Some 35 years ago, as an 11-year-old, I watched with admiration as a Pakistani team pulled off two brilliant chases against India. I was young, I was impressionable; in Zaheer Abbas, Majid Khan, Asif Iqbal and Javed Miandad, I was watching some of the greats of the modern game. That kind of cricket was bound to stamp its mark on me. And so, those two wins in Lahore and Karachi set up in my mind a classic template for exciting Test match wins: a chase completed in the dying overs of the fifth day.

In those days, the 20 mandatory overs were the signal that the final rites of a Test were at hand; Pakistan's chases meant I would always associate them with a last-minute, heart-stopping scramble for runs. The fielding captain could waste all the time he wanted; the bowlers could bowl wide of the stumps; the fields could be packed in the most bizarre fashion possible; but somehow a conjuring trick would be pulled off. Limited-overs chases do not come close to this sort of drama.

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Sportsmen don't do it alone

Like with most achievers, their work is collaborative in a sense, borrowing from the efforts of others

Samir Chopra

17-Jan-2014

In his memorable farewell speech last November at Wankhede Stadium, Sachin Tendulkar did not regale us with tales of his greatest batting feats, or describe for us his endless batting sessions. He did not tell us who the greatest bowler he faced was, or the batsman he most admired. He did not enlighten us with the secrets of his longevity in international cricket. He declined to name his favourite grounds or innings or model of bat or batting glove. He did not wax nostalgic about his days in the dressing rooms and share a story or two about the camaraderie he experienced within their confines.

He did, however, rattle off a long list of thank-yous to all those folks - family, friends, fellow players, cricket administrators, coaches, physiotherapists - who taught him cricketing skills, propped him up, supported him, healed him, gave him time to play, and in more ways than can be enumerated, made his career possible.

The great American discus-thrower Al Oerter - who won Olympic gold medals in the 1956, 1960, 1964, and 1968 Games, thus becoming the first athlete to win the same Olympic event four times in a row - in his acceptance speech for his induction into the Track and Field Hall of Fame, said that every coach and training partner he had ever had should be on the stage accepting the award with him.

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Why send-offs are ludicrous

Why do some bowlers feel the need to jeer the dismissed batsman as he walks off?

Samir Chopra

09-Jan-2014

Ben Stokes' send-off of Mitchell Johnson after he bowled him for 4 in Australia's second innings of the Sydney Test was one of the silliest sledges of all time. At one stroke, Stokes reminded us how incoherent some defences for sledging are, what a despicable act the send-off is, and lastly, just how much maturity still awaits him.

As a reminder, when Stokes dismissed Johnson, a bowler who, at that point in the series had taken 34 English wickets, traumatised the English top order, and done a great deal to (I will resist the temptation to say "single-handedly") bring the Ashes back to the antipodes, the match and series situation was as follows: England were 0-4 down in the Ashes, the Australian lead was 415, and Stokes' team had previously lost Tests by 381, 218, and 150 runs, and eight wickets, and needed to bat again on a pitch that had offered Australia's fast bowlers - including Johnson - some assistance.

The head-to-head comparison, if so desired, runs as follows: Stokes took 15 wickets in four Tests at 32.80; Johnson in five Tests took 37 wickets at 13.97; Johnson claimed Stokes' wicket three times; Stokes, Johnson's once. These numbers might assuage those who will claim that Johnson brought it on himself with his glaring and his confrontations with English batsmen during the series. I do not know if Johnson, other than his eyeballing Jimmy Anderson earlier in the series, gave any English batsmen a "proper" send-off, like Stokes did.

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What's luck got to do with being caught down leg?

To ascribe a dismissal resulting from a catch down leg side to bad luck is to confuse the workings of fortune with a poorly executed shot

Samir Chopra

03-Jan-2014

During the first South Africa-India Test, shortly after M Vijay was dismissed - caught down the leg side off Jacques Kallis - a familiar refrain was soon making the rounds on television and on Twitter: Vijay had been "unlucky", he had been "strangled down the leg side", his dismissal was "unfortunate". I call this refrain "familiar" because it appears so often for this particular kind of dismissal. Something, it seems, makes this method of getting out more susceptible to reckonings of misplaced fortune, of unfortunate placement in cricketing sweepstakes.

