First published in Parenting magazine, New Delhi in 1992.
Not too long after he was born, he rolled down the bed; like a ball. We were alarmed. We consulted senior family members, the family doctor and then a pediatrician. Finally, we were reassured. Our little cricketer’s innings was not going to be stumped by that roll. Looking back, I think that was the first inkling we had of his cricketing bent. A fascination with the ball, soon to be transferred to the bat.
He has a doting Mama and Papa. We named him Joy. He didn’t always live up to his name – children can cause as much exasperation as joy. Our son provided us no less no more. At times, I was driven to call him Kill –Joy.
At four plus, I got him his first plastic cricket bat. He forgot his collection of toy cars, He Man, Spider Man, all kinds of Man and really took to it. My used tennis balls came in use at the other end. Soon cricketing season started and drawing room cricket was in full swing at home. What I had not anticipated was its catalytic effect on his growth and learning.
Joy showed all the signs of being a budding batsman. I guess he displayed a natural flair which was reinforced in my mind by the fact that he simply refused to bowl. I tried explaining the game in detail. Batting, fielding and bowling, all three are an inherent part of the game. However, his fascination with hitting out at the ball didn’t stretch to cover bowling. Meanwhile, protracted fielding and bowling proved a little tiring for me. We ultimately reached a compromise. He would bat and field to pass the ball back to me. I would remain perched at my station at the bowler’s end.
Cricket brings with it its share of excitement. Our cricket followed the same course. As I bowled to him one winter evening and simultaneously tried to warm my entrails with a little drink, it happened.
He swung at a good length ball. It shot off from his bat and took its first bounce against my glass. Mita heard the crash of the splintering glass in spite of the cacophony of the television, and rushed in. Both Joy and I looked about sheepishly as she cleaned up the mess.
We restarted as soon as she got back to her TV. Joy was in form. Obviously, cricket had helped in his motor response and muscular coordination. He was striking the ball all around the drawing room, beautifully.
In the very next over, catastrophe struck. I spun the ball a bit; it took the edge of his bat and popped up in a lazy arc. I had been holding on to my drink in one hand while I executed my bowling run up. Now I tried to place my glass on the dining table as I positioned myself for the catch. In one reflex action, I brought the glass down to the height of the table, left it and took a neat catch.
I suppose I must have been further from the table than I thought and had left the glass in midair – because the next I knew there was the sound of breaking glass. The noise brought Mita scurrying in again and as I turned with the ball firmly in my grip and appealed “caught out”, Mita ruled, “OUT – with both of you”.
Cleaning up the mess, yet again she yelled, “Who did it?” Joy and I stood close together, mutually supporting each other. We stared into each other’s eyes without passing the buck in spite of Mita repeating her query. Joy was in the process of learning the values of friendship, its obligations, the give and take, the difficult moments and of utmost importance, not letting a friend down however much he had his back to the wall.
Our cricketing evenings rolled past with no change in our routine and the routine itself was far from boring. In fact, we looked forward to them with anticipation and excitement.
Joy’s batting improved gradually. His understanding of the game improved too. One day, as I bent down to pick up a ball off his straight drive, he quickly ran three tiny steps up and back, and yelled – “two runs”. Thereafter, the lessons in maths effortlessly blended with cricketing lessons.
He had always been a Mama’s boy. To him, I had always been the competitor for Mama’s affections – a natural foe.
Cricket was bringing us closer. A new, communication channel had been opened with two eager participants at either ends reaching out to each other – like the ball to the bat. With me bowling to him and him fielding for me, we were also meeting each other’s needs. He was learning to give in return, as he received more than his dues.
Joy was five plus now and still a little too fond of batting. Most of Mita’s collection of the more dainty and delicate curios had either met their Waterloo or had been consigned to the pavilion. Unfazed, she bought him a complete cricket set. A wooden bat, wickets, new balls et al.
