
Glamorgan were entertaining Indian to St Helens in Swansea, and in the fall of their fourth wicket tiny, incredibly young-looking fellow with a MOP of curly hair camouflet from his helmet came to the crease. If it was the kid that they had all been talking about; the kid that had marked his first test century at Old Trafford barely a week before.
Being a sad game enthusiast and especially its technical nuances, I studied him closely. He was remarkably small, smaller even than our own Tony Cottey. He performs his innings as if it were a railway crossing. He was clearly too heavy. He appeared as too high, because it prey to the lowest point of the handle. And he had those closely rounded, ultra-soft polyethylene pads which were considered very untrendy at the time.
But a few minutes he had played one of the greatest shots, I had never seen. Bowling for us was a chap called Hamish Anthony, a dubious Antigua ability to be a prestigious foreign player, but no pace shortly. He reversed a ball of good decent length on medium and strains offshore. It should have been defended return to the bottom of the lawn. Instead, the fellow has little on his toes on the back foot and punching the ball, with an incredibly high elbow and no follow through, back past Anthony for four. Quality in the gully, I suffocating audible, for some of my teammates grief, it must be said.
Sachin Tendulkar had announced himself: on his first tour in England (with the India at least, because he did a tour with the Star Cricket Club-17 team two years earlier) at only 17 years old, standing at 5 ft 2in and with stamps him given the previous year after a century by Sunil Gavaskar, his second class cricket for the rest of the India against Delhi.
Tendulkar made just 68 at Swansea, but I've never played against him again. And since then, it is done rather well for himself. He made a few centuries. In fact, last Saturday in Nagpur against South Africa he made his 99th in international cricket (51 in Tests and one day in 48 international).
It was an another handles of a surprising simplicity. While his opening partner Virender Sehwag, waves often its innings as autour if vigorously conducting an orchestra, Tendulkar took the more conventional path. Yes, grab at the bottom of the bat's unorthodox (but so was Sir Donald Bradman, with the hands apart and turned so high hand that his wrist was behind the handle), suggesting dominance primarily provided at the bottom, but the high hand of Tendulkar is too strong. He wrote of his left hand. Later, a delicious straight-driving four off Morne Morkel last Saturday, with laying a magisterially required has amply demonstrated the correctness of its blade.
Bradman was observed that, of all modern batsmen, Tendulkar reminded him most itself. And on Twitter last Saturday, in the most recent masterclasses of the Tendulkar, I asked mischievously if Bradman could really better. But, in truth, the comparisons are odious and futile.
Tendulkar was, however, played in time of tumultuous change in the game and, unwittingly, he declined the duty to bridge generations. My dear father is his end of the 1970s and not in the best of health, but any innings Tendulkar is always linked to applaud. I called him Saturday. "Are watching my mate?" he asked in reference to the "Little Master". And off he makes in an another hymn to Tendulkar, with particular emphasis on the fact that he bats "correctly".
And he is right. Tendulkar is living proof that, for all the changes that ttwweennttyy is supposed to bring, the game very little changed. The basic elements have not changed. A drummer with a robust technique is better prepared battle. It is more likely to prosper in all forms of gambling.
Nagpur Saturday a banner read: "Countdown to hundreds of 100 of God". A nation awaiting indeed, and it is the heaviest of the expectations which carries Tendulkar. It is also remarkable that the genius of his stick he wears them so lightly.
It will certainly be a shock if the 100th century comes not soon. Maybe against the West Indies on Sunday.
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