For the life of me, I cannot understand why. Vijay had simply played a "poorly executed shot". He had attempted a flick off his pads, his timing had been off, perhaps the ball was not in the right place for that shot to be essayed, the ball made contact with the bat at an unintended spot, thus imparting to it insufficient and poorly directed momentum. The result had been an easy catch to the wicketkeeper.

If there was any "luck" - a term, it seems to me, that is assigned as a cover-up for our ignorance of all the factors that may impinge on our fortunes - then that kind of luck was present in any other kind of dismissal. My friend and Cordon colleague Subash Jayaraman suggested it was because "nine times out of ten that shot comes off and when it doesn't, you simply miss the ball". It's unlucky therefore, to only make partial contact. This sounds right, but it can't be.

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When an editor ate his words

India's World Cup victory in 1983 prompted some unforgettable banter between their manager and a magazine editor

Samir Chopra

26-Dec-2013

In 1983, shortly before the third edition of the Prudential World Cup was due to be staged in England, David Frith, in his capacity as editor of Wisden Cricket Monthly wrote an article that previewed the coming action. In it, he assessed the teams that would soon assemble for the contest; West Indies still remained favourites, with some teams, possibly Pakistan and England, deemed capable of upsetting the proverbial applecart. Some teams seemed incapable of winning the tournament. Among them was India.

Frith was particularly scathing in his assessment of the touring Indians. Their record in the two World Cups thus far had been dismal: in 1975 they had won one match, against East Africa, and suffered heavy defeats in the remaining two; in 1979 they had won none of their games, and had even been beaten by an Associate team, Sri Lanka. The Sri Lankans were no pushovers, and indeed, their beating of India served notice to the rest of the world that they had matured sufficiently to be ready for top-flight international cricket, but still old biases persisted, and being beaten by a member of the Associate club felt like humiliation. Emboldened by India's poor track record, Frith suggested that if India did not improve its showing, then they should be made to qualify for the next World Cup along with the Associate nations.

It is not clear how many of Wisden Cricket Monthly's readers disagreed with Frith; certainly, the Indian team had done nothing to suggest his assessment of their chances, and his prescription for their future place in the World Cup, was too wildly off the mark. There was, of course, the small matter of the Indians having beaten West Indies in a one-day international in Berbice earlier that year; India had scored at six runs an over, reaching 282 off 47 overs, and then restricted West Indies to 255. Gavaskar had scored 90 off 117, Kapil Dev 72 off 38, and West Indies were at full strength. But it is not clear if English journalists had paid any attention to India's tour and the three-game one-day international series, which West Indies finally won 2-1.

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Staying up to watch

An all-nighter for cricket is not unknown to most serious fans, and sometimes they can be flaunted as badges of honour

Samir Chopra

18-Dec-2013

On December 16, Monday night, I lived dangerously. I brewed, and drank, a strong cup of tea "late" at night: 9:45pm, to be precise. I was reckless and irresponsible; I knew the caffeine would keep me awake well past midnight. (Such, such are the adventures of the formerly youthful.)

I committed this foolhardy act knowing my bedside alarm clock would not budge in sympathetic response to my late hour of sleep; its persistent tones would go off, as they always do, given the rhythms of our household, at the usual 6am. And then, I would experience that most dreaded of sensations, one I've become all too familiar with over the past year, ever since my daughter made her appearance on this planet: a discombobulated under-slept state of being, body and mind split asunder, cortisol levels spiked, a dense fog settled over my brain cells, making it impossible to think, read, or write clearly. My usual stint at the university library would be marked by naps and a nodding head, not by pages read or words written. Put another day down in the "unproductive" column for my sabbatical.

I had, as might be guessed, decided to stay up late to witness the conclusion of a Test match, the third of the current Ashes. Australia stood to regain the urn, and I supposed there would be some drama on display. So I took the plunge. (And made a cup of tea.)

