History recounts 27th November, 1996 as the first day of the second test, involving South Africa and India at Kolkata. For me, perhaps this date should be sacred- as sacred as July 4th, 1776 or August 15th, 1947. It was the day I first encountered the gentleman's game, the day my love of cricket was born.
My mother brought me, a seven-year-old American boy, to watch the game she adored, which she had played (inspired by her coach, Bengal cricketer Shivaji Ray) in her college days and romanticized ever since. Amma always wanted us to have a connection to India, our motherland. And for her, this very English, colonial sport was as vital a part of one's Indian identity as anything.
And so, shyly clutching my mother's hand, I strolled into a Mecca of cricket. We got there early, with the crowd still filing in, and took our seats. It wasn't long before at least 70,000 more had taken theirs, and become quite boisterous in doing so. Of course, Amma soon began getting looks and comments- "Are you here just to have a picnic?" spoken in Bengali. And in their defense, well, it wasn't long before Amma opened our tiffin boxes, feeding me the aloo rolls and cucumber sandwiches my Nani had packed. We must have been an odd sight- this Indian woman with a white child. But while the Kolkatans scratched their heads over this reverse Mother Teresa, I was being bewildered by Amma's cricket crash-course. Grasping the game's basic objectives was difficult enough, and Amma's enumeration of everything from fielding positions to the modes of dismissal was making matters worse. Over the wicket, lbw, straight bat, third man, silly point, howzzaaat...nothing made sense.
It didn't help that I could hardly see the action- whenever anything apparently important occurred, everyone stood up and blocked my view. As the day wore on and the tiffin was depleted, I became more and more sulky. Hudson and Kirsten scored hundreds that day, history recounts, with South Africa closing on 339/2. The Indian players would have left Eden Gardens demoralized, and Amma too- her attempts to get me interested in cricket had failed.
Next morning, Amma went without me to the match- I'd refused to bear any more suffering. When she returned, a thrilled Nani relayed the news- “Manas was glued to the TV all day, watching the cricket!” Amma was astonished. Had the rules finally sunk in? Had Doordarshan's broadcast heightened my curiousity? Was it a fluke? One more day, and all doubt would be removed- Azharuddin was smashing the ball all around the park; Eden was in raptures, and debutant Lance Klusener … was not. I was hooked.
I cherish the blurry memories of this simpler time; before I stumbled upon Cricinfo, Asked Steven, and opened Pandora's box (Statsguru); before numbers or words (not even the moving profile by Dileep Premachandran) could explain why my favorite cricketer was Azhar; when the sheer sensuous force and physical beauty of bowler sprinting up, batsman swinging willow, and leather flying away, was enough.
My mother brought me, a seven-year-old American boy, to watch the game she adored, which she had played (inspired by her coach, Bengal cricketer Shivaji Ray) in her college days and romanticized ever since. Amma always wanted us to have a connection to India, our motherland. And for her, this very English, colonial sport was as vital a part of one's Indian identity as anything.
And so, shyly clutching my mother's hand, I strolled into a Mecca of cricket. We got there early, with the crowd still filing in, and took our seats. It wasn't long before at least 70,000 more had taken theirs, and become quite boisterous in doing so. Of course, Amma soon began getting looks and comments- "Are you here just to have a picnic?" spoken in Bengali. And in their defense, well, it wasn't long before Amma opened our tiffin boxes, feeding me the aloo rolls and cucumber sandwiches my Nani had packed. We must have been an odd sight- this Indian woman with a white child. But while the Kolkatans scratched their heads over this reverse Mother Teresa, I was being bewildered by Amma's cricket crash-course. Grasping the game's basic objectives was difficult enough, and Amma's enumeration of everything from fielding positions to the modes of dismissal was making matters worse. Over the wicket, lbw, straight bat, third man, silly point, howzzaaat...nothing made sense.
It didn't help that I could hardly see the action- whenever anything apparently important occurred, everyone stood up and blocked my view. As the day wore on and the tiffin was depleted, I became more and more sulky. Hudson and Kirsten scored hundreds that day, history recounts, with South Africa closing on 339/2. The Indian players would have left Eden Gardens demoralized, and Amma too- her attempts to get me interested in cricket had failed.
Next morning, Amma went without me to the match- I'd refused to bear any more suffering. When she returned, a thrilled Nani relayed the news- “Manas was glued to the TV all day, watching the cricket!” Amma was astonished. Had the rules finally sunk in? Had Doordarshan's broadcast heightened my curiousity? Was it a fluke? One more day, and all doubt would be removed- Azharuddin was smashing the ball all around the park; Eden was in raptures, and debutant Lance Klusener … was not. I was hooked.
I cherish the blurry memories of this simpler time; before I stumbled upon Cricinfo, Asked Steven, and opened Pandora's box (Statsguru); before numbers or words (not even the moving profile by Dileep Premachandran) could explain why my favorite cricketer was Azhar; when the sheer sensuous force and physical beauty of bowler sprinting up, batsman swinging willow, and leather flying away, was enough.
