Yesterday Once More

Before this, there was Melbourne 1981, a memory so delicious and pristine that I have stored it carefully in a corner vault of my brain, to be brought out and savoured every now and then. There was no television, only a trusted Grundig transistor radio- if you don’t know what that means, do that Google thing. I used to wake at 5 30 and when we batted, hope that Gavaskar wouldn’t make too many. Not because I didn’t like the man but when he scored, Viswanath would fail. Everyone knew that. And Viswanath failing was a fate worse than death for he was my first love until Tendulkar came along... This morning Gavaskar obliged by nicking off to Pascoe and thus allowed Vishy to play an innings of such distilled class that it had the Aussies applauding him off when he was done. 114 of the best. Our 230 was answered by a vehement riposte by Australia who got over 400. Match over? Far from it. We were a second innings team in those days and my fifteen year old self was supremely confident that we would come roaring back. And we did. You know how commentary from overseas came on the radio. In waves, as it were, waxing and waning, with periods of static and nothingness before the dulcet tones of Alan McGilvray and Jim Maxwell came reassuringly back. It therefore took me a while to understand what happened when Gavaskar, miffed at an lbw decision, decided to drag his partner off the field and concede the game. Saner counsel prevailed and we played on but 165 for one slid quickly to a little over three hundred and we left Australia 140 to win. I used to smuggle my Panasonic pocket radio into class whenever there was some cricket going on. We last benchers were generally ignored as long as we didn’t make a nuisance of ourselves. My modus operandi was to crouch below desk level, radio glued to my ear and recite the score sotto voce to the interested multitudes around me. Now and then I would pop up, nod knowledgeably at whatever the teacher said and then dart back down. Australia had a few overs to face on the fourth evening but our spearhead, Kapil Dev, was out with a hamstring injury. Shivlal Yadav too having been rendered hors de combat, we were effectively down to two bowlers. Grim outlook and another defeat staring us in the face. Nothing I wasn’t used to. When Ghavri got Dyson, in strode Greg Chappell. He was Australia’s captain and one of the best in the world and I knew in my heart that he would make an unbeaten fifty and Australia would coast home. Years later, I was able to lay my hands on a precious video cassette released by channel 9. It had some magnificent footage of cricket in Australia and a fair bit of this Melbourne test. You see Karsanbhai ambling in and delivering a very very medium paced delivery on Chappell’s pads.... Under the bench, I heard Chappell taking guard and then static and then- it couldn’t be, surely it couldn’t- the golden words- bowled himmmmmmmm. Ghavri had done the unthinkable and hit Chappell’s leg stump first ball. 99 times out of hundred, said Jim Maxwell, Chappell would have hit that to mid wicket for a couple. This just happened to be the hundredth time. I shot up like a periscope and said “bowled” and “Chappell” about fourteen times and wondered why nobody was sharing in my excitement. Only to turn around and look into the eyes of the short, portly teacher who was taking the class and was now breathing fire from close quarters. One of the delightful quirks of schooling in my era was a subject called “Lower Kannada”. It didn’t mean Kannada for the lowly, it meant that the Kannada was low- meaning easy. The subject was taught by this worthy who was, for some unfathomable reason, nicknamed “Gampa”. Normally affable, he was sometimes given to throwing bits of chalk at errant pupils, with a twinkle in his eye. At the moment, a twinkle didn’t seem on the cards. A baleful glare was what was directed towards me as to my horror I realised that the commentary was still going on. And there was a roar from the radio as Australia lost their third and the chaps behind me helpfully cheered. “ Silence”, roared Gampa. He crooked a finger towards me. “ Kodu”, he thundered and I hastily gave him the offending radio. Imperiously he now pointed to the door. “ Out!”, he said. I outed at the speed of knots. The rest of the day was spent standing in the hot December sun. I didn’t care. 24/ 3- could we dare dream of a miracle? Hope, that beautiful seductive mistress lodged herself firmly in my heart. Fast forward to the video cassette seen years later. Kapil Dev being interviewed and saying he felt he had to do something. Greg Chappell saying that the pitch played two heights- low and lower. Either way on day five, a pumped up on pain killers and steroid injected Kapil Dev ignored his damaged hamstring, bowled fast and straight and took 5/28. Australia rolled over for 83. In my mind still one of the greatest of all overseas wins, considering how unused we were to winning. Back home in Mangalore, my most unamused mother had to come to school to placate Gampa and reclaim my pocket radio. I was grounded for a week. Nothing mattered. I was in a haze of joy. A test match victory in Australia with a Vishy hundred- the cup of was runneth over like never before. And today, almost four decades later, I am pleased to report that our magnificent MCG victory of last week has left me with that same breathless feeling of joy. Where test match cricket is concerned, the little boy within pokes his head out and suffers when we lose and exults when we win. Most importantly, he is there- against all odds, he has survived the cynicism of the times to afford me that pure unadulterated happiness that only sporting success can bring. Happy new year, everybody. Perhaps we will conquer Covid and climate change and, even more importantly, win the Sydney test. Ahhh, hope...capricious hope....