The Old Monk
“I tend to think that cricket is the greatest thing that God ever created on earth - certainly greater than sex, although sex isn't too bad either”~Harold Pinter
I felt like a fool as I walked towards the pitch.
It had been a brilliant series until the last hour. We had exceeded expectations.
We started with a relatively young team; inexperienced, fresh and unassuming. Our first round matches were easy wins. No one noticed us until we were in the finals against the Seminare team.
I was booed, but I knew Aparna’s voice wasn’t adding to the chorus. I would have been surprised if I had known that she was in the stands, sitting quietly, probably praying.
The Seminare team was at its best this year. Most of their players were in their last year before they had to give up cricket and start worrying about their school-leaving exams. They embarrassed and humiliated every team. They were playing the finals at home.
I first met Aparna at the inter-school quiz. I was surprised Seminare had a girl in their team. I was shocked when Seminare qualified with a better score than St. Patrick. I fell in love when she answered questions on Sir Alex Ferguson and Artoo-Detoo.
Seminare had won the inter-school Cricket Cup for two years in a row, and everyone expected them to win it this year. The whole school had come out to cheer their team, expecting a sound thrashing of the maverick St. Patrick team. Surely, their eccentric luck had to run out.
It was perfect with Aparna while it lasted. She never did like my recklessness. She grew tired of it and decided to part ways. I was devastated, but was too proud to call back and apologize. I sought comfort elsewhere.
The match started badly for us, with the pompous Seminare openers dismissing the first four balls into the roaring crowds. The sun stopped shining almost immediately, with three wickets in the next over, all guilty of mistimed lofty blows. Almost immediately the Seminare team sobered up, paid due respect to the disciplined Patrick attack and put up a respectable 280. The discipline of the Patrick bowling carried on to their innings, and we were cruising along and had amassed a very respectable 200 for the loss of two wickets with about fifteen overs to spare.
I started relaxing. Rishab, the medium pacer, had managed to sneak in three bottles of Old Monk, and while the skipper dutifully amassed runs, I took generous swigs from the bottle. Surely, as the number eleven, I wouldn’t need to play a role in the victory.
The skipper, as I had predicted, kept his wicket safe, and amassed runs in his characteristic calm manner. Unfortunately, his partner until then wasn’t as calm, and lost his wicket to a poor shot. Blame it on nerves, the Seminare’s fighting spirit or Old Monk, wickets started tumbling. Before long, number 10 was dragging his bat back to the pavilion. The score was up to 270 and we had seven balls to get to 281.
I was number eleven for a reason. Geoffrey Boycott’s grandma could bowl me out with an orange. The Old Monk did not help my cause. The captain asked me to take it one ball at a time. All I had to do for the first one was not get out. He thought it was simple.
The spinner had a short run up, came in, looped his arms and let go of the ball. The ball spun like a top in the air, landed on the dustiest spot and raised a mushroom-cloud of dirt near my feet. I swung hard, missed and the ball flew within an inch of my bails and found refuge in the wicket keeper’s gloves.
I heaved huge sigh of relief as the crowd continued booing. The captain had his task cut out. Seminare’s death bowler had a of producing yorkers with surgical accuracy. The captain was calm. The bowler ran in and produced his first yorker. The captain blocked it and decided the time was appropriate for a stroll to the short leg umpire. I applauded and cheered as the rest of the stadium chanted the bowler’s name.
Eleven runs of five balls. The second ball was a simple half volley. With poetic grace, the captain dismissed it to the covers. The third ball received similar treatment.
Three runs of three balls. The bowler regained his composure and threw down a Yorker again. The captain blocked it patiently. The bowler charged in for the penultimate ball. With all the energy that he could muster, he let go of a monster of a ball. It pitched and stung the captain on his helmet. He decided to repeat his walk. I ran up to check on him. He dismissed me with a wave.
The next ball was absolutely magical. Wasim Akram would have been proud of the reverse swing on that delivery. The captain’s shot flowed naturally from his near-perfect Barry Richards’ stance. He moved back ever so slightly to convert the marginally wayward Yorker into a half-volley and glanced it past deep midwicket. The ball hit the boundary ropes. The very few Patrick supporters ran onto the field to raise the captain on their shoulders. We had won.
