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THE GREATEST UNDERDOG
STORY IN CRICKET

NIKHIL NAZ

First published in 2019 by Hachette India

(Registered name: Hachette Book Publishing India Pvt. Ltd)

An Hachette UK company

www.hachetteindia.com

This ebook published in 2019

(Text) Copyright © 2019 Nikhil Naz

Nikhil Naz asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be copied, reproduced, downloaded, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover or digital format other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The views and opinions expressed in this book are the author’s own and the facts are as reported by him, and the publishers are not in any way liable for the same.

Paperback edition ISBN 978-93-88322-23-2

Ebook edition ISBN 978-93-88322-24-9

Cover illustrations by Jit Chowdhury

Cover design by Haitenlo Semy

Hachette Book Publishing India Pvt. Ltd

4th/5th Floors, Corporate Centre,

Plot No. 94, Sector 44, Gurugram 122003, India

Originally typeset

by Manmohan Kumar, Delhi

To my late father, Col. Nawal Naz, the man who introduced me to sports and storytelling – two passions that enabled me to write this book

The 1983 Indian Cricket Team

Standing (L–R): P.R. Man Singh, Yashpal Sharma, Krishnamachari Srikkanth, Balwinder Singh Sandhu, Ravi Shastri,
Sandeep Patil, Roger Binny, Kirti Azad, Sunil Valson

Sitting (L–R): Dilip Vengsarkar, Syed Krimani, Kapil Dev, Mohinder Amarnath, Sunil Gavaskar, Madan Lal

1

Cricket Crush

25 June 1983, Bombay, India

Through the curly strands of hair that are falling over his eyes, he can partially see a boy, as young as himself, scrawny, in shorts and a T-shirt, running towards him from a distance of about 28 yards. Saccho takes a step back, straightens his back and holds out his right hand signalling him to stop. The boy charging in obliges. Saccho now dips the same right hand into the pocket of his hip-hugging shorts and pulls out a headband. A red headband. Pushing his sweaty mop back, he places the headband in its position, bends down and taps his bat on the concrete floor as the scrawny lad approaches him all over again. Four taps of the bat later, the ball, which left the hands of his bony mate a microsecond ago, is travelling towards the fourth floor of the adjoining building. Crashing through the window glass, it bounces on a dusty mattress on the floor, ricochets off a black trophy at the corner of the study table – the trophy now dislodged – before settling down on the book shelf, stuck in the gap between the wooden frame and the corner-most book: Shantata! Court Chalu Aahe, by Vijay Tendulkar – the most famous Tendulkar in the country.

Saccho and his friends have promptly dispersed from their makeshift cricket pitch inside the compounds of Sahitya Sahawas. All seven of them, hiding behind a blue Fiat parked on the side, are looking at the broken window of the fourth-floor flat nervously.

The 47-year-old occupant of the flat comes out of his nearly bare kitchen, effortlessly pulls out the rubber ball, and throws it out through the jagged gap in the window that the ball had created just a few seconds ago. He then picks up the trophy – a sculpted black lady – and places it back on the table. The placard at the bottom reads: Filmfare Best Dialogue – Satyadev Dubey, Junoon (1980).

Satyadev came to Bombay three decades ago from Bilaspur, with the dream of becoming a cricketer. He moved into Sahitya Sahawas – a residential society that houses some of the finest writers and poets of Marathi and Hindi literature – some nine years ago. In that time, he wrote and directed a range of award-winning plays and films. Adapting Vijay Tendulkar’s iconic play Shantata! Court Chalu Aahe into a full-length Marathi feature film remains Satyadev’s most satisfying accomplishment. If only he could write half as well as Mr Tendulkar, he wishes every day.

His unrealized dream of becoming a famous cricketer doesn’t bother him at all any more. He lives in the hope of Gen Next making it big in the game. Hence, the tossing back of the ball.

Saccho is now stretching his leading leg to the pitch of the ball. But the ball deviates at the last second – courtesy the protuberance on the cement grill covering the underground drain. But that’s no matter for Saccho – he transfers his body weight on to his muscular, bulging left thigh and brings the bat down in a flash; the ball is sailing towards the colony gate.

Crash!

