As it beautifully snowed outside while the cozy fireplace crackled in my room on a wonderful March evening at the gymkhana lodge in Darjeeling in the year 1996, my first memory of cricketing drama unfolded at the Eden Gardens. While I can never forget the sight of Vinod Kambli crying, and the spineless Eden crowd, the world cup semi brought a moment which would bring a semblance of profound clarity for me later in life.
The Indian run chase was going smoothly ahead, and the air was abuzz with excited expectations. And then, out of nowhere, Sachin Tendulkar was out stumped off Sanath Jayasuriya. Even to a young fellow's eyes, it was obvious the massive change that happened thereafter. Not only did the Indians unfold, even the fans deflated, the cheers got lower, and the Lankan bowlers seemed twice as menacing. As a child, seeing my elders deflate because of one man's dismissal seemed peculiarly strange.
For a while, then, I struggled to understand the phenomenon of Tendulkar. It was only in 1998 after the twin Sharjah centuries did I understand: When you can have Sachin win you matches in that classy style, why would you want victory any other way?
That is the essence of India's fascination with cricket and Tendulkar. The prospect of winning not through grinding stubbornness, but in style. That is the essence of the devotion of every sports fan when it comes to the superstar, the maverick who can turn it on, who revels in glory, who smirks in the face of adversity, and whose audacity knows no bounds. Why else would Warne be loved so much? Why else would Messi and Ronaldo be fighting like two crazed roman centurions in a fierce race for the biggest honor? Why else would Lara play those incredible shots and take just six months to snatch back his record from Hayden?
