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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