The Awesomes - I

Hyallo peoples.

I have the purpose now. The glint in my eye and the fire in my belly. And if you can make the leap of the logic, you will deduce that I have a lot of fire.

Hah. Out joked you there, did I not?

Haan, so anyways, juvenile humour apart, here's the thing. I'm going to write about things that I consider awesome until I get bored of it. These could include people, things, companies, babes, beer... you get the picture. One blog posting per awesome.

Funda clear?

If you happen to have things in mind that you think are awesome, drop me a note, and I shall write about it, if I agree with your assessment, and if you pay me a beer. I'll write about it even if I disagree with your assessment and you pay me three.

And today's awesomeness is about Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar.

The Man himself.

What the batter, no bhai log? Stuff of legend and all.

There's three different generations strutting around in India right now, puffing out their chests at the thought of being able to tell their kids, I saw Sachin bat in flesh and blood.

Three different generations that have lived and died with the flashing willow of the dimunitive one.

Three different generations that have heaped abuse on him for chasing a wide one outside the off stump, but hey, now what to do? The man is like that only. Sometimes he flatters to decieve.

More often than not though, the man has only flattered. And charmed. A beguiling charm that makes you draw in your breath and whistle in amazement at the sheer artistry of the magician.

It's become an all too familiar sight for us, Sachin walking out onto the field and taking guard. Usually, but not always, scuffing out a small line right ahead of leg stump,bat resting lightly on the right shoulder, held lightly across his chest, he'll survey the field, taking in the field placements.

A short, sharp jab of the head, a slight flex of the knees, another short sharp jab of the head, and India's favorite warrior takes guard.

And a nation holds its breath. Fathers drop their newspapers to the side, watching with keen eyed interest. The kids sit cross legged on the floor, chin cupped in hands, hoping against hope. Aunties rush in from the kitchen, hands smeared with dough. Crowds gather outside shops that have televisions, straining to catch a glimpse. And in the stadium, where a moment ago there ruled pandemonium, there now descends a tense silence.

Game on.

And then the bowler runs in, and delivers the ball.

And until the outcome is known, I swear to God, not a breath is drawn in India.

Right from the time he took apart Abdul Qadir in that farcical one day match in Pakistan, to present day, Sachin has provided us with the kind of entertainment that no other can. I'll be the first to admit that Dravid is technically a more correct batsman, and a more dependable one. Jacques Kallis can defend better than he can, sure. Ponting has won more matches for Australia, and if you had to choose someone to bat for your life, it'd be Steve Waugh... whatever that means.

Haan re baba.

But plis to be telling. If you had to choose between a Sachin Tendulkar straight drive, just past the umpire, all along the ground, with that spine tingling paradoxical combination of flair and compactness, and any shot that these other gentlemen might have to offer... hain?

The defense rests it's case, as those Amreekans say.

Cast your mind back to that time the curse of modern commentary, Navjot Singh Sidhu, had a sprained neck in Napier, back in 1994. And he of the funny voice strode out onto the field, and decimated the hapless Kiwis. 84 in 47 balls, and they still speak of him in hushed tones in those parts of the world.

Or the 1996 World Cup. 523 of the very best, 65 in the semi-final and yet, not quite there. That innings in Benoni, when he taught the Zimbabwe team, along with some members of his own entourage, about the art of batsmanship. The second test in ...Newfoundland, was it?... when he and Mohd. Azharuddin reminded the South Africans that hey, we can bat too you know.

And how.

Or when the king of the cricketing world paraded his sublime skills in Sharjah in 1998. Ah, those two glorious days.

The heartbreak of 1999. 136 runs chasing 272 to win. Exactly half the runs were scored singlehandedly by this man, and then they collapsed. Rumour has it that no one spoke to him a couple of days after, such was the anger within.

And on and on, one may ramble, for after all, there are so many memories the Bombay Bomber affords us.

But the one day that I shall never forget is March 1, 2003.

I'm not anti-Pakistan, at all. Certainly not in the ultra right wing kind of way.

But hey peoples, if it's an India v Pakistan cricket match, swarry! India all the way, plis to be yelling.

And on that day, boy did he yell.

In about 90 minutes of outrageous, out-of-this-world savagery, he destroyed one of the finest attacks of that World Cup, carrying India through to the Super Six stage.

There was much dancing on the streets that night.

Yeah, I like understatements.

And now, in the twilight phase of his career, he's still the talisman that he always was. There are others, and we bat deeper, and we chase better, and we're not as reliant upon him as we once were.

And we're more flexible, and fitter, and blah.

Yeah man... yeah to all that.

But I still don't breathe when the bowler runs in.