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Test cricket, a companion to our lives

The format's leisurely pace allows you to monitor the proceedings while going about your daily routine

Samir Chopra

11-Dec-2013

Last month, I travelled to India with my family for a four-week vacation. As my wife and I quickly discovered, traveling long distance with a ten-month old infant is no laughing matter; very quickly, we found ourselves exhausted and worn out; for the first time ever on any trip I have undertaken to India, I found myself wishing I had planned a shorter one. I had not, as some of my fellow cricket fans might have surmised, planned this trip around Sachin Tendulkar's farewell, but nevertheless I was glad to be in the country when it did happen, happy enough to take advantage of this fortuitous coincidence. The sense of occasion was often palpable and I quite enjoyed monitoring the India-West Test series on television sets located in a variety of vantage points and venues: airport lounges, living rooms, coffee shops, restaurants, and on one memorable occasion, a shack on Goa's Baga Beach.

These varied monitorings of the proceedings of Test matches reminded me, as I often am, that a Test is quite a distinctive sporting event. Its length (and perhaps breadth) turns its following into one which is more similar to the kind of attention paid to other sporting events that are spread out over an extended period of time. In this dimension, a Test is not like a baseball game or tennis or football, to which it is often unfairly and inaccurately compared. Rather it is more like a golf tournament, spread out over several days, with advantage and momentum ebbing and flowing first one way and then the other, the distinctive set of numerical parameters associated with it ticking away, their changes of acute interest to its fans.

The old stories of fans who watch Tests - whether at the ground or on the television - with one eye on the proceedings are well known, of course. And given the time-consuming hurly-burly of modern life, it is entirely unsurprising that such partial attention is ever more common than it used to be. In my case, I had places to go, people to meet, a "vacation schedule" to conform to; there was little time for me to sit down, pull up a chair, put up my feet and pay undivided attention to the game. (I can only remember two such occasions during my trip - once at Goa, and once while waiting for some bank papers to be processed - when this sort of leisurely following was possible.) But a corner of my mind - a small one, but present nonetheless - remained concerned with the score and the evolution of its participant's fortunes. When the opportunity presented itself, I checked in, satisfied myself with an update and carried on.

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Tendulkar, an expat's solace

Just when an Indian who moved to the US felt his connection with cricket grow weaker, a 16-year-old batting prodigy made everything all right

Samir Chopra

06-Dec-2013

On March 17, 1987, I returned home from my classes at Delhi University just in time to catch the closing stages of the fifth Test between India and Pakistan. With the score at 180 in India's second innings, Sunil Gavaskar was out for 96 in his last Test innings. India were still 41 runs short of the winning target of 221; when Roger Binny fell, 24 runs later, they were still 17 runs adrift. With that win, Imran Khan realised his dream of winning a Test series in India; with that loss, Gavaskar's Test career came to an end. Like the Don, he had been thwarted four runs short of a landmark.

For as long as I had known cricket, Gavaskar had been at the centre of it. So as I watched the jubilant Pakistan team scamper back to the pavilion, I was dimly aware of a very real melancholia: an era had come to an end. And a part of my life with it.

Almost exactly six months later, on August 15, 1987, I left India for the US. From now on, my identity would be that of international student, non-resident Indian, high-technology immigrant worker; a veritable array of alternative conceptions of myself. One integral part of my older self seemed to have been left behind: cricket fan. The years 1987-1989 were a cricketing wasteland, populated only by the occasional score update from a variety of sources. I felt cricket slipping away at the margins, worrying all the while that a large and important part of my life would be consigned to the status of a faded memory.

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Cricket teams are workplaces too

Close friendships with everyone on a team are never likely, no matter what the fans may think. More so in a top-flight team

Samir Chopra

30-Oct-2013

Last week, in my post on fans' understanding of team relationships I suggested a dominant archetype of team-mates as "comrades in arms" plays a significant role in preventing a more realistic understanding of player relationships. In response - during a Twitter conversation - my Cordon colleague Subash Jayaraman wrote:

"We the fans play the sport mostly in a social environment, with friends and people we really get along with. Whereas pro sport is just that, professional. [The players] don't have to get along but we are aghast when they don't."

Subash is right, and his observation helps illuminate two further aspects of the issue I had touched upon in my post.

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