The white lamp atop one of the two pillars holding the black iron gates at the entrance of Sahitya Sahawas is lying shattered on the tarmac. This time the notorious bunch of 10-year-olds aren’t hiding. They’ve decided to run into their respective houses instead. It’s only a matter of time before Laxman Kaka, the society’s watchman, comes chasing after them with a large bamboo stick in hand.

That’s the end of the day’s play for Saccho and gang. Their makeshift cricket ground, in the gap between two 17-year-old residential buildings, has seen the last of the day’s cricket action. Laxman Kaka has plonked himself down on a wooden stool right in the middle of their pitch. But it’s a Saturday afternoon. School is off. And four good hours of sunlight still remain. There’s no way cricket-crazy Saccho is going to let that go waste. In his mind, four hours equals 500 balls of either batting or bowling.

The central park of Sahitya Sahawas, surrounded by trees on three sides that don’t allow cricket balls to barge into houses uninvited, is still witnessing cricket action, though. Unfortunately, it’s out of bounds for Saccho and his mates. This is big-boy territory. Playground to Saccho’s elder brother and friends. Sixteen years and upwards. There are no soft rubber balls here. The white hard MRI ball is the bowler’s weapon of choice. Bowlers who can bowl with a run-up as long as they desire and not restricted to just six yards because that’s all that a pitch in the middle of two residential buildings can afford.

Saccho sits on the parapet, looking expectantly at the big boys play. ‘Will today be the day I get invited?’ he wonders. Just as he’s wondered many a time before. Now for almost two years.

‘Oye, McEnroe,’ calls out the burly batsman who’s been smashing the ball towards the tallest branches of the trees surrounding the ground.

Saccho responds with a wide smile. Red headband and curly mane intact.

‘What are you doing sitting around here? Aren’t you guys playing your own match?’

‘No, Laxman Kaka won’t let us.’

‘You must have broken another window,’ the wicketkeeper says confidently.

Junior McEnroe extends his lips into a half-smile. It has ‘guilty’ written all over it.

The big-boy group lets out a collective laugh.

For the next 15 minutes, Saccho’s eyes are transfixed on his elder brother, Ajit, who’s now fielding on the boundary close to him. The younger sibling hasn’t said a word. He doesn’t need to. His puppy-dog eyes are enough for Ajit to know what he desires.

‘Listen, you are still too small to play with a hard ball, and against such fast bowlers. When I think you’re good enough, I’ll be the first one to let you in.’

‘But…’

‘Let’s leave this discussion for another day. This is the last over of the day anyway.’

‘Why? It’s only 3.’

‘The World Cup final starts shortly, silly. We are all heading upstairs.’

The flat on the third floor of the Usha Kal building is overflowing with men of all ages: 28 of them stuffed together in the 200 square-foot living room. The 18-inch black-and-white TV screen is beaming live images from the Lord’s Cricket Ground in London. Mr Gowariker, the owner of the flat, and his friends occupy the three sofas. Mr Gowariker’s son, Avinash, and his friends – Sunil, Satyajit, Harshad, Ketan, Parag, Ramesh, Vivek and Junior McEnroe – are cramped up on the concrete floor, their heads tilting up in the direction of the TV screen. Ajit and his teenage friends are spread across the room, occupying the dining chairs, stools and the few available spots on the sofas.

Exactly a week ago, Sally Ride became the first American woman to travel into space on the space shuttle Challenger. In India, colour TV has just arrived. It’s not yet made an appearance at Sahitya Sahawas, though. Mr Gowariker’s black-and-white Dynora remains one of the rare home screens in all of Kala Nagar.

Gavaskar’s dismissal early is met with a collective groan. Saccho can’t fathom why. He looks around the room for a clue. No one is talking. ‘Must be a very crucial blow,’ he tells himself.

Srikkanth rocks back and hits Andy Roberts for a 6! Saccho doesn’t need help to comprehend this. The gang of 10-year-olds on the floor break into an impromptu jig. ‘No matter what the situation, this Srikkanth always plays like this,’ Mr Gowariker explains to his friend.

Thirty-one overs later, India have lost four wickets, and Junior McEnroe his interest. The 60-over game is proving to be far too sluggish for a 10-year-old more accustomed to the quick-fire 10-over gully cricket format. This is not how he imagined his first international cricket match on TV would feel like.

‘Hey… Where are you going? There are still 4 overs to go before lunch,’ whispers Avinash as Saccho gets up.

‘I’m going home. McEnroe’s match is about to start.’

