This article was written on the eve of the World Cup final
This has become Tendulkar's World Cup, and for the final in his home town he is expected to deliver – yet again
To experience a small potpourri of what it means to be an Indian cricketer in his homeland, the lobby of Mumbai's Taj Mahal hotel was the place to be on Thursday afternoon. A large crowd had gathered, strung three or four deep either side of a roped gangway and, as the cameras raised on high clicked and the messages of endearment rang out, the India team, in their smart-casual travel outfits, made their way from the team bus through the concourse to their apartments in the tower wing. And as they passed through they remained stony-faced and silent, looking neither to right nor left before disappearing. The crowd dispersed, hotel staff mostly in this fortress, chattering animatedly, comparing their pictures. Friday morning's paper contained a whole half-page report on this arrival alone.
There are demigods, though, and then there is the true deity. They say that Mahendra Singh Dhoni, the captain on the verge of guiding India to a second World Cup triumph, and the very representation of modern India, earns more now than Sachin Tendulkar, whose own income is believed to be astronomical by any global sporting standard. They adorn billboards, the pair of them, and dominate television advertising. But for Indian followers there is only one true cricketing god, and he stands on the verge of an achievement that, like Don Bradman's Test match average and the international wicket tally of Muttiah Muralitharan, will surely never be beaten.
Tendulkar, accompanied by his wife, hung back a little as the team arrived, not wanting to be first, looking to be as inconspicuous as is possible for the most famous face in a country of a billion people and more. This procession, this need to divorce himself as far as possible from the daily lives of his followers while being mindful of them, has been normal procedure for the past two decades. He has been known to adopt disguise in order to leave the closeted confines of home, and, for fun rather than practicality, drive his high-powered sports cars in the middle of the night, not just to avoid Mumbai's gridlock but to escape the attention that a red Ferrari can bring. Imagine being, say, David Beckham, and then multiply the attention and intrusion tenfold, a hundredfold even, and you get close to understanding what being Tendulkar is all about.
Five years ago Greg Chappell, the Australian who was India's coach at the time of their disastrous World Cup campaign in 2007, did an interview for this paper and spoke of the crushing claustrophobic environment in which Indian players in general and Tendulkar in particular must exist. "I don't think anyone can imagine just how much of a goldfish bowl it is until you are in it,' he said. "When we arrive at airports, large crowds accrue. They want to see the high-profile players, they want to touch them, get a photograph of them. The most intrusive invention in modern times has to be the mobile phone-camera because everyone has a phone, everyone wants an autograph or a snap.
"It is an unnerving experience to drive out of stadiums and see the streets lined with people from all walks of life, particularly those from poorer communities whose only glimpse of the team would be as the bus flashes past, and to see their faces light up. People lining the streets from the airport to the city. That happens here every day with this team.
"For a while I wondered why some of them didn't respond to all these waving people and smiling faces and I realised they can't afford to. Just to give a little bit of emotion to each person would drain them. So they really do just have to live in their own little world as they are carried from hotel to ground, from ground to airport, from airport to plane, to the next airport and the next horde of waiting people all wanting a glimpse of their heroes.
"Players oblige as much as is humanly possible. Sachin Tendulkar, for example, is still the one who is most in demand and the way in which he just copes serenely with it is a lesson to us all. You know he gives what he can but he has learned that there is a limit. So he gives that much and then has to shut himself down."
It is against this background that Tendulkar has prepared himself for what may be the most important innings he has played, and perhaps might be the most anticipated innings in cricket history. Ever since the award of the World Cup to the subcontinent, and the decision to stage the final in Mumbai, it has become Tendulkar's World Cup, even to the extent that the powers might have agreed this for no reason other than this is the home town of India's greatest cricketer. Some even postulated that as his list of international centuries mounted, and the unwavering desire of his renaissance continued, it was almost a matter of destiny that he should make his 100th international hundred in a winning cause in a World Cup final. And so it has come to pass. Almost.
We talk unknowingly of what pressure means in sport. We understand well enough that it is a relative term, that it is not bomb-disposal or living below the breadline. But that is to ignore the mental process that Tendulkar must go through each and every time he straps on his pads and goes out to play for India. Is it he alone that carries the Indian tricolor on his helmet as a sign that he regards each innings as being played, not for himself or the team, but on behalf of a nation? He is a representation of a nation's ambition. When he walks out to bat the noise, in a packed Indian stadium, is deafening. When he is dismissed, the silence is equally deafening. When he fails, he is failing not just the team but the Indian people. This may sound like hyperbole but, truly, it is not.
Now we shall find out the absolute depths of his mental strength, for his skills are second to none. Can he do this? The power to switch off all distraction is the same one that makes him ignore the crowds as much as he might like to engage them. He will encounter a test in a ferocious opponent on the biggest occasion. The pitch will turn, say the experts, and there at the other end, for the last time, will be Murali. Two of the greatest cricketers of this or any other generation locking horns in the biggest game of them all. It is a promoter's dream: a balanced match with a subtext to savour. And who, whatever the result, would not wish the Tendulkar century of centuries and wickets for Murali? Only a churl.
