Why did our honorable ( a little dishonored these days) prime-minister have to invite his Pakistani counterpart over for the semi-final? Why couldn't he, like the rest of our country forget work, forget everything else and just watch the match? Why dilute what is easily the most significant sporting feat in the subcontinent ever with another round of diplomatic pyrotechnics?
Lets face it. Pakistan is the enemy and has always been. Its nice to say that we want Pakistan to grow into a successful, friendly nation but what we would all rather have is them dissapearing off the face of the earth. Born and brought up hearing about how our neighbour is plotting our destruction, its only fair we would love to beat the hell out of them, albeit non-violently, on the cricket pitch. It is war tomorrow, a passionate, all or nothing war at Mohali and we do not need sermons on peace and brotherhood to dilute our spirits. Diplomacy can wait for another day. Not that it has been too successful anyway.
What exactly will the bosses of the two nations achieve by watching Akthar racing in to bowl at Sachin? Will the sportsmanship shown on the pitch transfer itself to foriegn policy? Will the pakistanis suddenly find that their policy of war by a thousand cuts is not working anymore? By trying to shift the limelight from the batsmen and the bowlers to foreign affairs and regional peace, what exactly do our policy makers intend to achieve?
Open questions to an opaque government.
Many will argue that there are more pressing matters than cricket in the world. But when its peaceful gladiators representing billions on each side fighting it out for the greatest prize in the game, a game followed with religious fervor in both countries, nothing can be more important than a victory. A loss is not acceptable, unimaginable to some, revolting to others. The sheer ecstasy, as an Indian of watching Sehwag whacking Gul over his head, of Sachin getting that hundredth hundred, of Yuvraj hitting those sixes is going to lift an entire nation for years to come. Failure could have us drooping our shoulders for just as long.
The players go out there with the pride, the passion, the hopes of a nation on their shoulders. Nobody needs the politics, the politicians to mar this battle. Let the war be fought on the cricket field tomorrow. Let it be won or lost by the eleven on the field.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
when thirty-five thousand became one....
Everyone keeps asking 'why go to the stadium to watch a game when you can see it comfortably on the couch at home?' I found my answer when i went for the India vs. Ireland game at the Chinnaswami stadium in Bangalore.
.
we go to the stadium not to watch the game but to live the game.
The anticipation builds up days before and reaches a crescendo on the day. Wake up in the morning and nothing else seems to matter. We get our jerseys ready, our faces painted, chart paper in hand for that inspiring banner, all ready for a day of screaming, shouting and all round merrymaking..
We reach the stadium with three hours still to go for the game. Thousands of impatient spectators throng about in and around the stadium in bright colors with even brighter flags and scarves, waiting for the game to begin. That's when we got our first experience of the purely Indian phenomenon of being camera crazy. Normal people, the kind who would normally be self conscious of even sneezing in public lose all their inhibitions and are all of a sudden in a mad race to outdo each other in their antics as soon as a TV camera faces them. We were no different and when a news channel came around to interview us, we were on top of the world. It was an entertainment program for fans and boy! did we give them some entertainment. After ten minutes of shouting and dancing and singing and all around tomfoolery for the camera, we could barely believe it ourselves that we were capable of such mayhem. Such is the magnetic effect of coming on TV.
Once in the stadium, the magnificence of the ground is breathtaking. No high definition viewing on the costliest of television screens can do justice to the magic of watching the game from the stadium as it happens. The electric atmosphere, the lush green outfield, the blaring music, the static energy of anticipation that the stadium is full of can never be converted to electrical signals and reproduced at home. And the game had not yet begun.
When the Indian team came out onto the field for warming up, the reverence, the adulation that we Indians have for our cricketers was in full sight. But the greatest ovation was of course reserved for the little master as the whole stadium erupted as one when Sachin came on to the field. Its an unbelievable feeling, a humbling experience to see tens and thousands alongside you, people from all walks of life become one and scream out their adulation for the great man. That day, we had no enemies, no problems, no career, no girlfriends, only a God like reverence for the man we had grown up idolizing.
Soon Dhoni won the toss and chose to field first, disappointing everyone in the stadium hoping to see the great man lead our much vaulted batting lineup. But all that was put aside as again thirty-five thousand proud Indians stood up and sang our national anthem. The patriotism, the simple joy of being Indian that welled up inside me cannot be put into words. I call upon all those detractors who have been writing off our great nation to stand in the middle of that ground and listen as we show what it means to be Indian, as we let the world know how proud we are of our identity. Listen, as thirty-five thousand tell you the power of a billion.
As the game started and the Indians came on to field, the masses had settled. Every wicket was cheered, every near miss conjured up a sigh and Sachin just had to move an inch for the stadium to erupt. To have thousands of people, all happy at the same time, sad at the same time, each one putting in their emotion to make the stadium one huge melting pot of fervor. Sociologists have theorized that after a certain critical mass is achieved, a group of people show the character of a single individual. Especially when the whole congregation is together for the same cause, supporting the same team. That day the Chinnaswami was like one huge beast.
