Twentyfour hours from now, the World Cup cricket competition begins anew. For us at Rediff, it is deja view time. Back in 1996, Rediff was just under a month old when the sixth edition of the competition kicked off. At the time, we were a fledgling outfit, operating out of a small office that had more people than tables and chairs and more crucially, computers. And when we decided to cover the World Cup, we didn't have a clue what we were getting into. Mercifully for us, the readers had what we didn't -- a very clear idea of their requirements. For the early games, thus, we would concentrate on working on the match report as the game was in progress, the idea being to have it ready, in every detail, within 10 minutes of the last ball being bowled. The response was encouraging -- and demanding. 'This medium,' the readers pointed out at the time, 'is about immediacy, so why can't you have more than one upload a day?' So that is what we did, for the second phase of the competition. A preview just before start of play, a report at half time, the full Monty at close. The reader -- we really should have anticipated that -- only became more demanding. 'How about hourly updates?'. So, for the semifinal stage, hourly updates it was. We thought you guys would be satisfied. Were you, ever? Next thing you know, they wanted ball by ball updates! At the time, the pressure was frankly killing. Three years down the line, as we prepare for the next edition, the pressure is still as killing, as mind-numbing. But I'll tell you what -- I don' think anyone here at Rediff would exchange this for any other medium, any other audience. When you dream of a career in this line, you think wow, imagine being at the ground, in the press box, rubbing shoulders with the cricketing legends of our time! But the press box, you later realise, ain't all it's cracked up to be -- for reasons I won' go into now. Then you think, hey, be a treat to be on the telly. I remember, for instance, Harsha Bhogle and I once going with the Rediff editor for lunch. On our way out, as I stopped to pick up a packet of smokes, the whispers began. And suddenly, a group of young guys gathered, mobbing Harsha, demanding autographs and insisting he shoot the breeze with them for a bit. Who wouldn't want that visibility, that recognition? At the time, I certainly did, in some small corner of mind and heart, long for it. And then we discovered live commentary -- more accurately, the readers discovered it for us. And life has never been the same, since. It's a bit like being in a big hall, watching the match, forced by your job to pay attention to every nuance, to stay alert every second of the six hours a game takes. And, at the same time, to have for company a chat-room full of cricket fans from round the world -- outspoken, volatile, unpredictable, swinging without notice from the numbingly exasperating to the upliftingly euphoric, and always, incredible fun. Which, when you come to think of it, is a pretty fair description of the Indian team, isn' it? You know what's the fun part, though? Today, it is Harsha who envies us! Mark Twain once said, famously, that he had read so much about the evils of smoking, that he gave up reading. If Twain were around today, Sachin Tendulkar would probably seek him out, shake his hand and tell him, 'Put it there, pal, I know exactly how it feels.' I mean, ever wonder what it feels like, to have 900 million people, give or take a few, worrying about your back and your calves and your propensity to play on the up and whether that ploy will still work against the moving ball? The other day, India was playing its first warm-up game against Leicestershire. Sachin got out for four or so. Within minutes, I had four separate emails in my box, all lengthy ones. One said that she had heard that Sachin had got out playing across the line, and that this was a worrying factor and would Rediff do her and the country a favour by getting in touch with the master batsman and telling him how vital it was that he hang around for the full 50 overs. Another said that he had heard that Sachin had reached forward in defence, clutched his back, and in the process got himself out and does this mean the end of India's chances? And by the end of the day, there were several other mails, in similar vein. I'll tell you what -- if you don't admire him for his flowing drives on the up, or that lovely straight hit back over the bowler's head, or for the fluent way he rocks back to thump deliveries only marginally short through the legside, you've got to admire him for this: it takes an extraordinary individual to stay sane amidst this kind of attention. To me, the most depressing element in this entire process of iconisation of one individual is this -- each time I encounter this, it reminds me forcibly that this poor mudball of ours is, today, so desperately starved of role models. I mean, we keep asking questions like "How come a nation of 950 million people can't produce a leader, why do we have to go to Italy looking for a prime minister?" Or "How come a nation of 950 million people can't seem to produce one quality fast bowler/opening batsman/off spinner/take your pick". To me, the real question is, how come this nation of 950 million can't produce more than the one achiever, one role model? It goes back, I guess, to what a celebrity once told a young kid who approached him with a request for an autograph. "Don't waste your time collecting my autograph, son," the great man advised. "Instead, use that time to make sure your own autograph becomes worth collecting!" Could it be that this is something for each of us to think about, work towards? For someone who delights in life's little ironies, you don't ever really have to look much further than cricket to provide you a good-sized dose. Consider this: here we are, heading into a World Cup, and the biggest worry on everyone's mind is the weather. Will it rain at Hove on May 15? Will Messrs Duckworth and Lewis play a bigger role in this tournament than Messrs Tendulkar, Waugh, Donald and Akram? Take a moment off from cussing out the rain, to think about this: if it hadn't been for rain hitting a traditional cricket Test, we would probably never have had a one-day game, let alone a World Cup. Remember 1971? When an England-Australia Test was badly hit by rain? And the two sides decided, in the interests of keeping the fans happy, to play a truncated version of the game? The fans at the Melbourne Cricket Club that day lapped up the action -- and, thanks to the rain gods, a game that was in danger of proving incapable of adapting to a society increasingly spoilt for choice and lacking in concentration got a fresh lease of life. Six editions of the World Cup later, the fuddies and the duddies still complain that this brand of cricket is an abomination, tolerated only because it brings in the money to keep from extinction the longer version of the game. But theirs is a still, small voice that will, I suspect, get still smaller when the last ball is bowled, and the last run scored, in this seventh edition of the World Cup. In the 23 years that the one day game has been in existence at the highest level, it has proved to be the most adaptable, the most innovative of all sports. The purists moan that one day cricket has killed the languid grace of the longer version, but what to me is more important is that the abbreviated version has condensed, within it, the complexities, the nuances, of cricket at its most frenetic. It is possible, in Test cricket, for a team to have three bad days on the run, and yet still go on to win. The one day game, though, is less forgiving -- one bad over, one bad shot, can turn a match, flip the result on its head. And that makes for a vibrancy, an immediacy, a dynamic that the longer game can never hope to attain. Enough, though, of all this. World Cups are about celebration, not cerebration -- a celebration of the ultimate marriage of skill and nerve, a coming together of a galaxy of glorious talents, all vying for that one single moment in the sun. So hey, let the fun begin -- it promises to be a memorable month and a half. And sticking my neck out on my way out the door, I'll risk this prediction: South Africa, favourites by bookmakers' decree and public acclaim, will NOT win the seventh edition of cricket's greatest tournament. Executive Editor Prem Panicker will produce his celebrated magic during this World Cup too!
HOME | NEWS | BUSINESS | SPORTS | MOVIES | CHAT | INFOTECH | TRAVEL | SINGLES BOOK SHOP | MUSIC SHOP | GIFT SHOP | HOTEL RESERVATIONS | WORLD CUP 99 EDUCATION | PERSONAL HOMEPAGES | FREE EMAIL | FEEDBACK