MARK MASCARENHAS WAS an Indian television entrepreneur. He was born in Bangalore but lived much of his life in Connecticut in the USA. Sadly, Mark is no longer with us, having died in a car accident in India in 2002. He’s missed by those who knew him because not only was he the life of the party but he also set high standards for the television coverage of cricket. He was one of those rare characters who helped make work fun.
After residing in the USA for around twenty years, his childhood love for the game of cricket had waned. However, it was quickly reignited when he witnessed a Sachin Tendulkar century on television.
Soon afterwards, Mark discovered the rights to the 1996 World Cup to be played in India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka were available, so he decided to enter a bid. Having won the rights to the tournament, which he realised would be huge in the country of his birth, Mascarenhas made a crucial decision. To help him on-sell the rights, he set out to put together the commentary team of his choice.
In order to achieve this ambition he flew to Australia to meet with Kerry Packer. As part of a deal to employ some of Packer’s Channel Nine commentators, he agreed they would be at every Australian match during the World Cup.
He even went as far as to promise Packer he’d ask Indian beer baron Vijay Mallya (of Kingfisher Airlines fame) for use of his private jet to fly the commentators, if there were no commercial flights that would fit the schedule.
Despite the fact that he was unable to persuade Mallya to provide his jet, Mark had the Australian contingent – Richie Benaud, Tony Greig, statistician Max Kruger and myself – at the India versus West Indies game in Gwalior on 21 February.
No problem there – we were all delighted to do a game involving India. Richie even went along purely to observe. It was just that Gwalior was a day–night game and Australia’s next match was on 23 February, starting at 9 am, in a place that was as difficult to get to as it was to pronounce. Australia’s match against Kenya was in Visakhapatnam.
When Mark made his deal with Kerry, he obviously only agreed that the Channel Nine commentators would be at all the Australian games. I assume his promise didn’t include any mention of punctuality.
The following story is my recollection of that memorable trip and a couple of other misadventures we had during the 1996 World Cup. I wrote this story for a coffee-table book Mark had printed as his souvenir of the tournament.
Former Australian wicket-keeper Rod MArsh cAn’t RecAll it, but he once told me, ‘Adventure is discomfort remembered in trAnquillity.’
ThAt being the cAse, the television crews covering the 1996 World Cup hAd one hell of An Adventure. Yes, you might Add, with A cApitAl ‘A’.
First let me explAin the cApitAl A’s.
I started typing this column while flying in the Russian Ilyushin 76 aircraft that transports the TV equipment and crew. The guys refer to the big kite as ‘The Illusion’ and, in this case, I was deluding myself trying to type while perched on top of the television equipment.
Even though everything is tied down it still tends to move a bit and . . . well, the caps lock is next to the letter A. Sorry about that last one . . . it might have developed into a bAd habit.
What about seat belts, you ask.
Not one in sight as this is a cargo plane. It also doesn’t have toilets, we don’t have boarding passes, or go through security, and no one weighs the hand luggage. So why worry about a minor detail like being strapped in.
I quite like the idea because you can actually lie down and have a sleep if you don’t mind being woken with the occasional dig in the ribs from a camera case or the pointed toe of a tripod.
Not so bad really – it beats a similar prod from the missus reminding me to get up and water the lawn. (Actually, on second thoughts, after three weeks away from home, that statement is not strictly correct.)
Nevertheless, these flights can rightly be called an adventure. I’ve made two of them – fortunately both were uneventful, but the TV crew have some tales to tell.
Like the time they were taxiing out in Delhi and there was a hell of a bang. The plane returned to the allotted parking spot on the tarmac and in the process there were two more loud explosions. On inspection it was discovered that three tyres had blown.
Never mind. The full complement of twenty was eventually operational after the television crew had to sit out a twelve-hour repair job. Apparently there are twelve layers of rubber on each of the huge tyres – better they blow while taxiing to take off rather than on landing.
I must say the television A Crew (there are four of them) have kept their sense of humour and continue to laugh about the adventure. Incredible really – you cram about thirty people of disparate backgrounds from at least a dozen different nations in a cargo hold with a whole lot of shifting equipment, and they laugh about it later over a beer. Put two politicians or a couple of religious zealots in a plush air-conditioned room and there’s a good chance a war will result.