There aren’t many takers for McEnroe in Sahitya Sahawas. Björn Borg is their hero.

Saccho stays in the same building as Avinash. A floor above. In a flat devoid of TV. He sits in front of a radio. Tennis shorts, T-shirt, red headband, et al. The commentator announces John McEnroe is leading 1-0 in the first set of his third-round match, versus compatriot Brad Gilbert.

The American brat is gunning for his second Wimbledon title. And this is as good a chance as any for him to repeat what he did two years ago. Björn Borg – his biggest rival and winner of 11 Grand Slams – retired just five months ago, aged 26.

McEnroe wins the first set 6-2. The second set is on.

But wait! What! The match has come to an abrupt halt. The fuzzy haired, red-headbanded tennis pro is being summoned by the chair umpire. Saccho is nervous. McEnroe has already had a near escape in his previous match against Florin Segarceanu of Romania, where he was found guilty of abusing a ballboy, a line judge and the chair umpire, and then got fined. His fines for the year total $7200. That figure is likely to increase by the end of the day. He’s now being warned for having screamed at a woman in the crowd. The match resumes. The 10-year-old boy sitting in Bombay breathes a sigh of relief.

6-2, 6-2, 6-2 is the final score. John McEnroe is through to the fourth round of Wimbledon. Junior McEnroe is through with his dinner.

‘You watch, this target of 184 will be a cakewalk for this formidable West Indian batting line-up,’ proclaims Ajit in a loud voice, as Saccho walks into the Gowariker living room once again and takes his place on the floor. His buttocks haven’t even settled down before he hauls them up and moves vigorously. As do the rest of his friends. All thanks to Balwinder Singh Sandhu, who’s sent the dangerous Gordon Greenidge’s stump carting around.

Vivian Richards is allowing the dancing brigade at Sahitya Sahawas some rest. He’s in ominous form. The Indian fielders have already made seven trips across the boundary rope. ‘It’s like he’s batting on a different pitch to all the others,’ Saccho hears his brother tell a friend. He wonders what it means, but chooses not to ask.

Richards’s swinging bat has connected with the ball again. The ball is travelling miles up in the air. Will this be his eighth boundary of the match? The entire living room has its mouth wide open. Just as well. They needn’t open it again when they have to scream. Kapil Dev has taken a stunning catch! India have their most-prized wicket.

The dancing is getting more vigorous with each West Indian wicket.

It’s well past midnight. Suddenly, the most outlandish dance moves are rocking the third-floor flat of the Usha Kal building at Sahitya Sahawas society, of Kala Nagar area in Bandra East, Bombay. The last man, Michael Holding, is out! The West Indies have folded for 140 – 43 runs short of India’s 183. Kapil and his ‘devils’ are the new World Champions. The greatest underdog story in cricket has been written. And this colony of writers is experiencing it all vicariously.

A carnival-like atmosphere has engulfed the entire city. Drums drumming, crackers cracking, and sweets in every mouth at every street corner.

After dancing and rejoicing on the streets, Saccho and gang have settled down on the benches of Nanda Deep – a community park down the road from their residential society – listening to Ajit and his friends recall some key moments from the final. It’s 2 a.m. But there are no deadlines tonight.

‘It was as if Viv Richards was batting on a different pitch from everyone else,’ butts in Saccho, nervously. Unsure of whether what he has said fits the context of what his elder brother and friends are discussing. Plus, he feels guilty about copying his brother’s line.

The members of the big-boy gang exchange glances – brows arched, eyes wider than usual – before carrying on with their conversation. Saccho doesn’t know what to make of it.

26 June 1983

The central park at Sahitya Sahawas, surrounded by trees, and flanked by swings and slides on one side, is witnessing an engrossing cricket match amongst the 16-years-and-above of the society. A Sunday morning feature.

Saccho walks out of his building and is heading towards the adjoining one, Anandvan, to meet his friend Harshad.

‘Oye, McEnroe!’ shouts the bowler. ‘You want to play with us? We are one guy short.’

Little Saccho grins, walks over to the centre and is given a bat to hold. He bends and takes a leg-stump guard. Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar is ready to face the next ball.

On the fourth floor of the building overlooking the park, Satyadev Dubey has settled in front of his study desk. He’s beginning a new project – adapting a famous book into a TV series for Doordarshan. The book is The Discovery of India.