Published: Dec 02, 2011, 11:04 AM (IST)
Edited: May 23, 2014, 02:54 PM (IST)
The blood, sweat and tears that Indian cricketers at the domestic level have to undergo is a world apart from the glitzy lifestyle of the wealthy Indian cricketers representing the country. Few people know what a domestic-level player undergoes while the marketing machinery, the sponsors, the media, the fans and even the administrators are obsessed in pampering the demi- Gods of Indian cricket.
Aakash Chopra, former India opener, gives life to the words he paints in his must-read book, “Out of the blue“. The trials and tribulations of the Indian domestic cricketer are brought out beautifully in this book. Below is an excerpt of that book – his personal agony – that tugs the heart.
This Monday morning was indeed different, nothing like the mundane mornings that had marked my life so far. This one changed my life forever.
In one of the awfully silent moments that morning, between feeling deceived, stranded and hopelessly despairing, I must have vowed that I would never play for Delhi again. That vow, that sentiment, was so strong that the thought of returning to that dressing room to pick up my kit bag — which I’d left there the day before, thinking I’d be back to play on Monday — never suggested itself.
Was this the — rather premature — end to my first-class career? So be it, I told myself. I wasn’t going anywhere to beg favours of anyone. Live and die with dignity, and all the rest of that. Yes, it was the most vulnerable I’d ever felt; yet that jolt did manage to shake me out of my complacence.
After several hours of complete immobility, I took stock of my situation. I told my driver to go to the stadium and collect my bag, while I telephoned Ratan Singh, the man who looks after the dressing room and the players, and requested him to pack my stuff and hand it over to the driver. A part of me wanted to call Chetan Chauhan, chairman of the senior selection committee and vice-president of the Delhi & District Cricket Association (DDCA ) — perhaps, he had a thing or two to share, something that would comfort me. I needed to hear something, anything, a little consoling. The other part of me, though, the pragmatic one, and the one that had seen the workings of the DDCA at close quarters, knew the absolute futility of it all.
Still, I called for an answer that I needed to, ought to, hear. ‘Didn’t the coach speak to you?’ Chauhan asked me, awkwardly. No, he hadn’t, and frankly I didn’t for a moment think anyone intended to. Had I missed a hint, perhaps? I had been meeting Vijay Dahiya, the coach and chairman of the selection committee, his colleagues and the support staff, almost every single day, for ten whole days. I couldn’t remember anything in their talk or tenor, not one look that suggested a thing. But it was clear that the decision had been taken long ago — scrupulously planned and executed. So, was I on trial for those ten days? If I was, couldn’t they see that I was hitting the ball well? But, of course, that wasn’t the point of it.
Of course, having my name struck off the list was a huge blow. But that is how it is. No matter how brave a face a player presents, there is nothing more hurtful than being booted out of the squad. And if the agony of sitting out isn’t enough, a brutally insensitive, hopelessly despotic and utterly self-absorbed system makes the ordeal worse. Did I not — after representing the association for over a decade-and-a-half, both at the state levels and nationally — deserve, at least, some sort of a warning call? I can see those officious faces snapping back: ‘But, we don’t have to inform you!’
By the book, perhaps, you owe me nothing, sir. But as professionals, as colleagues, could you not have put an arm around my shoulder, sit me down and tell me the worst? A sorry state of affairs, indeed: a player, who has dedicated his life, his game and his name to an association, is told that his services are no longer needed by the press.
This clandestine affair between shoddy officials and the breaking-news media is an old one. It surprises no one that news of players being rested, their inclusion, exclusion, and a host of other internal administrative issues find their way to the morning newspapers. Not so long ago, journalists had called me, while I was on my honeymoon, to confirm the latest callous leak. I had been stripped of my duties as a captain, they informed me. I was offended, but not surprised. And no, I didn’t know before they told me. A couple of months ago, I had been named captain, the second year in succession, to lead Delhi in the 2009-10 Ranji season. Simultaneous with that appointment was the announcement of the squad that would play the season opener domestic T20 matches. Obviously, I wasn’t involved in the team selection, but that wasn’t a first.
