Everyone in India is a cricket expert. Team India may have tumbled out of the World Cup 2019 but there has been no slowdown in the postmortem being done by devastated fans. On the flip side, gully cricket continues at fever pitch. “Howzzzat?” resounds.
Enjoy Morning Meanderings with a hot cup of tea or coffee and some cookies to munch on the food for thought. 😊 ☕️
It’s been three days since on 10th July India had bowed out of the 2019, World cup semifinal, bowled out by New Zealand for 221, but cricket lovers are still reeling from the shock of the unexpected defeat. A day later England trounced Australia, but people continued banging their heads, wringing their hands, gnashing their teeth and heaping venom at Martin Guptill’s bullet throw from deep backward square, which had caught Dhoni outside the crease, dousing India’s hope of a victory.
The devastation was visible also on the faces of the dozen joggers of my colony. Although clad in vibrant tracking suits, their complexion was pale and faces crestfallen.
“India snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.”
“Look what this message says, “Don’t call KIWI just a boot polish.”
“But they did polish India off!”
“Don’t remind me of it – what a disaster!”
“They could easily have been the World Cup Winners!”
“The best wins, they were definitely not the best.”
“Jadeja tried his best to win the match singlehandedly …”
“Dhoni should have retired from cricket long back …”
“I tell you, the middle order cannot handle pressure.”
“This Dhoni, I tell you….”
“Don’t condemn him this way – cricket is a game of chance.”
“Fat chance! If you don’t play properly, no one is going to help you.”
“Imagine such a fast runner being run out! Who could have ever thought of such a sorry end! He was literally caught on the wrong foot.”
“The throw was excellent, they had no chance!”
“45 minutes of bad cricket and a lifetime of lamentation,” another jogger remarked wryly, rubbing his furrowed brow with an angry finger. A loss in the cricket field brings out the philosopher in man.
“Twenty four for four! Still to get over the shock. Imagine my wife and I both had taken leave from office to watch this damp squib of a match.”
“Let us see who wins tomorrow, England or New Zealand.”
“How we had hoped to watch Team India carry home the World Cup Trophy!” “Sunday would have been fun day. Now I have no interest in the match.”
“You know I had invited friends over, we were confident that India would be playing in the finals.”
“I can never forget Dhoni’s iconic Wankhede shot, on 2 April, 2011, which catapulted India to victory.”
“Yes, what a shot!”
“Ye ley Sot!”
I whirled in the direction of the high powered screech, and my eyes caught a very endearing sight.
While the elitist cricket analysts snugly clad in branded jogging attire harangued on and on, a group of shiny faced, ill-clad slum kids played cricket on the road with an improvised bat and a battered ball, unfazed by frayed tempers. The hammering and grilling on the construction sites surrounding my house went on in sync with the joggers’ impassioned grilling and nit-picking.
“Tu out ho gaya , dey mujhey bat.” The tiny Tendulkar in the making turned around and was almost about to whack the other boy on the head with the bat, but his attention was suddenly caught by another tiny ragamuffin running away with the stumps. Throwing the bat away, and forgetting the pleading boy, he ran full throttle towards the culprit, but the kid ran faster, holding aloft the stumps like a prize catch. You don’t need to win a tournament every time to run off with the stumps in this world.
Another cricket match had come to an ignominious end, but the sun was shining bright and there was no sign of rain.
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