Sunday Cricket

Sunday. 10 am. Pigeons outside my window. Friday ODI’s highlights just started on tv. Hadn’t seen a minute of this during the day, the 10 am to 8 pm monthly review meeting day.

It’s a treat to listen to Gavaskar’s commentary during an India match.

Sehwag’s first four to a ball he just touched, the first 4 he faced was just unreal. Sunny says, “That’s a magic bat. No that’s magic placement. Look at him. He just touched the ball, not hit it at all. Just opened the face of the bat, and the ball was out of here. The baller, Welegedera gives an unbelieving wry smile maybe thinking, “Here we go again”.  Sehwag made 146 in the previous match.

I didn’t watch that match either.

Gambhir is my favourite character in the current Indian team. He is so real, and doing so well, it is heartening. Cricket, the way I follow it, the way millions of seemingly intellectual indians follow, is that it is the most fucking addictive soap opera we follow.  It affects us, even when we are NOT watching it. Even the missing of an episode causes anger and life loathing, and yet everyone dutifully follows what happened in the missed episodes, either through people or through reading.

It’s one giant never ending season of a soap with addictive characters.

Mahendra Singh Dhoni has never been able to decide whether he wants to keep a moustache or not.

Lakmal, oh poor Lakmal. No redemption for the debutant.

Sharma said yesterday of his growing respect and fascination for Sangakkara. It is brilliant how Sanga and Dhoni compete on the field. In every discipline of studness on the cricket field. Captain. Athletic wicketkeeper. Both have hit men on their sides, Sehwag. Dilshan. And those fucking big swats out of the stadium. An absolute brawl. Almost feels like a Guy Ritchie film. This India- Sri Lanka film.

Chaos everywhere. Some batsman comes in, murders a bowler and then suddenly action shifts to the other end where someone has been murdering bowlers throught the day.

Who are you gonna choose as your wicketkeeper in the next cricket game you play?

Bugger. A Guy Ritchie film, I’m telling ya. Yes, I include Trainspotting and Kaminey in the same genre, though not as perfect as Snatch of course. Or even Rock n Rolla. No film maker worth his salt cannot not want to make a Guy Ritchie film.

It would actually make sense, eh? An indian don to have a jatt hitman. No, that would be a jatt bodyguard. As they did in Sankat City.

As an indian cricket fan, how can you not want to tie up Nehra on a chair and attach electric wires to his genitals. By god, he just took  a wicket. Dilshan. Yorked.

Every single wicket in this match by the indians has elicited “Maadarchod” from the bowler. Except to Jayawardene. Who walked. He realized a while into walking that the umpire might not have given that out. By that time however, he was too far into it that he couldn’t turn back. Madarchod.

Who would I play in a Guy Ritchie film?

The Russian, I guess. He just wouldn’t die. That bashtard.

The problem is no one can beat up Zaheer for a misfield. Or even two. He’s bowled so well to bring india back in the game. Gavaskar speaks what the cricket addas are thinking about.

The Beetle Ad could have been better executed. Really could have been. In it’s current state, it leaves the viewer with nothing but a quip in the head.

I mean, it is THE BEETLE. It’s FIRST INDIA ad.

Geez.
11:52 am. Green Street Hooligans. Planned.

But first. Shower. Order food. Make joint. Go downstairs. Have chai. Get pencil batteries. For the clock and the tv remote. And we’ll see on the way. Go!

I am feeling more and more guilty of not writing about Ichi the killer.

Not writing more about Kakihara that is.

All cancerians should write. Hell of a lot. Before you shoot yourself in the head, that is. I think it is a strategy.

Don’t get a gun. That would be good advice too, I guess.

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