One Sunday morning, cricketing again, we almost stepped over the edge. My bowling had been tight for some time and Joy’s scoring contained. He was losing patience and tried a cheeky single. Half way down the crease that ran over the carpet, he caught his feet somewhere and went sprawling. As he picked himself up, his contorted face was just short of letting go of a bawl. I panicked. Mita would raise hell enough to make me want to bawl with Joy! With nothing to lose, I played my trump card. “If you cry, friend, that’s the end of cricket. Have no doubts. Mama will declare your `retired hurt` for the day.” Joy stopped half way though the beginnings of his first howl. The tears hung heavily in his eyes. It took a few minutes but we soon resumed our cricket. He was learning to bear physical pain with fortitude. In the bargain, also gaining control of his emotions and refraining from emotional displays. He was surmounting difficult odds and pitfalls to get what he wanted – a little more cricket.
His cricket set had fetched him a whole lot of friends. Even boys older than him allowed him to join them. I watched from our balcony. They gave him no special status in exchange for his bat and ball. He had to take his turn. The captain decided whether he would bowl or not. `Out’ meant `out’. Not the way he got around me when I clean bowled him.
I recall what he would do when he was simply 'out’ beyond argument. Walk up to the next room and get back impersonating the next batsman of his imaginary team. I had to take his wicket all of eleven times, before he would quit. He was quite honest, though, no more then eleven.
Playing with other boys, he was learning to be part of a team, to share his things, to take orders and most of all to accept the facts of life like being `out’. He was also learning to respect the rules and regulations according to which a game is played. In addition, the requirement of doing his bit of fielding before he earned his prize – batting – was dawning upon him. In the bargain, I found myself batting in my turn at home.
He picked up the mannerisms of the older boys he played with. They, in turn, aped the famous cricketers. It soon became a common sight watching the index finger of Joy’s hand jab upwards (like Botham’s) as he ran around the sofa on claiming my wicket. The sweep of his bat followed Gavaskar’s élan after a straight drive. Sachin was omnipotent. Of course, such strokes mostly ended up without the blade of the bat having made contact with the ball.
Mita watched his progress and used cricket to meet her ends. The promise of more or the threat of its denial got him to his books, home work and even his meals. At times, she would replace me at the bowler’s end. Her typical swing of the arm – a throw, introduced Joy to pace bowling.
One Sunday morning, when Joy was in particularly good form, we hit another nasty moment. I had bowled an easy ball and Joy swung hard. The ball bounced against a beautiful tile that hung on the wall. Mita had bought it in Morvi, Gujarat. It was one of her favourite pieces. The tile fell down and broke into pieces.
Joy was aware of what a store Mama set by it. Both of them bent down to pick of the pieces. Mita was trying to put the tile together, very much in tears. Clumsily, I tried to help her get over it.
“All mothers have to make such sacrifices for budding cricketers. Come on! Take it in your stride. Just try meeting Sachin’s Mama or for that matter Gavaskar’s wife. They’ve all been through such moments; have paid the price.”
My remarks restored a semblance of humour. A promise to procure a similar tile as soon as possible helped relegate the issue to the background. I capitalized on it and picked up the bat. “No more batting for you”. I told Joy.
For a change, he didn’t argue. Quietly picking up the ball, he started bowling.
With his growing expertise in cricket, his confidence also grew. I was no longer the instructor, In fact, I slipped to the level of an equal very soon and with the days rolling past, found a role reversal in the offing.
“Not like that Papa! That’s a No Ball.” I was instructed.
Mita helped me take it in my stride. “He is simply more talented than you are at the game.”
“I’ve played for my school and college,” I said feeling slightly belittled.
“Come on Papa. Don’t waste time, “ Joy drove the truth home. Those college days were history. I suppose what really mattered was who was in form, today!
The summer break was soon around the corner. Joy had convinced Mita to get him a new cricket set as he proudly announced he had been promoted to class II. On the evening of the last day of school, he unpacked the new set. Handing over the bat to me, he said. “Papa this is going to the deciding match. A real one. We will play a five day game.”
“Lord,” I cried, as I took my guard carefully, all set for a summer of cricket. I could not afford to lose this match! His confidence level had me on the defensive. He might refuse to play with me if I lost!
- SK Chatterji
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