Day One: Cricket Strikes

I was a relatively late adopter to cricket.

Like most kids growing up in the mid-90s in the Middle East, my passions were dominated by Sega video games and the WWF (now WWE). All that changed when two events coincided – the increased prevalence of cable television (it was prohibitively expensive before), and the waning interest in ‘resling’ (Bret Hart and Shawn Michaels had left, what was the point anyway?).

Suddenly, there was a surfeit of cricketing content. Youth magazines started covering the sport. We ‘played’ matches with each other as Gavaskar and Tendulkar. Book cricket was the new clandestine pastime while pretending to study. And of course, there was ESPN and Star Sports (or in my case, FOX Sports). Much to the relief of many a parent and pillow, kids stopped simulating powerslams on the bed, and started air-cover-driving using water bottles.

Everyone has a tipping point, and this was mine.

I had just finished Maths tuition on 14 May, 1997, and instead of going home, Appa said that we were going to the Indian Club in Bahrain to watch a cricket match. I groaned (I was still at a stage where I thought WWF matches were real, you see). I was taken to a place filled with expat Indians (read: Mallus). I believe it was a mini-restobar of sorts. My father doesn’t drink, and I suppose his desperation to watch the match was greater than his aversion to be around the inebriated. It didn’t matter too much, anyway, since two television sets were the cynosure of all eyes.

I had never seen a game of cricket before, and couldn’t care too much less. I just wanted the ordeal to get over.

But slowly, something was sparked inside me. A young man, curly-haired, with some gorgeous cover drives. I recognized the name on the back of his jersey, I’d seen it many times.

“Appa, who are we playing against?” “New Zealand.”

Hmm. Interesting. Who even thought they played cricket?

I was getting hooked. My interest in this little fella’s personal score ticking slowly towards a hundred was something I’d never experienced before. Why didn’t I feel the same sense of anticipation when Bret Hart went for the pin or Shawn Michaels started that famous sequence which culminated with the kick to the chin?

Soon, Sachin Tendulkar reached his century. I joined my father and around fifty other people who I didn’t know in cheering. Soon after, India won.

That hour or so changed my life. More than my father would have ever expected. In a month, I bought a notebook and started writing down cricket statistics. I dumped my prized cut-outs-and-stickers-of-wrestlers album for one with cricketers. I started reading The Sportstar and Cricket Samrat. I vividly remember some of the first series I saw – Asia Cup 97 (Ranatunga scored 131* in the final to beat us), India-WI (where Sidhu scored a double century), listening to the epic Dhaka match (Kanitkar’s four) on the radio, and the joy of discovering cable in the neighbourhood on the same day as Sachin’s Sharjah masterpiece.

Hello, cricket. I was hooked.