The Hindu : Sport : Of local Dhonis and crazy drivers

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Sunday, Jan 07, 2007
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Sport - Sports : General

Of local Dhonis and crazy drivers

Vijay Parathasarthy

Chennai: The Nungambakkam corporation ground lies in the backyard of the tennis stadium; here simultaneous cricket matches are held daily through the afternoon until light fades. At any given time during that period, you'll see four or five contests in progress. It's difficult to distinguish an outfielder from a man at silly point. The players themselves must watch out or suffer a spank.

One batsman nearby catches my attention. He has dispatched every ball he faced, since taking his stance outside leg stump, to the broken wall that passes for the fence. A Dhoni in the making, surely. The lad even whirls the bat once in a comical semi-circle like the Indian wicket-keeper. I consider speaking to him but the ground is starting to resemble a war zone, and I think better of it.

Tennis balls crash into motorbikes whose owners, mostly spectators and journalists, have already hurried into the stadium, this Saturday afternoon, to watch Nadal run from corner to corner in the floodlights, and to soak in the atmosphere.

They might have enjoyed the cricket as much, for free.

* * *

The only cars allowed inside the stadium complex are those that cart the players around the city. That makes sense, obviously chaos would otherwise prevail outside the stadium. But some of these drivers can be a bit rash. At times they are only trying to get away from a crowd; fans, in their eagerness to push forward, often don't realise they are risking injury.

This evening however, one driver actually stepped on the gas when the car was some 15 metres away, as I was trying to cross the road near the South Stand.

He was never in danger of hitting me; but momentarily stunned by his arrogance, I nearly twisted my ankle.

* * *

This happens on the day of the quarterfinal matches. A girl stands on the lawn outside the media room, clutching at her father's hand and bawling. Two large drops accelerate down her cheeks like a pair of skis upon a near-vertical incline. She is pointing at Rafael Nadal, who has just emerged after finishing his post-match press conference. I want to say hi to him, she howls.

Her father, a bespectacled, balding middle-aged man in shorts and tennis shoes, looks confused. I want to watch the tennis, he says in a surly, grown-up tone. It's not an unreasonable demand: after all, he didn't turn up in sports apparel so that he could chase tennis stars for autographs. He knows his priorities.

His wife, who has in the interim nearly reached within an arm's length of Nadal, looks back. It's only Moya, she tells her husband angrily from 10 feet away. Why can't you do this much for her? Thus chastened, the man gives up. Father and daughter wade through the mob.

I lose sight of them, and never do find out if the girl got to say hello.

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