in the city have let their tempers flay and used cowardly means of letting out their frustrations. We hope it’s only a minuscule percentage of the population.

A lot of overseas Indian students hail from small towns and villages who sometimes fail to understand what dignity is all about, especially in another country. They can be loud, brash, show no respect to road signs, traffic signs or public manners. It can be putting off for fellow immigrants as well, but do any of them deserve to go through this torture? It’s a haunting thought for my sister, who was in their shoes, in the same city which taught her how to stand on her own feet.

And the legacy lives on...

When a cricketer (professional, wannabe, pretend, fraud) gets hit on the box, or should I say unmentionables, the pain invariably reverberates through the television, blacks out your senses and flings you in the sea of pity. The former England batsman turned commentator David Lloyd once said it’s the one injury which brings tears to your eyes. Nobody’s had it worse than him on the cricket field, at least in an international game. Just don’t remind him of Perth 1974, when Jeff Thomson got one to kick up off a good length and…… you can finish the rest.

The box guard, or in other words the abdomen guard, is the first piece of equipment you need to insert or strap on before padding up. Now there are two types of abdomen guards – the one with suspenders and the one without. I’ve always felt comfortable with the former, but given that I hadn’t had a decent nets outing since I was 17, I had no option but to borrow one from the general kit. Disgusting, but true.

After excavating the kit, I found to my outmost horror, three box guards without suspenders. This can’t be true, I thought. How on earth am I supposed to go out there and bat? Summoning the courage, I bravely slipped one in and padded up. The ‘pretend’ batsman (I fall under that category), was too shy to admit his predicament. I ambled down the pitch, adjusting my trackpants in two-second intervals. O dear Lord what have I gotten myself into?

As the bowler ran up, a prayer flowed from my lips. ‘Please let him bowl a wide ball.’ Unanswered. The ball pitched in line with the offstump and, thank heavens, I defended it somehow. The guard began to slip. Drat! A quick adjustment of the tracks and it was back in position. Or so I thought. Nagraj came on to bowl. The ball landed in line with middle and on first impulse, I moved away and missed. The ball just sailed over the stumps. Next up was Prem, the quickest of the lot. The damn thing was slipping away again! Freak! I backed away and the ball cut back in and crashed onto the offstump. Strike one! Then came Sajan, who bowls, rather chucks, offspin. The ball landed just outside off and, assuming it would miss the stumps by a mile, I shouldered arms. I looked back and saw my offstump cartwheel back by four yards. Unbelievable. And as expected, the guard slipped away again.

There was a serious wardrobe malfunction happening on the pitch and it wasn’t funny. My endless backing away made me the prototype for the world’s worst tailender. No surprise though that my blog’s called Nine, Ten and Jack. Chris Martin would have batted better than me.

I adjusted my tracks for the 200^th time and resumed the humiliation. A yorker then flattened my offstump. I finally managed to connect a half volley, a tame scoop straight to short cover. Then chopped one onto the middle stump. In hindsight, they might as well have bowled to three stumps instead of a 6 ft 2 walking, trackpant-adjusting apology of a batsman. The uncensored stumps-expose show finally ended after five death-defying minutes. The dreaded inside edge onto the crotch never happened as well and my legacy was protected after all.

After the ordeal, I headed to the sports shop and promptly demanded a guard with suspenders. We were playing an intra-office match the next day and I was determined not to suffer another series of Kramer bloopers in front of the entire office. I was slated to bat lower down the order, which gave me ample time to pad up. So there I marched with my stuff about a mile away from the pavilion, choosing the most secluded bush to start the formalities.

A quick check. No women around. Back to work.

I strode out and positioned myself at the non-striker’s end as the batsmen had crossed. My flatmate George was on strike. He pushed the ball past midwicket and set off for the single. For some godforsaken reason, he called for the second. ‘Are you crazy?’ I saw who the fielder was and didn’t bother stepping out. But he was halfway down the pitch. I had to be the sacrificial lamb. Helpless, I was short of my crease by a furlong. Kramer Moment No. 76. Run-out without facing a ball. In hindsight, I needn’t have bothered wearing the stupid guard.

The forces from above didn’t just stop there in conspiring against me. I lost my phone the previous morning and shortly after a draining defeat in the match (my only contribution was sprinting from fine leg to long-on at the end of every over) I was diagnosed with malaria.

The curse of the soap-box shaped abdomen guard, as I chose to call it.

But on the bright side, the Kramer legacy lives on.

Tyagi's test

A profile of Sudeep Tyagi, the UP fast bowler. He was superb in his opening Ranji season but flopped in the next.

This appeared in Cricinfo. Click here.

Stats but no story

This article was originally published in Cricinfo. Click here

It may be received wisdom that sportspersons are best off not having their life story told, or telling it themselves, when they are still in their prime, but surely exceptions can be made for players like Mahendra Singh Dhoni. Since he broke onto the scene in 2005, Dhoni has biffed bowling attacks, solved India's once-perennial wicketkeeping problem, taken over the captaincy in all forms of the game, warmed hearts with his speeches and captivating smile, and in short transformed himself into an icon. And he's only 27.

Dhoni's story is one that will never fail to inspire. He stands at the epicentre of the influx of small-town boys into Indian cricket's mainstream. He is a hero to middle-class India, and his tale deserves to be known in comprehensive detail, though he may be only three years old on the international cricket.

