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The day the music stopped

I still remember that day, a week or so before Durga Puja in 1975. A boy, holding his father's hands at the Mohun Bagan grounds in Calcutta, cried uncontrollably. His team, the team which defined his passion at that age, had just been crushed 5-0 by their arch rivals. As I tried to make sense of that debacle, a fellow-elder fan said: "Hey, that goalkeeper was bought out." He offered that as an excuse to calm me down.

To me, that was worse. How could a player, wearing my team's colours, could possibly play Russian roulette with my emotions? My father rebuked that fan and said we'll wait for the next year. The Durga Puja that year was a blur. We did get them next year, an eleven-seconds goal. I danced and shouted the entire 70 minutes of the game on the Eden Garden terraces. That was emotion and passion taken from depths of despair to heights of joy. That is what sports is all about.

I also remember the day, watching cricket in the common room of our dorm in my under-graduate school. It was an Indo-Pak affair in Sharjah with the crowd rocking with passion and the match pendulum swinging every moment. India lost it off the last ball, with Miandad hitting a six. I and my fellow fans were shocked. How could that happen?

I also remember that summer day at Lord's in 1983 - World Cup Final. The crowd was dancing to the tunes of sweet Calypso music the entire day, with a 'three-peat' for the World champion West Indies a foregone conclusion. India was supposed to just show up and lose. They scored 143; fans were switching off the sets. Then, there was that inswinger from Sandhu and that catch by Kapil as he circled under the ball behind the backdrop of the blue London sky. India won the match and we called it "the uncertainties and miracles of sport." We felt proud and we let loose. Never did we think that it was anything but "pure" sports, resplendent in its tweaks and twists.

Well, never did I, till this fateful day in the next millennium. Did the goalkeeper get a few bucks in the bank to let in the goals? Did the coach get some money to field a novice goalkeeper in a crucial game? Did Miandad know that he will get a full-toss on his leg-stump? Did Richards intentionally play that rash stroke when he could have walked to 144? Did a few thousand, a few millions, a few extra drinks at a resort make that difference? Was that emotion worth spending? Should I feel naïve about believing in the essential goodness and sportsmanship of athletes? Where does that uncertainty stop?

Next time Sourav floors a catch in slips or Sachin loses his middle-stump to a full-toss, should I question whether they were completely honest in their efforts? As I stride to the coffee bar in my office, all set to dissect last night's match, a doubt may creep in: may be, all this is fixed and there is no logic to the game.

As I hold my son Ishaan's hands in his first baseball or cricket swing, I may want to think whether it is prudent to believe in his teammates. A lollipop slipped into his pockets may do the trick. Where does it stop?

Should I ever encourage him to follow sports and spend his emotions like I did with my father? Nah, my answer: I shall not be worse off for you, Hansie. I want Ishaan to build the same level of friendship with myself as I did with my father.

I shall end with a famous saying by my father: "If you have lost money, you have lost nothing. If you have lost your health, you have lost something. If you have lost your character, you have lost everything."

I shall show this example and teach Ishaan not to lose his character. Mr. Cronjie, you have lost everything for a fistful of dollars.

Adios and good riddance!