Anyway, Delhi had dropped only one match on its way to the top two slots and had qualified comfortably for the knockouts. We began our Ranji campaign with a match against Vadodara, in which we’d enforced the follow-on. Everything went smoothly, except that I had picked up an injury. It got so bad by the second game against Karnataka that I could barely bend my leg. But sitting out wasn’t really an option, for we were already thin on resources. Mithun Manhas and Chetan Nanda weren’t fit and Virat was on national duty. As luck would have it, the track at the Roshanara was not the good batting surface we had hoped for. Winning the toss was crucial; Dravid won it and sealed the match. We managed to save the game by the skin of our teeth. While we muddled through to get a decent result under the circumstances, I got two low scores. My poor run (and my team’s) continued into the next match, against Uttar Pradesh. Two injuries before the match and one during — we didn’t go in with a chance. We lost comprehensively, with only Virat Kohli shining with the bat.
I missed the next match for my wedding (a possibility the selectors were informed of before the start of the season). Virat was named interim captain. I was to return well in time for the next match and take charge. But the selectors had other plans. They decided to continue with Virat as the skipper, and, once again, it was the press who informed me of the decision. I had, meanwhile, picked up a bad bout of flu and the knee was getting worse — not that the association administrators knew about either of these factors when they made their decision. I was, in fact, seriously considering whether I should even play the next match. But before I could make up my mind, the decision was slapped down on me.
Hadn’t they appointed me captain for the season? Shouldn’t they have taken me into confidence before going public with the news? But these are the sorts of questions that come with a strict warning tag in Indian cricket: ‘do not ask’, it says. I wonder if the selectors have ever, ever given a moment’s thought to the sheer absurdity of their actions.
After coldly stripping me of the captaincy, they came back with another offer. Since Virat would be away on national duty, the skipper’s post would be vacant. The administrators were convinced I’d gratefully accept the post again. What they didn’t realise, and perhaps still don’t, is that no dignified sportsman would compromise his self respect, not even for a spot in the team. We are not stopgap arrangements. Naturally, I declined. They then went to Mithun and Shikhar, neither of whom was ready to bite the bullet. Rajat Bhatia was their last resort; he agreed. The team qualified for the knockouts under his leadership. This was his big moment. He has never had a chance to play for India, while others, less skilled, with poor performance records, have donned the India colours. I was happy for Rajat.
My knee, despite regular treatment, showed no signs of improvement. It flared up again in the quarterfinals against Tamil Nadu. It was time to head to Mumbai, which is where the team was headed too for the semifinal clash against Mumbai. I, on the other hand, was going there for an expert opinion — to meet a senior orthopedic about my knee injury.
The nightmarish season 2009–10 ended for me, abruptly, uneventfully. The hard fact was that I hadn’t scored runs in six innings spread over two months and four matches. But will I be allowed a few failures? I was, after all, the highest run-getter for Delhi in the last two seasons? And my record in the shorter format was still impeccable; I was consistently one of the top two run-scorers for the team. Still, I wasn’t sure. It was only after I was called for the camp that I was assured that no snub would be coming my way. How wrong I was.
Anyway, now the verdict was out; and I was out of the team. So what if I had scored five centuries, a ninety-five and a seventy in the last twelve fifty-over format matches for Delhi? So what if I had amassed nearly 800 runs in our Ranji winning effort and close to 600 runs the following season? The records, the reputation — none of that matters when you hit a bad patch.
(Excerpted from the book, “Out of the blue” – The story of Rajasthan’s Ranji win – by Aakash Chopra and published by HarperCollins India. Aakash Chopra played 10 Tests for India. He started his first-class career with Delhi but has since moved to Rajasthan. He represents Rajasthan Royals in the IPL after moving from Kolkata Knight Riders. He is arguably the finest writer among Indian cricketers. “Out of the Blue” is his second book – the first being “Beyond the Blues: A Cricket season like no other” which he wrote two years back. Aakash is a familiar name in both the print and television)
