To get over with all the intros.. I had also done something which was in theory, similar to the achievement of the English men. It was not so much in scale, but considering the landscape of a laid back village during mid eighties in rural Kerala where I grew up, and the simple mind set of the villagers, and keeping in mind the enthusiasm of a fourth grader, this was surely a comparable one in achievement.
I had brought the game of cricket to the village of Nattassery.....
In the year of 1985, when he returned from town on a rainy day in May, my Grandpa came back home in an auto rickshaw instead of his Hercules bicycle. He had brought home a new item. It was a small 14 inch black and white Dyanora TV. At 0900 clock on Sunday mornings, it would show the Mickey Mouse show. Two years later, it would show Ramayana at the same time and another four years later, Mahabharata. But what fascinated me was not any of that.. It was something special, a drama enacted by 11 icons, that kept people at the edge of their seats..
In the afternoon, around 0200PM , it would show cricket highlights. Gavaskar , Kapil Dev and Mohinder setting the blades of grass in the stadium on fire.. Binny and Madan Lal physically ravaging the batsmen... It was a treat to watch....
Life had changed from then on... I used to sit awake in the nights and watch cricket matches played abroad.
It was then that the passion of actually playing the game became uncontrollable.. There were two main issues. One was the playing gear.. That was solved by Kuttappan Nair, who helped fashion a bat from the branches of a coconut tree and grandma who gave me two rupees to buy a rubber ball. The second was a team.. Though initially I tried to teach the game to my four year old brother, it did not work out.. He was just not strong enough to hold a bat..
"C'mon.." I used to think.. "You are a four year old bugger who cannot even lift a cricket bat.. What are you going to achieve in life, man..." Anyhow, he used to run after his toy car, in the relief that practice session is over, sometimes even crying for my ball..
This would not work out... And so there was to be a solution soon.. It came in the form of the boy who used to bring milk at home... Appu, his name was, and was almost my age; may be a bit more.. But he used to be very busy.. He had to take his goats out to feed and then had to look after the cows at home.. Not sure if he attended school.. But then, determined was I, and managed to pull him out for some time every day to play cricket..
It was soon that we formed a team.. Though not 11, we had 8-9 boys of similar age and different heights and weights.. We used to play in the fields in the open sun.. It was autumn and the paddy fields lay bare after Kanni Koythu ( first harvest season in Kerala).. It was the perfect ground.... Lots of grass, enough to complete with the Lords.. The pitch was perfect for spin, spotted with small mounds of mud..
We were the first cricket team in Nattassery ..
And then, like any other great discoverers, I wanted to make it big.. That was when the thought of organizing a tournament set in... The acceptance was unanimous.. We were the only team in the whole village and were sure to win.. The thought of impending glory was too much to resist..
Organizing a tourney had its own up hill tasks.. We had to print notices.. Certificates needed to be printed for the winning team members.. But most of all, a trophy was required.. For one fourth standard kid along with his four year old sibling and few shepherds and few village kids, this was an uphill task... But when you face challenges is when innovation beams upon you..
Grandma used to say that Grandpa had participated in the famous Meenachil boat race in his younger days and won the first place.. He actually had won a trophy and the old , dusty brass artefact lay in one of the boxes in his small cupboard... I had heard that he used to treasure it a lot, as a reminder of his young and actives days.. But for me, that was the solution to the most difficult part of the puzzle..
It was not difficult for me to pick the trophy up from its resting place and clean and shine it as much as possible.. It still had not regained its original sheen, but certainly looked like the apt ever rolling trophy for the Nattassery World Cricket Tournament.
What remained were the certificates, which finally got printed in Nambiar uncle's electronic type writer in Mumbai, which my father sent me by post.. To think, how much encouraging that was to a seven year old; may be that was the best I had...
The tourney was on a wet Saturday in November.. The challenging team was a gang of warlords from across the river.. As usual the match was postponed by an hour due to incessant rain.. Those were the days before the Duckworth Louis methods.. So both teams had to play the full 10 overs for a decision..
I, the self proclaimed captain of the host team won the toss and decided to field... No.. Don't think that I had anticipated the benefit of swing or capitalizing on the wet outfield. It was just the logic of the fourth grader..
The war lords came to bat.. The opener was a hefty, dark fellow in whose hands the simple bat looked very small..
Then came the rain..
The swing and wet outfields certainly did not help.. It was not raining ... It was raining runs.. None of the balls touched the ground.. Every one of them flew outside the paddy field, across the boundary.. The umpire did not have time to rest his hands..
Then came the opportunity.... The ball had flown high and was around 10 meters from me.. The seven year old ran... And jumped... His chest took a hit.. When he stood up , there were drops of blood on his elbows.. But, in his palm, safely held, was the rubber ball..
"Out!!!!!!" Proclaimed the umpire !!!! His finger had risen..
The match continued and at the end of 10 overs, the warlords had made 120 at the cost of 5 wickets.. Now was our turn..
We did our best.. Wickets fell.. But the kids persisted.. And then came the final over.. It was 12 runs, 3 balls and it was the seven year old facing a gangster..
I couldn't touch the first ball.. The second one came short pitched and rose to my chest.. The kid heaved, the bat connected, and the rubber ball flew off..
There was a cry in the gallery.. I couldn't open my eyes.. The cry had muffled.. It was time to see the result.. The kid opened his eyes..
The ball was safely in the hands of a gangster.. Caught just on the boundary.. The umpire had risen his finger, proclaiming the bitter truth..
Mine was the last wicket to fall.. The warlords had won by 12 runs..
And then, I cried...
The tears came, not because we had lost.. But thinking what would I tell my Grandpa.. The gangsters had taken the trophy, threw away the certificates and were doing the victory run...
Grandpa never found out.. Or he did not ask me... I had thought my kid brother would do me in.. But he did not..
Years later, when Grandpa was bedridden with intestinal cancer, one day, I told him..
" Pa.. I lost your trophy.." He did not say anything.. But smiled, even in the bitter pain..
Did he know.. I never found out...
I have never played cricket since my fourth grade... I did watch a lot of matches.. Slowly the interest wore off as work and life became complex.. Only the love for the game persisted..
I don't have my statue erected in Nattassery.. Nor do the people remember me as the father of cricket.. But, when I see kids playing cricket in paddy fields when I visit my native, the tingling feeling sets in..
And I see the seven year old amongst them, smiling and crying.. And an image of Grandpa's trophy in a haze... May be, he is trying to get it back, after all these years..
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