Cricket World Cup 2003: Saluting the winners

BUSINESS DAY, 27 MARCH 2003

I WANTED INDIA TO WIN the World Cup final. I wanted them to win for a number of reasons, but mostly because of Mershen and his son. I met Mershen as we shuffled along with the crush of people trying to enter the ground on Sunday morning. He and his son were both wearing the powder-blue Indian replica kit, and they had driven down from Zimbabwe for the final. Mershen’s son was 10, and he hopped from one foot to the other, tugging at his father’s shirt, fair bursting with excitement. As we edged closer to the security check, a roar from the stadium told us that the game had started. Mershen’s son was beside himself with dread that India might be batting first, and that he might miss Sachin Tendulkar.

“He hasn’t been able to sleep properly for three days,” Mershen whispered to me. “He can’t believe he is going to see Sachin bat. All he can talk about is Sachin this and Sachin that and how many runs do I think Sachin will make and will Sachin hit a six?”

A man with a transistor radio turned and said that Australia were batting first. Mershen’s son looked up with shining eyes. “Daddy!” he said. “We’re going to see Sachin bat!” Mershen ruffled his son’s hair and put one hand on his shoulder. Behind my sunglasses my eyes suddenly blurred and I felt deeply happy for this man and his son. That small boy will remember for all his life the day he came to Johannesburg and queued with his father at the Wanderers under clear blue skies to watch the World Cup final. I hoped against hope that Sachin would score a century for them.

I was not alone. As I sat in the Mondi Paper suite later that day, looking down on the impressionistic watercolour of the great green oval surrounded by swirls of clustered yellow and powder-blue shirts, I felt profoundly thankful that I was not Sachin Tendulkar, walking out to bat, bearing the dreams of a billion people. My heart leapt as he pulled the fourth ball of the innings to the boundary. The very earth shuddered, as though every Indian in the world had jumped at exactly the same time.

Then he skied the next ball and there was a low, breathless gasp from the stadium. It felt like some enormous punch to the crowd’s collective gut. There are many stories of the unearthly sums of money that Sachin Tendulkar makes from endorsements, but as he walked slowly back to the pavilion, shoulders slumped, a man irredeemably alone and accompanied by the unheard howls of a continent, it occurred to me that he works hard for every cent.

And so Australia won, as they were always going to win. I have always loathed the Australians – from principled bad sportsmanship as much as anything else – but on that Sunday afternoon I finally surrendered. After a certain point, you simply cannot begrudge them victory. They win because they deserve to win. They win – over and above their talent – because they do everything right. They have the right back-up staff, the right philosophy, the right minds working behind the scenes. And they win because they have the right attitude. I have made much of how refreshing it has been to watch the enthusiasm and the passion of the Kenyans in this year’s tournament, but it finally dawned on me, watching the Australians celebrating their wickets, watching them rush around Ricky Ponting at the end of the match in a spontaneous overflow of joy, that Australia is at least their match.

Where every other major team in the world seems to be stricken with in-fighting or personality clashes or the flatness of its jaded senior players, the Australians are a model of unity and mateship and enthusiasm. Cynics will say that it is easier to stay fresh and enthusiastic when you are winning. Perhaps, but after seeing the inexorable rise of the Aussies these past four years, it rather seems the other way round. I never thought I would hear myself say this, but my congratulations to Australia. We all have a lot to learn from you.