They say sport is a great teacher. So then, what is it that strikes you most when you look at the current Indian middle order? From a purely cricketing sense, there is the stoic artistry of Dravid, the measured genius of Tendulkar, and the wispy, dreamy rhythms of VVS. This, bookended by the remorseless aggression of Sehwag, and the moody, feisty strokeplay of Ganguly or at times the muscular timing and presence of Yuvraj. We'll focus on the middle three for now, because they happen to share very similar personality traits. And, that's more or less the topic at hand.
Let's look at them in batting order. I first saw Dravid live at the grounds during the Sahara Cup, Toronto, 1997. Cricinfo was strictly volunteer-based, and a friend and I were semi-designated, semi-self-appointed (friend used to help with Cricinfo software, I used to get up every morning and type up a cricket roundup on rec.sport.cricket listening to World Service on short-wave, so we were thought to be fairly disciplined cricket followers) reporters. We spotted Dravid as he came down the stairs of the press box, and not wanting to miss on a potential first interview opportunity, we shouted a cheery Hey Rahul. Dravid, absolutely unspoilt by his early-career 90s in England and that brilliant 148 at the Wanderers, smiled a polite, intelligent smile, when we said we were from Cricinfo. He said he checked the site often. What struck you immediately even then, was he was a bit different from your everyday cricketer. A cricketer with whom you could talk things other than cricket. A quiet, well-read cricketer who might have been a bit out of place in most dressing rooms.
Courteous as ever, he said he had to get permission to do an interview and therefore, couldn't do it right then. And, then, we got so overwhelmed at exchanging a couple of pleasantries with a certain GS Sobers that we forgot everything else and walked around in some kind of vague haze.
Back to Dravid. Even then, everytime he played a shot, it was almost as if he'd be doing a subconscious appraisal of it, seeing if it were of the finest technique and style. A sort of romantic Spartan. You wished he'd give more free rein to his instinct. You wanted to see him flow.
And, then all of a sudden, he'd take fifteen off a Waqar over, and finish it off with a swivelling hook. Now, and then, he'd turn Saqlain off the backfoot through midwicket with a straightish flick. Great power generated off the backfoot, a shot lesser batsmen wouldn't contemplate attempting. Throughout, he'd remain the same Dravid, always self-effacing, always minimum fuss. A cricketing Sampras. Not pampered by all the attention, still thoughtful, still the boy next door.
Even now, through his initial struggles in one-dayers to the dizzying days of Kolkata, Headingley and Adelaide, nothing much has changed. A touch of quiet pride in his voice perhaps, his gaze now steadier, reflecting a firm, inner confidence. But, really, nothing much. That in itself is quite an achievement, considering the adulation Indian fans reserve for their heroes.
It is much the same with Sachin. From the fresh-faced freedom of his early fairy-tale years through his tough tryst with captaincy, to his mid-career domination of Warne, and later his more considered batting of the last two to three years, his batting has grippingly evolved. But, quite amazingly, for a cricketer who has never lived a normal life, the privacies of which he must at times long for, he hasn't changed much, as a person. Almost never has he shown an impatient streak, nor ever, a touch of arrogance. Not even signs of a hurt ego, when his captaincy stint was not so successful, or after. Which is a refreshing change from the captaincy power struggles of the '70s and the not-so distant '80s. Something for which, curiously, the current set of cricketers are mostly not given credit for. This is not meant to be an out-and-out paean, but it is hard not to admire. It is very rarely that such a dominating cricketer remains this humble a man.
Similarly, with Laxman. From his easy, upright walk to the crease to the habitual walk down the pitch to pat down a few imaginary loose bits of earth, he looks so different from everyone else on the field. Very rarely does a frown crease his forehead, never is there a gritting of teeth. His left glove touches the top of his thigh pad, then lightly tugs at his nose. His wrists are always loose and relaxed. He settles in his stance, there is a tap at the crease and then there are two more. He doesn't make any allowances it would seem for the rough and tumble of professional sport. He is like an artist who has effortlessly borrowed from cricket to create soft patterns that soothe the senses. To the good length ball, he arches back, takes it on the top of its bounce and then gently coaxes it through the covers. His artistic sensibilities seemingly yearning for something different, the next ball identical in qualities of line and length would be almost stopped in its path and then with a flick of his wrists sent away rapidly through midwicket. The ball never leaves the ground, it seems to never need to.
It is obviously arguable that this is the best middle order ever or even that this is India's best middle order of all time. In terms of sheer visual delight, it very definitely is. But, more to the point, I submit that there can't have been three nicer men in India's middle order ever. Contrast this with the in-your-face aggressive streak that's running through most of Indian society in the last few years, perhaps most evident in the purportedly hard sell world of corporate management where people at some fundamental level, are scared to be nice. Or the unmistakably, hugely self-important look that a lot of Indian achievers in many other fields, carry around. Attitude is the in-thing and supposedly, Well-behaved men or women rarely make history.
In absolute contrast, it is history made by well-behaved men (or women) that you'd really care to remember. That perhaps is the greatest lesson the Indian middle order can teach you. Now, only, if we'd the time to listen.
