Watching sports can be deeply emotional. As the years roll by, and my hair turns more grey than black, my memories often go back to September 24, 2007. With the family crammed in the sweat-filled drawing room — as much to do with the tension on the field as with the sultry, overbearing Kolkata evening — we put faith in Joginder Sharma’s gentle dollies against the batting prowess of Misbah-ul-Haq.
My Dadu (grandfather), two short of 90, had the place closest to the television, and my Didu (grandmother), in dramatic fashion, had already exiled herself from the gathering after Sohail Tanvir had hit two sixes to plunder 15 runs from the 18th over to make it Pakistan’s game to lose. But still, there was faith, and the win unexpectedly came when Misbah scooped the Cup to Sreesanth’s lap in the third legal ball of the final over. The celebrations in that suburban Kolkata room were as loud and wild as they were in that Johannesburg field.
Needless to say, the old man led the festivities, a customary fare of Shiraz biryani being the order for the night from his modest pension. Our lives are often measured by the sporting events we have lived through, and our conversations are peppered with nostalgia for where we were when M.S.
Dhoni lifted the Cup, or when Neeraj Chopra won gold at the Tokyo Olympics; years after the events had passed. Our joy is no less than that of the players who made it possible, and our umbilical link to the moment is no less than theirs. The memories o.
