Fine Strokes, Copybook Style

This is a head that quickly deletes visuals of men due to lack of space and for general aesthetics. But among everything that I saw in South Africa, what I find difficult to forget is the sight of bare-chested Indian cricketers on a beach in Durban walking towards the Indian Ocean. They looked far removed from the blueprint of a trim athlete. As they waded clumsily through the sands, it was hard to believe that these were actually a nation's top sportsmen. All around them were local surfers, runners, lovers on the sands and others who subscribe to physical activity. They had bodies that could be either unemotionally admired or gently salivated at, depending on your personality type. It's not anybody's fault, including Andrew Leipus', that Indian cricketers are thus shaped. In matters regarding goodness, evil, diamond being a woman's best friend and opinion about dogs, all humans may be the same, but there are some crucial differences between populations that a nation's body structure exposes. We may turn flatulent when we talk about our sheer love for cricket but this irresponsibility of one end of the alimentary canal cannot hide the fact that most of us actually do not play the game. Or any other sport. ("Serious pool" doesn't qualify here as a sport. It's what seasoned wives will rightly call male abnormality).

When South Africans say they love cricket, it's a fact that's evident all across the country. Not through hoardings of dim-looking men advising you to use toothpastes or eat biscuits. Not through standing in queue outside a ticket counter in a cricket stadium for 12 hours. Not through burning any posters. Not by running behind the car in which a cricketer is rumoured to be sitting. They show that they love cricket by playing football, tennis, rugby and many other sports. They surf outside cyber cafes. They climb mountains. They run. They cycle. A 50-year-old white woman in whose house I stayed briefly runs 7 kilometres every day and takes part in a 20-kilometre run once every year. Her husband played hockey for the Zimbabwe national team. He also plays cricket and tennis. Former captain Hansie Cronje could run 55 kilometres in three-and-a-half hours. Jonty Rhodes represented South Africa in hockey. On the many beautiful sloping roads in South Africa, on its beaches and in its salty waters, the human spirit triumphs in countless ways every day against sloth. They love SPORTS. That's why they love cricket. Cricket is not merely a means to tell themselves that the World Bank may define them as a Third World nation, but if they bat and bowl well they can be counted respectfully among some sovereign nations. When they wanted to advertise nationalism during the World Cup, the South African government put up an advertisement—"Be Proud. Buy only South African".

A sporting nation respects its sportsmen. Not worship. And it's always respect that has the character to be mutual. After chasing the Indian team all over South Africa, I can pass off this secret to the average Indian fan. The national treasures do not have any reason to respect you, especially when you lick your lips in that pathetic way and rush towards them just to have a closer look. Compare the way Indian cricketers normally deal with their fans to how the Australians jogged out on the 23rd of March—for the final, they searched the Wanderers for a small group of yellow shirts in a vast ocean of Indian flags, waved to them and kissed in the air towards them. Sportsmen were greeting a small group of sporting people. It was not like gods were answering the prayers of men.

In a Durban pub called Bunny The Buns, two local rugby players were performing male bonding over big mugs of beer. They were not national icons. They were two players from a local Durban club.A girl pointed them to us and said, "they are rugby heroes". One man near me bought drinks and sent them to the two boys with a gentle salute which was fondly returned. Respect. Was a Mumbai Ranji player ever introduced as "local hero"? (Chances are we would point to him and ask, "What's that guy's name? He will never make it to the national side"). If we so love cricket, why can't we name all the 11 players who play for Mumbai or Delhi? Because, in reality, we do not care for sports or our sportsmen. We only love heroes. And heroes are only those who represent us in the league of nations.

Two weeks ago, L. Sivaramakrishnan was standing with Srinath in the lobby of a team hotel when McGrath walked in and joined them. Under pressure to deliver only spectacular pictures, a Calcutta-based photographer rushed to them and pushed Sivaramakrishnan aside with his arm so that he can get McGrath and Srinath in focus. A highly hurt Siva could only give him a severe tongue-lashing. A decade ago, he would have been in the frame. He is not hot property anymore. That's alright. Such is life, the dog's mate. But imagine one of the most dramatic spinners India has ever produced being physically pushed aside.

When we learn to love sports, we will respect our sportsmen. And they will respect us.