Nothing illustrates this better than the Mexican wave. When people rise up in perfect unison, each co-ordinated only by the one next to him, it is an awesome sight to behold. But for every successful wave there are two or three failed attempts. Just as people show collective bliss or collective disappointment, they show collective ego too. Some waves die off as people refuse to give others the satisfaction of starting it. Such actions are never forgotten and favors are returned as groups of strangers bond together to spar like schoolchildren.
India had put in a decent performance on the field and it was time for Sehwag and Sachin to shine. Sachin’s every move was cheered, even singles looked majestic but the famous Indian batting lineup failed to rise to the expectations of the cricket crazy spectator. By the time Sachin got out to a deafening silence, we were all emotionally drained. Sporadic bursts of shouting from those with exuberance remaining and periodic Mexican waves kept us going until Pathan came in for one last burst of energy to wrap up the match.
The match was over. The day had ended and indelible memories had been formed. It was that day that I truly grasped the meaning of a sporting spectacle. The emotional ride that comes with it. The highs and lows of competitive sport is never complete without the fervor of the fans, of millions united as one to cheer their team on. Of frenzied adulation and somber depression.
For me it will always be the day I saw thirty-five thousand become one.
.
we go to the stadium not to watch the game but to live the game.
The anticipation builds up days before and reaches a crescendo on the day. Wake up in the morning and nothing else seems to matter. We get our jerseys ready, our faces painted, chart paper in hand for that inspiring banner, all ready for a day of screaming, shouting and all round merrymaking..
We reach the stadium with three hours still to go for the game. Thousands of impatient spectators throng about in and around the stadium in bright colors with even brighter flags and scarves, waiting for the game to begin. That's when we got our first experience of the purely Indian phenomenon of being camera crazy. Normal people, the kind who would normally be self conscious of even sneezing in public lose all their inhibitions and are all of a sudden in a mad race to outdo each other in their antics as soon as a TV camera faces them. We were no different and when a news channel came around to interview us, we were on top of the world. It was an entertainment program for fans and boy! did we give them some entertainment. After ten minutes of shouting and dancing and singing and all around tomfoolery for the camera, we could barely believe it ourselves that we were capable of such mayhem. Such is the magnetic effect of coming on TV.
Once in the stadium, the magnificence of the ground is breathtaking. No high definition viewing on the costliest of television screens can do justice to the magic of watching the game from the stadium as it happens. The electric atmosphere, the lush green outfield, the blaring music, the static energy of anticipation that the stadium is full of can never be converted to electrical signals and reproduced at home. And the game had not yet begun.
When the Indian team came out onto the field for warming up, the reverence, the adulation that we Indians have for our cricketers was in full sight. But the greatest ovation was of course reserved for the little master as the whole stadium erupted as one when Sachin came on to the field. Its an unbelievable feeling, a humbling experience to see tens and thousands alongside you, people from all walks of life become one and scream out their adulation for the great man. That day, we had no enemies, no problems, no career, no girlfriends, only a God like reverence for the man we had grown up idolizing.
Soon Dhoni won the toss and chose to field first, disappointing everyone in the stadium hoping to see the great man lead our much vaulted batting lineup. But all that was put aside as again thirty-five thousand proud Indians stood up and sang our national anthem. The patriotism, the simple joy of being Indian that welled up inside me cannot be put into words. I call upon all those detractors who have been writing off our great nation to stand in the middle of that ground and listen as we show what it means to be Indian, as we let the world know how proud we are of our identity. Listen, as thirty-five thousand tell you the power of a billion.
As the game started and the Indians came on to field, the masses had settled. Every wicket was cheered, every near miss conjured up a sigh and Sachin just had to move an inch for the stadium to erupt. To have thousands of people, all happy at the same time, sad at the same time, each one putting in their emotion to make the stadium one huge melting pot of fervor. Sociologists have theorized that after a certain critical mass is achieved, a group of people show the character of a single individual. Especially when the whole congregation is together for the same cause, supporting the same team. That day the Chinnaswami was like one huge beast.
Nothing illustrates this better than the Mexican wave. When people rise up in perfect unison, each co-ordinated only by the one next to him, it is an awesome sight to behold. But for every successful wave there are two or three failed attempts. Just as people show collective bliss or collective disappointment, they show collective ego too. Some waves die off as people refuse to give others the satisfaction of starting it. Such actions are never forgotten and favors are returned as groups of strangers bond together to spar like schoolchildren.
India had put in a decent performance on the field and it was time for Sehwag and Sachin to shine. Sachin’s every move was cheered, even singles looked majestic but the famous Indian batting lineup failed to rise to the expectations of the cricket crazy spectator. By the time Sachin got out to a deafening silence, we were all emotionally drained. Sporadic bursts of shouting from those with exuberance remaining and periodic Mexican waves kept us going until Pathan came in for one last burst of energy to wrap up the match.
The match was over. The day had ended and indelible memories had been formed. It was that day that I truly grasped the meaning of a sporting spectacle. The emotional ride that comes with it. The highs and lows of competitive sport is never complete without the fervor of the fans, of millions united as one to cheer their team on. Of frenzied adulation and somber depression.
For me it will always be the day I saw thirty-five thousand become one.
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