I don’t know whether that speaks volumes for the calming qualities of beer or is an indictment on air conditioning.
Then there was the cargo-door incident. The story is best told by Dave Gray from Melbourne. That’s not the self-proclaimed ‘Ugly’ Dave Gray, an Australian comedian, th-th-this Dave st-st-stammers, is a television cameraman who claims to be ha-ha-handsome and actually is funny.
He was once explaining to someone how a mate of his had prostate cancer. The person wasn’t too sure about what problems this caused, so Dave simplified matters by saying, ‘Ler-ler-look at it this way. He per-per-pisses like I ta-ta-talk.’
On the trip in question a couple of the Ukrainian flight crew engaged in a whispered conversation, and then peered through the window in the door leading to the hold. As the plane was flying at altitude, Dave Gray decided to check for himself what was causing the Ukrainians’ concern. He discovered that the huge cargo doors weren’t completely closed. On hearing of this reasonably serious revelation, Dave explained, ‘I w-w-wondered how come there was a sh-sh-shaft of light coming through the w-w-window in the air-lock door.’
Then there was the train, taxi, plane and bus adventure. Simple trip really, Gwalior to Vizag. About seven centimetres on a map, roughly the same length as its full name of Visakhapatnam. Twelve hundred kilometres as the crow flies and using that mode of transport would have been a damn sight quicker.
It was thirty-two hours from my arrival at the cricket ground for a day–night fixture in Gwalior, to our unscheduled arrival in a hotel at Hyderabad; all completed without a change of gear.
The diary entries look like this:
Midnight; train left Gwalior after India v West Indies day/night.
Drank beer, chatted with Sunil Gavaskar, Venkatapathy Raju (nickname ‘Muscles’), Manoj Prabhakar, Anil Kumble and Mark Mascarenhas.
Asleep at 2 am, woken at 5 am. Sunil won’t rise, so give him army wake-up call: ‘Hands off your cocks and on with your socks.’
No effect on Sunny. Laughter from Jeanne, Mark M’s sister. Her name spelt same as my mother, so I do no wrong in her eyes.
Sunny still asleep in bed so tie his shoelaces together. When he wakes he’ll have something to do with his hands for two hours. As he walks along platform in his socks he wags his finger at me, says he’ll get even.
Taxi ride at Formula One speed through the relatively deserted streets of Delhi to make 6.30 am flight to Calcutta. To relieve Richie’s white-knuckle grip on the seat, I tell him there’s a street Grand Prix in Delhi.
Drawing on his renowned dry wit, he replies, ‘Yes, Ian, but only in the odd years.’ Benords not missing an opportunity for humour or to remind me we were travelling in an even year.
Make ModiLuft flight to Calcutta. Fall asleep, woken by Max Kruger asking, ‘Which way do you think we’re going?’
I reply, ‘Forward, I hope.’ Wrong.
Max harrumphs in typical statistician-speak and says, ‘Well, technically you’re correct.’
Pity, we’d almost made Calcutta, but airport fog. Headed back to Delhi. As Max said, technically correct – plane is going forward.
There was plenty of time in Delhi to reflect on necessity to take off to fog-bound airport. The pilot tries again and apologises, ‘I wasn’t told of fog.’
Reach Calcutta 1330 (they’ve converted me to airline speak), miss connection.
Rebook flight; Delhi – Bhubaneswar – Nagpur – Hyderabad. Departure is 1730; straight forward flight to Boobs (for short), but spend ninety minutes on tarmac. No parking bay, no communication with ground staff.
Boobs to Nagpur. This is the America’s Cup leg; now tacking to Hyderabad, but chicken tikka and mint sauce dinner good.
Nags to Hyder uneventful. Arrive midnight airport, hotel 0030, wake-up call 0530.
Taxi to Hyderabad airport. The 0730 flight to Vizag leaves 0745, arrives 1 hour later. Leave bags for someone to collect, taxi to ground arrive 0915.
Australia batting 0/8, in fourth over, game against Kenya. Michael Slater (not in twelve for match) and Tim Gilbert (radio 2UE) doing television commentary. Hope Kerry Packer isn’t interested in watching Australia versus Kenya.
Whether remembered in discomfort or tranquillity that was an adventure, with a capital ‘A’.