This has become Tendulkar's World Cup, and for the final in his home town he is expected to deliver – yet again
A boy stands with a Sachin Tendulkar poster in the holy Ganges River as Hindu priests and cricket fans perform rituals for the Indian team in Allahabad, India.
To experience a small potpourri of what it means to be an Indian cricketer in his homeland, the lobby of Mumbai's Taj Mahal hotel was the place to be on Thursday afternoon. A large crowd had gathered, strung three or four deep either side of a roped gangway and, as the cameras raised on high clicked and the messages of endearment rang out, the India team, in their smart-casual travel outfits, made their way from the team bus through the concourse to their apartments in the tower wing. And as they passed through they remained stony-faced and silent, looking neither to right nor left before disappearing. The crowd dispersed, hotel staff mostly in this fortress, chattering animatedly, comparing their pictures. Friday morning's paper contained a whole half-page report on this arrival alone.
There are demigods, though, and then there is the true deity. They say that Mahendra Singh Dhoni, the captain on the verge of guiding India to a second World Cup triumph, and the very representation of modern India, earns more now than Sachin Tendulkar, whose own income is believed to be astronomical by any global sporting standard. They adorn billboards, the pair of them, and dominate television advertising. But for Indian followers there is only one true cricketing god, and he stands on the verge of an achievement that, like Don Bradman's Test match average and the international wicket tally of Muttiah Muralitharan, will surely never be beaten.
Tendulkar, accompanied by his wife, hung back a little as the team arrived, not wanting to be first, looking to be as inconspicuous as is possible for the most famous face in a country of a billion people and more. This procession, this need to divorce himself as far as possible from the daily lives of his followers while being mindful of them, has been normal procedure for the past two decades. He has been known to adopt disguise in order to leave the closeted confines of home, and, for fun rather than practicality, drive his high-powered sports cars in the middle of the night, not just to avoid Mumbai's gridlock but to escape the attention that a red Ferrari can bring. Imagine being, say, David Beckham, and then multiply the attention and intrusion tenfold, a hundredfold even, and you get close to understanding what being Tendulkar is all about.
Five years ago Greg Chappell, the Australian who was India's coach at the time of their disastrous World Cup campaign in 2007, did an interview for this paper and spoke of the crushing claustrophobic environment in which Indian players in general and Tendulkar in particular must exist. "I don't think anyone can imagine just how much of a goldfish bowl it is until you are in it,' he said. "When we arrive at airports, large crowds accrue. They want to see the high-profile players, they want to touch them, get a photograph of them. The most intrusive invention in modern times has to be the mobile phone-camera because everyone has a phone, everyone wants an autograph or a snap.
"It is an unnerving experience to drive out of stadiums and see the streets lined with people from all walks of life, particularly those from poorer communities whose only glimpse of the team would be as the bus flashes past, and to see their faces light up. People lining the streets from the airport to the city. That happens here every day with this team.
"For a while I wondered why some of them didn't respond to all these waving people and smiling faces and I realised they can't afford to. Just to give a little bit of emotion to each person would drain them. So they really do just have to live in their own little world as they are carried from hotel to ground, from ground to airport, from airport to plane, to the next airport and the next horde of waiting people all wanting a glimpse of their heroes.
"Players oblige as much as is humanly possible. Sachin Tendulkar, for example, is still the one who is most in demand and the way in which he just copes serenely with it is a lesson to us all. You know he gives what he can but he has learned that there is a limit. So he gives that much and then has to shut himself down."
It is against this background that Tendulkar has prepared himself for what may be the most important innings he has played, and perhaps might be the most anticipated innings in cricket history. Ever since the award of the World Cup to the subcontinent, and the decision to stage the final in Mumbai, it has become Tendulkar's World Cup, even to the extent that the powers might have agreed this for no reason other than this is the home town of India's greatest cricketer. Some even postulated that as his list of international centuries mounted, and the unwavering desire of his renaissance continued, it was almost a matter of destiny that he should make his 100th international hundred in a winning cause in a World Cup final. And so it has come to pass. Almost.
We talk unknowingly of what pressure means in sport. We understand well enough that it is a relative term, that it is not bomb-disposal or living below the breadline. But that is to ignore the mental process that Tendulkar must go through each and every time he straps on his pads and goes out to play for India. Is it he alone that carries the Indian tricolor on his helmet as a sign that he regards each innings as being played, not for himself or the team, but on behalf of a nation? He is a representation of a nation's ambition. When he walks out to bat the noise, in a packed Indian stadium, is deafening. When he is dismissed, the silence is equally deafening. When he fails, he is failing not just the team but the Indian people. This may sound like hyperbole but, truly, it is not.
Now we shall find out the absolute depths of his mental strength, for his skills are second to none. Can he do this? The power to switch off all distraction is the same one that makes him ignore the crowds as much as he might like to engage them. He will encounter a test in a ferocious opponent on the biggest occasion. The pitch will turn, say the experts, and there at the other end, for the last time, will be Murali. Two of the greatest cricketers of this or any other generation locking horns in the biggest game of them all. It is a promoter's dream: a balanced match with a subtext to savour. And who, whatever the result, would not wish the Tendulkar century of centuries and wickets for Murali? Only a churl.
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