SRT and his records

As Sachin Tendulkar glided the first ball after tea down to third man in Mohali today, the euphonious sound of his bat hitting the ball was drowned out by momentous roar from the crowd. Tendulkar, who made his debut as a mere 16-year-old child against Pakistan in 1989, is now the leading run-scorer in the history of the game. The shot and the record entirely justified the sobriquet: “little master”.

I was younger than Tendulkar was on his debut when I first saw him play. South Africa were hosting India at the Wanderers in a One Day International in 2001 and my family’s recent acquisition of Sky Sports meant a new world of international cricket was now open to me. I spent more than a week eagerly anticipating it.

On the morning of the match I slumped in front of my food at breakfast with my head resting on the table. I recall making guttural sounds as mother came to fuss over me to ask what was wrong. I told her I had stomach-ache and could not go to school. My acting skills were superlative. I was soon laid on the sofa with a heavy blanket over me, and the yellow bucket by my side that always seemed to accompany illness in the family.

Tendulkar had always evoked something sublime and mysterious in my young mind. I had heard his name discussed endlessly in newspapers and on television. I knew of his batting feats and how he always delivered for India. Some said he was the greatest player of his generation. But I had never seen him play. I did not even know what he looked like. Instead of constructing an image of him in my head, my imagination was rife with impossible shots and huge scores.

We all know the line that when Tendulkar walks out to the middle he carries the hopes of a billion people on his shoulders. “Cricket is my religion and Tendulkar is my God” his fans cry. In the Bulling that day he also had a 14-year-old English boy for company as well.

I actually remember little about the game itself – the expectation was everything. Tendulkar and Ganguly opened for India and both scored hundreds. The only shots I recall are Ganguly marauding down the wicket to dispatch innumerable balls over long-on for six. I also remember Tendulkar got out the ball after his century, while I was still high on adrenaline. It seemed as if he had scored those runs just for me. This would have felt the same whether I was 14 or 41. I had invested so much expectation into this innings that when he delivered it was almost personal. It didn’t even matter that India went on to lose the match: Tendulkar was a hero. This is my insight into the Indian cricket fans Tendulkar-cult.

Much can be made of Tendulkar the phenomena. The Marxist Mike Marquese has argued the Tendulkar cult in India is about more than cricket: “unwittingly and unwillingly, he has found himself at the epicenter of a rapidly evolving popular culture shaped by the intertwined growth of a consumerist middle class and an increasingly aggressive form of national identity.”

Cricket is certainly a central articulation of Indian identity, but this analysis is so far removed from his sublime stroke-play that it completely bypasses why Tendulkar is worthy of celebration in the first place. Tendulkar is not a historical construct: he is a glorious batsman.

When you watch Tendulkar bat you invest an expectation in his performance like no other. When the ball is delivered to him your knee bends and your foot inches forward in anticipation of classical drive or a stinging cut-shot. If he edges a ball through the slips, your heart-races as if it is you yourself that has just received a let-off.

The writer Soumya Bhattacharya captures the essence of the Tendulkar-cult. He says he was the first hero he ever had who was younger than he was. Hero’s are supposed to die with your youth, but Tendulkar’s batting has the power to make you feel young again. Record breaking feats aside: this is his marker of greatness.

This article can also be found at The Corridor (a cricket blog)