Willow and Leather Magic

Something is red. So red. Sore and Red. It isn’t a thing perhaps. It could be someone.

***

Nothing could be done. Something could be done. But nothing will be done but watching.

It isn’t an answer with the mouth. Nor with the bat. It isn’t an answer in the first place. It is a statement. A statement of intent in the most intentless way possible. Maybe intentless isn’t a word. Maybe you don’t have any words left for the man.

Few grams of cork, string and leather rolled into one rolls from a straight piece of wood. It is called a straight drive. It isn’t straight. It rolls at an angle of 5°. It is a lie.

Tendulkar creates a lie. It isn’t a lie with the mouth. It isn’t a lie with the bat. It is a statement. Statements aren’t lies. Maybe it is something more than a statement. It is dexterous. So much effort is exerted. Yet nothing is visible in the bat swing or the stance after that.

Nothing could be done. Something could be done. But nothing will be done but watching. Brett Lee knows. Because if he throws his leg to rot the roll, he’d be embarrassed. He would be kicking nothing but thin air and sprain his legs. Maybe he won’t be kicking thin air. Maybe he is kicking magic. He knows it is magic. Magic is a lie. Yet it is true. The straight drive is a piece of magic. Only a piece.

Something is red. So red. Sore and Red. It isn’t a thing perhaps. It could be someone.

2 failed games. And people lose their heads. Because all their heads were on only one thing. The world cup is gone. Just like that. People are stunned. People are angry. They are red-faced. They call for his head. Maybe they want to replace the heads they lost with his.

Still nothing could be done. Something could be done. But nothing will be done but watching. Watching the success he had in the four years after that and conquering the World. Something is still red. It isn’t sore. It is the face of Tendulkar shedding happy tears after conquering the same.

Tendulkar too watches. He is tempted to retire. But he doesn’t. Because critics are the balls pitched in the 5th stump line against him in SCG 03′. Nothing will be done but watching.

***

BANG!”
And then it stopped. Or it almost stopped.

It is the play. It is the flow of air in his nose. It is the heart of Waqar Younis.

Something is red. So red. Sore and Red. It isn’t a thing perhaps. It could be someone. It is the face of little Sachin, down after coping with a blow on his nostrils.

The then kid then picked up his bat and it started again. Not just the play. Not just the flow of air. Not just the heart of Waqar. Not just the fusillade of bouncers and reverse swinging deliveries.

A career. The heartbeat of a nation.

And then it stopped. Or it almost stopped.

Not bang. This is slow. Something is red. So red. Sore and Red. It isn’t a thing perhaps. It could be someone. It is the forearm and elbow of the little man. The still little man couldn’t pick up his bat.

The bat is the heaviest when you wait for the bowler to hit the delivery stride while he is running in. Sitting on top of that already heavy bat as he waits is the name of a sponsor and millions of people. He didn’t carry the burden of the nation on his back. He carried it on his bat. They decided what shot he should play sitting on top of that bat. What carried the burden was his poor elbow and forearm.

2 weeks of rest. 4 weeks of rest. 4 months to have a surgery and then rehabilitate. It wouldn’t start yet. Not even a single step forward but a stride backward.

And there is a punch.

From the hard, oddly coloured yet visible deck into the lush green grass, the ball disappears for a second. Maybe it hasn’t disappeared. Maybe the fielder is still in awe of the way he played that ball and failed to notice it in the aftermath. And it comes back up from the grass. It should be chased. But it can’t be chased.

And then it stopped. Or almost stopped. But it picks up pace again. Probably the echo of “Sachin! Sachin!!” resonating around the stadium pushed the ball further into the ropes.

***

Something is red. So red. Sore and Red. It isn’t a thing perhaps. It could be someone. It could be everyone. It could be tears of sadness owing to his retirement. It could be tears remembering the old man’s prowess over the years. It could be a feeling of emptiness. It could be the mixture of all emotions after his farewell speech.

And then it stopped. Not almost. Completely.

Nothing could be done but watching the old man light up the childhood of millions.

And a few grams of cork, string and leather rolled into one rolls.