I shook hands distantly as I caught sight of Aparna stand up near the long off boundary.
I felt like a fool as I walked towards the pitch.
It had been a brilliant series until the last hour. We had exceeded expectations.
We started with a relatively young team; inexperienced, fresh and unassuming. Our first round matches were easy wins. No one noticed us until we were in the finals against the Seminare team.
I was booed, but I knew Aparna’s voice wasn’t adding to the chorus. I would have been surprised if I had known that she was in the stands, sitting quietly, probably praying.
The Seminare team was at its best this year. Most of their players were in their last year before they had to give up cricket and start worrying about their school-leaving exams. They embarrassed and humiliated every team. They were playing the finals at home.
I first met Aparna at the inter-school quiz. I was surprised Seminare had a girl in their team. I was shocked when Seminare qualified with a better score than St. Patrick. I fell in love when she answered questions on Sir Alex Ferguson and Artoo-Detoo.
Seminare had won the inter-school Cricket Cup for two years in a row, and everyone expected them to win it this year. The whole school had come out to cheer their team, expecting a sound thrashing of the maverick St. Patrick team. Surely, their eccentric luck had to run out.
It was perfect with Aparna while it lasted. She never did like my recklessness. She grew tired of it and decided to part ways. I was devastated, but was too proud to call back and apologize. I sought comfort elsewhere.
The match started badly for us, with the pompous Seminare openers dismissing the first four balls into the roaring crowds. The sun stopped shining almost immediately, with three wickets in the next over, all guilty of mistimed lofty blows. Almost immediately the Seminare team sobered up, paid due respect to the disciplined Patrick attack and put up a respectable 280. The discipline of the Patrick bowling carried on to their innings, and we were cruising along and had amassed a very respectable 200 for the loss of two wickets with about fifteen overs to spare.
I started relaxing. Rishab, the medium pacer, had managed to sneak in three bottles of Old Monk, and while the skipper dutifully amassed runs, I took generous swigs from the bottle. Surely, as the number eleven, I wouldn’t need to play a role in the victory.
The skipper, as I had predicted, kept his wicket safe, and amassed runs in his characteristic calm manner. Unfortunately, his partner until then wasn’t as calm, and lost his wicket to a poor shot. Blame it on nerves, the Seminare’s fighting spirit or Old Monk, wickets started tumbling. Before long, number 10 was dragging his bat back to the pavilion. The score was up to 270 and we had seven balls to get to 281.
I was number eleven for a reason. Geoffrey Boycott’s grandma could bowl me out with an orange. The Old Monk did not help my cause. The captain asked me to take it one ball at a time. All I had to do for the first one was not get out. He thought it was simple.
The spinner had a short run up, came in, looped his arms and let go of the ball. The ball spun like a top in the air, landed on the dustiest spot and raised a mushroom-cloud of dirt near my feet. I swung hard, missed and the ball flew within an inch of my bails and found refuge in the wicket keeper’s gloves.
I heaved huge sigh of relief as the crowd continued booing. The captain had his task cut out. Seminare’s death bowler had a of producing yorkers with surgical accuracy. The captain was calm. The bowler ran in and produced his first yorker. The captain blocked it and decided the time was appropriate for a stroll to the short leg umpire. I applauded and cheered as the rest of the stadium chanted the bowler’s name.
Eleven runs of five balls. The second ball was a simple half volley. With poetic grace, the captain dismissed it to the covers. The third ball received similar treatment.
Three runs of three balls. The bowler regained his composure and threw down a Yorker again. The captain blocked it patiently. The bowler charged in for the penultimate ball. With all the energy that he could muster, he let go of a monster of a ball. It pitched and stung the captain on his helmet. He decided to repeat his walk. I ran up to check on him. He dismissed me with a wave.
The next ball was absolutely magical. Wasim Akram would have been proud of the reverse swing on that delivery. The captain’s shot flowed naturally from his near-perfect Barry Richards’ stance. He moved back ever so slightly to convert the marginally wayward Yorker into a half-volley and glanced it past deep midwicket. The ball hit the boundary ropes. The very few Patrick supporters ran onto the field to raise the captain on their shoulders. We had won.
I shook hands distantly as I caught sight of Aparna stand up near the long off boundary.
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