Thought Crimes

The final of the Twenty 20 world cup. And the world got its cup of emotions filled to the brim. As far as the subcontinent was concerned, the cup overflowed. What a match! What an unbelievably brilliant cliffhanger. You couldn’t have asked for a better ending to a tournament, written off as ‘circus cricket’ by pundits, which had captured the heart of all its viewers. In a packed canteen, with more than 300 pairs of eyes riveted on the huge projector, and the sweat flowing free, I realized what being ‘drained of all emotion’ truly meant (no indirect reference to the sweaty masses here).

17^th over. Harbhajan Singh. India poised for a maiden Twenty 20 victory thanks to some intense and inspirational play over the past one week. A young team waiting on the threshold of history. Pakistan down. Almost out. With the entire hopes of a nation, albeit a chaotic failed one, on one man- Misbah. And boy, did he deliver. You got to hand it to the gutsy guy and the other young team from across the border. They knew what resilience meant. For much of the match, India had had the upper hand, however slight, but unlike another team in green, they preferred not to choke. And in that 17^th over, a billion plus people switched from celebration mode to God-help-us mode. 4 sixes off the 2001 India-Australia series hero. 4 lusty blows clearing the ropes and denting the morale of every Indian watching. 4 maximums making what was increasingly becoming an impossibility, a very probable outcome.

18^th over. Sreesanth. 2 effortless sixes by the no. 9 batsman. 2 more steps towards the cup. 2 more cracks in India’s armour. The young man fell to the other young man but the damage it seemed, had been done.

19^th over. RP Singh. The bowler of the tournament (Lefty’s modest opinion). Overshadowed by Irfan Pathan in the final, but nevertheless the bowler who delivered under pressure. 20 to win. A score for the Score. And yet again, with a billion hopes weighing upon his young shoulders, the young gun delivered, 18.4 ball. The stumps knocked down and Umar Gul walked back. 9 wickets down now. 1 more and the match would be ours. Asif faced the last ball with the sole aim of surviving it. The result was more than he could have asked for. An edge to the boundary, leaving Pakistan with a very gettable 13 to win off the last over, with Misbah, the Messiah, on strike.

20^th over. Joginder Sharma. Wide on the first ball. 12 to win. 2 a ball. Next one fully tossed. Misbah charged down the pitch and sent the ball to the hysteric crowd. A billion hopes had fallen now. The canteen stood still. Horrified looks everywhere, the famed 300 stunned to numbness. This couldn’t be happening. But after all, the valiant Spartans had also lost. Only 6 to win off the last 5 balls.

20.2 ball. Full. The shot pre-decided. Skillfully skied toward fine leg. And as it began its ascent to the heavens, my heart rose, stopped and a chill of dread engulfed me. These shots are generally sixes, if not fours. The background of the white version of the cherry changed rapidly. 0.42 seconds. The sky… The grandstand… The crowd… and then… Sreesanth. The ball had not yet reached the safety of his cupped hands before the 300 came alive. Before a billion burst into celebration. Before the young Team India, having played just one T20 prior to the tournament, claimed its place in history. In the musty dusty canteen in a long-forgotten town, all hell broke loose. Bodies fell upon each other in glee. My joy our joy. My sweat our sweat. The shouts almost brought the roof down and mad uncoordinated victory jigs were started. The ground shook ever so slightly, acknowledging the effort of the 11 valiant runners up and congratulating the 11 heroes.

Jeet gaye.

# posted by Saagar @ 7:39 am