Captain Cool: The MS Dhoni Story is perhaps the first biography of the cricketer to hit the stands. It is not authorised, and unfortunately Gulu Ezekiel's only interaction with the player seems to have been a conversation at the boundary edge during a Duleep Trophy game in Amritsar before he made it to the Indian team.

What shapes a biography, especially one where the writer has not had access to the subject, are inputs from the player's friends, family, colleagues and acquaintances. There is very little evidence of those here. Dhoni has several to thank for his rise, including his parents; the generous proprietor of a local sports store in Ranchi who supplied him with equipment for free; his sports coach, who advised him to take up wicketkeeping instead of football goalkeeping; and many others. It would have been nice to hear their side of the story. His batting style, famously, does not come out of a coaching manual; reactions from those who oversaw his formative years would have been interesting.

Large parts of Captain Cool consist of summarised match reports, including those of some games that didn't involve Dhoni. The long introductions and backgrounds to the World Cup and the World Twenty20 give one the impression of reading an encyclopedia of cricket, with bits about the protagonist, Dhoni, somewhere in the middle. Ezekiel does justice to two of Dhoni's most important early knocks - his 148 against Pakistan and 183 not out against Sri Lanka. Again, however, the lack of inputs from the player himself, especially about some of his intriguing and instinctive captaincy moves during the ICC World Twenty20 final and the CB Series finals, takes away from the accounts of those games. One comes away wishing certain chapters, like the ones on Dhoni's early years, were documented in greater detail, at the expense of some of the descriptions of matches.

The most notable feature of this book is that it's loaded with stats and can serve as a ready reckoner on Dhoni's achievements, including those in his CK Nayudu- and Cooch Behar-tournament days. The prose is measured and fluent, and Ezekiel's uncomplicated style makes the book a swift read.

As Ezekiel concludes: "It has been a long journey from Ranchi to superstardom but there are still many miles to go before he can be considered a true legend of the game." True, there should be plenty of achievements to look forward to, and Dhoni may well pen them down in his own words someday. This book, unfortunately, is by no means the definitive account of the man behind the superstar image. Given his prodigious achievements, he deserves better.

Captain Cool: The MS Dhoni Story
by Gulu Ezekiel
Eastwest Books, Rs 150

You may be going, you're not, no actually you're going

It’s been three days and I can still scarcely believe I’m here. At times of recession, the world works in mysterious ways. A journalist friend of mine from CNBC, Ashwin, recently posted this message as his status on Facebook – “bad times for the economy mean good times for business journalists.” He may as well have mentioned cricket journalists too.

I’m typing this from my dad’s place in Colombo. How did I get here? It’s quite simple really, but at the same time rather complicated, quoting what Capt Haddock repeatedly said when asked the same question in Tintin’s “Land of Black Gold.” I was originally marked out to do match reports for the Bangladesh v Sri Lanka series (happening in Bangladesh) off the TV. Now, allegedly because of the economic slowdown, television companies are starting to pick and choose what matches to cover. Nimbus have the rights to cover Bangladesh cricket but this series clashes with the Indian domestic season, for which they too have the rights. Saddled with the embarrassment of ‘riches’ they decided to sacrifice the Bangladesh series for the sake of the Ranji trophy, leaving us in a total fix.

With no television coverage in India, the top bosses were forced to look at alternatives. I’d resigned myself, rather reluctantly, to do reports off the scorecard from Bangalore and I can tell you it’s not the most enviable task. Things changed when I received an unexpected phone call from my boss one afternoon giving me the heads up to go to Sri Lanka and cover the series off TV. One of our scorers, Raghav, was already sent to Bangladesh to look after the scoring. But we weren’t sure yet if there was coverage in Sri Lanka, as it seemed even they weren’t terrible enthused about the series.

About 24 hours passed and still no news. It was safe to assume I wasn’t going at all but it still wasn’t final. Was I going or not going? I was in a very similar situation in June when I was asked to head to America for an assignment in our ESPN offices, which never happened. I felt like Ishant Sharma before he finally became a regular member of the team. Ishant for a while was India’s emergency fast bowler. It seemed like he received countless SOS’s to get ready to fly out each time a Zaheer Khan or a Munaf Patel pulled up with injuries. Invariably, he’d stay put in India. Now Cricinfo had its own strikingly-similar Ishant – another tall lanky beanpole with a long beakish nose! All I needed was shoulder length hair and a Delhi accent.

I was instead deputed to cover Tamil Nadu v Bengal from the ground in Bangalore. Hardly a few hours had passed since play had started when I was asked to pack up and leave the same evening for Colombo. Apparently a broadcast deal with a local Sri Lankan channel was sealed at the last minute. I rushed through my tea report, packed up my laptop and tried explaining my sudden departure to a couple of bewildered journalists. And so I dashed off to the office to take my ticket, flung some clothes in my bag and headed to the airport to take the 9 pm flight. My dad was only too happy to hear of the change of plan. It’s still quite baffling that the company is sponsoring a guy to fly to another country to cover a series few people even care about. But what the heck.. I wasn’t complaining!

Of course, there had to be a Kramer Moment somewhere! I’d gotten so used to arriving in Colombo from Chennai that it didn’t strike me I departed from a new city. On arrival, I waited like an eternity for my luggage. I started to wonder if some creeps were screwing with my bag. I glanced up at the screen and realized I was standing beside the wrong conveyor belt, which was for the Chennai flight which arrived at roughly the same time! No wonder the co passengers looked so unfamiliar. I felt like such a dumbass. Well given my past history of ‘absent mindedness’, this was hardly surprising. (Jaya, I know you’re smirking)