En route to Mumbai to join the team for the World Cup, I spot Kapil Dev seated in a row towards the front. When I go up to do the traditional dua salaam, Paaji gives me strict instructions: Tell the boys to focus on cricket and win the World Cup.
It’s a busy day in Mumbai. Players collect their clothing, attend a UNICEF anti-polio event and rush to the Taj business centre for the team photograph. Those seated in the front row keep their hands on their knees for uniformity and all the players smile brightly for the camera.
The mandatory pre-departure press conference by Captain Sourav Ganguly is streamed live on TV channels. He handles it well but his admirable composure is almost breached when a young reporter wants him to assess each of the fourteen participating teams. He takes a deep breath to calm himself and asks: Which paper do you work for?
Sahara, the team sponsor, want the players to visit the Siddhi Vinayak temple. It’s Tuesday, an auspicious day, and a temple visit would make for a great photo. Wise heads question the wisdom of visiting a temple, pointing out that the cricket team representes a secular India. Is it, therefore, proper? Do you want to go? Sachin Tendulkar is asked. I have already done my prayers, he responds. The temple visit is vetoed.
When the bus leaves for the airport, Sachin’s customary seat—front row, left side, window seat—is vacant. He is to be picked up on the way. The bus stops for him near the Leela Hotel and Sachin jumps out of his car, parked next to a police escort with flashing lights, bids a quick farewell to brother Ajit and hops on. It is past midnight when we reach the airport, yet fans are waiting for the team. A player remarks that if the team were to come back with the trophy after 23 March (the date for the World Cup final), there would be more than one lakh people at the airport.
In the departure lounge, boarding cards are handed out for Flight 277 to Johannesburg. Soon, the ties are off and the blazers given to the air hostesses to stow away—it’s an eight-hour flight and the players need to catch some sleep.
Like on the bus, Sachin Tendulkar’s seat on the aircraft is 1A. Naturally.
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31 January
We are in Durban, two weeks in advance, to train and prepare. Sourav is pleased. It is madness in India, he says, people think we will win even before the tournament starts.
I have dinner with Sourav and Rahul at Butcher Boys, a Sachin recommendation for its ambience and terrific food. The place is booked solid but a table is found and Diet Coke ordered—Diet Coke because Pepsi, the World Cup’s official sponsor, has no product in the market. No beef for Rahul, only salad and chicken. Sourav opts for grilled calamari and lamb chops.
Sourav announces that captaincy is the worst job in the world. Why? I ask. Because I hate going to functions and answering silly questions. Dravid counters in amusement, But Dada, there are also benefits, no?
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1 February
Another day of training, starting with a 30-minute run on the Durban seafront, its Golden Mile, along the Bay of Plenty, North Beach and Sea World. Then it’s time for some fielding practice at Kingsmead, where Sourav wants coach John Wright to use his new bat to hit high catches. Wright tries but gives up, the bat is too heavy. Sourav practises with plastic balls being hurled at him from 15 yards, refusing to use the bowling machine because he can’t spot the ball coming out of the slot. Sachin has a similar problem but decides to have a go anyway, instructing the person operating the machine to call ‘ok’ loudly to alert him before inserting the ball.
PS: Sachin’s advice to a nine-year-old kid who had been accidentally hit while batting: Don’t worry, injuries bring luck. Next time, hit the ball instead of letting the ball hit you.
This excerpt from Pitchside—My Life in Indian Cricket by Amrit Mathur has been published with permission form Westland Sport.