The West Indies and I

My three favourite cricketers of all time are Brian Lara, Curtly Ambrose and Mohammad Azharuddin (all left handers). (It took me some years to convince myself that Azhar bats left-handed, but my faith in that fact is unshakeable at the moment.)

As a necessary corollay of who my favourite players were, I fell in love with the West Indian cricket team in my early years of cricket watching - around the 1992 World Cup. I supported the West Indies irrespective of who they were playing against - even if they played India. I spent nights together watching cricket in the West Indies - somehow it always seemed like such a fun affair. Maybe it was just the experience of staying up all night (read 11.30pm, after which sleep would invariably take over) watching cricket, maybe it was stadiums that looked like the hockey ground on our campus with makeshift stands, maybe it was just Michael Holding's accent - watching West Indies play was something else.

And then there were my two heroes - Ambrose and Lara. I always wondered what would happen if Ambrose bowled to Lara, for it was my belief that both were invincible - nobody could get Lara out, and nobody could hit Ambrose for a boundary. One was 6'7", and the other, a little over five-feet, but in their aggression, they were almost similar.

When Ambrose's bowling came thundering down at the batsman from a height of ten feet, I'd have this wry smile on my face, waiting for the ball to rise up around the nose and make the batsman jump around. I dreamt of bowling like that one day - intimidating the batsman with my sheer presence, and getting them out when they move and bat as if they're scared of the ball. Given all this, I almost ignored that Ambrose's bowling was not all about its intimidatory effects - he was quick, deadly accurate, and moved the ball when his profession demanded it. I cannot recall a single instance when he has ever felt the need to say anything to the batsman, - his cold, expressionless eyes said so little that the batsman feared whatever hidden message they were trying to convey and assumed the worst.

Lara on the other hand, was, to use a chiched expression, poetry. I copied his high backlift and drive, cut and pull technique with little success all my life (although it did take me to two centuries in neighbourhood cricket - one where I was actually out on 30-odd and refused to walk even though the 'umpire' had given me out). There were days when I'd be upset all day when Lara got out cheaply, other days when I'd skip meals because he missed a century! I had a fairly large collection of Brian Lara photos carefully cut from newspapers and stickers, which I lost when I lost my wallet. My wallet had some money (my winnings at a quiz), quite a handsome amount at that age, but I had my priorities right - I was more upset about the stickers.

Gradually, though, my environment and innate Indianness began to affect me. This other little batsman from Mumbai joined the man they called the Prince, and this batsman who was then, according to me, the most boring batsman in the world changed the way I watched cricket.

But this World Cup, I'm back where my heart belongs. Go West Indies! Make sure no one takes the Cup away from home!