So long then.

O sport, you cruel cruel mistress.

What is sport really? Battle, that's what it is. A civilized one, to be sure. No blood is shed, and no lives are lost. But sport, at the end of the day, is civilization's response to our innate need to compete. To fight, to pit oneself against the best there is. To engage in a duel, and to emerge victorious. And to do it in gentlemanly fashion - to do it with sportsmanship.

A good editor, in the interests of his mistress - brevity - could have shortened that paragraph to but two words. Anil Kumble.

For to a generation of Indians, Anil Kumble epitomised all that is sports. He embodied grit, perseverance, sweat, gumption, guts, toil and victory. For if you close your eyes and think of Kumble, you think of the man striding forward, fist clenched and hand raised; having just claimed yet another wicket.

He had not the guile, nor the class of Warne. He had not the ability to bewitch batsman like Murali did. And verily it was true; Prasad spun the ball more than he did.

But the batsman facing him knew this much - that no matter how many runs on board, no matter the score, no matter the state of the innings, match or series; Anil Kumble would be at the top of his run up, twirling the ball, gritting his teeth, and waiting.

Broken jaw, broken fingers, stitches, bandages and painkillers. But Anil Kumble would be there, waiting to bowl one more ball, to take one more wicket. Because Anil Kumble simply did not know better. His nature was to fight, one more time.

But no more. Having showed the way in a career that ranged from Alan Lamb to Mitchell Johnson, he has finally hung up his boots.

Indian cricket is immeasurably the poorer for it.

Well played, Anil. Well played.