The Burden Of Loss

he camera purposely focusses on the grim faces and justly relaxes on the wrinkling three. The trio, who had taught us to deny odds and conceive miracles as possibility. The trio, who for us in our childhood were no less than the Supermans and Batmans. The trio, who had, not more than eight years ago, on their tour to the same land pulverised the same opponents with 1,496 runs from 16 completed innings at an average of 93.5. Now, people say they have paled. They look palely at each other; and at those at the stage with a look of non-existence.

Far outside the television box, life toddles normally. No grief, no sorrow. Do they not watch cricket? A woman hangs her head down — I assume it to be the bow of shame. A moment later, she picks up her face, giggling through her mobile phone. She smiles. She laughs. She doesn’t watch cricket.

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Ricky Ponting, our last credible enemy

Ponting finally reached the triple figures. He dived for a single run to complete it. We saw him emerge from the dust. He pointed his bat toward the pavilion, toward the crowd. His whites splattered by dirt. He smiled childishly. He knew the drought was over. 

And yet amidst the jubilation we knew, this is not the Ponting we knew. Not the man with whom even in off-seasons, we would not have wanted to mingle in a pub. Not the man who, even in a passing conversation, would never escape our curses. Not the Ponting, I had conceived after my one and only meeting with him 16 years back. 

This is an excerpt from my piece written for Sportskeeda. To read more about my brief meeting with  Punter you can visit: Ponting, our last credible enemy

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