World Cup Diaries: Fly You Fools!

I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw Shanthakumaran Sreeshanth screaming raucously from the dug-out at the fall of Micheal Hussey's wicket.

If I were him (and I very well could have been, had my fast-bowling trial at the Malabar Cricket Club many summers ago gone any better, in which case I would surely have beaten him to that alluring spot of the only-crazy-mallu-in-the-national-team), I would be mad at my captain, the otherwise exceedingly lovable Mr. Yem Yes Dhoni. The man with an inexplicably brilliant intuition that often borders on the ridiculous (imagine throwing the ball to Jog Sharma when success in the inaugural slam-bang-boom-bam cricket tournament hung by the thinnest of threads) would surely have gotten some from my amazing repertoire of Anglicised Malayalam expletives that Shashi Tharoor would be proud of. After all, Sreeshanth isn't by any stretch of imagination a worse kind of fast bowler than the distressingly laggard Ashish Nehra or Jageera Dakait reincarnate Munaf Patel.

But since Sreeshanth's mother, like all good Mallu mothers taught him as a kid to put his country above everything else (except reality shows and rakish hairstyles), he swallowed the humiliation without a word of dissent and is now thoroughly enjoying his newfound stature as chief cheerleader and champagne bottle corker. This post cannot really justify harping on a non-participating member for too long, so I shall quickly turn my attention towards the legendary Picky Ronting.

You had your time out in the sun for a real good while, Picky. Picnic's all but over mate. It's time to pack up in your blanket all your prized belongings (which comprise quite an enviable assortment of trophies and medals, something Yem Yes would die to possess before he's sent packing himself) and make your bloody loathsome self scarce. You might have laughed behind his back when Sachin Tendulkar decided to walk, but guess who's having the last laugh now? Remember that lanky brute the Indians unleashed upon you in Sydney and Perth two years ago, the one who was called Ishant Sharma? Remember how he made you cry for your mommy, how you were a sitting duck before his piercingly precise bullets? Well, you should have known back then that your star had faded. Ishant wasn't even selected for the World Cup, what does that tell you about the rest of the Indian bowlers? And after the final Strauss that broke the Kangaroo's back last year and left your shell-shocked team to pick up the ashes, could the writing on the wall have been any clearer?

Arrogance has always been the Aussie way- it brought them such blinding success, and it is only just that it should bring about their downfall in such spectacular fashion. I have hated the whole bunch all my life. After the troika of world cup triumphs that took their superiority to ridiculous levels, my only wish was to see them fall before I die. And now that it has happened, ole Picky can fly back Down Under and either go hunting for Tasmanian devils in the countryside or go fishing for self-respect along with Shane Warne.

I have already presented my views on the West Indies cricket team, and anything more I say here will only be rubbing salt into their mortal wounds. Just like the Wizards of Oz, their delusions of regaining lost glory have swiftly been relegated to the after-life. They can enjoy the rest of the Cup walking along the beaches in Goa and taking pictures of fair maidens. The South Africans have been sent packing as well- no surprises there. Their latest exit from a big tournament can be said to be an almost perfect rendition of the art of going AWOL when it matters the most. Youngsters aspiring to learn how to choke need no longer enter into the tutelage of Darth Vader or Unabomb Kane. Any SA veteran who's been at a World Cup can illustrate it just as well, if not better. Messrs Pollock and Donald would be weeping their hearts out on seeing their successors live up to the outrageously high precedents they had set, while Hansie Cronje would be turning in his grave with envy at seeing the present vintage come such an emphatic cropper.

As true as day, England are just about to follow suit. We will then have the three sub-continental teams engaged in a deadly battle to claim the crown. That is unless the Kiwis turn into Ostriches overnight by virtue of some ancient Maori sorcery or India decides to emulate the Quixotic misadventures of their own ancestors, which would be a real travesty if ever there was one. If India wins, I wouldn't care whether Sachin gets his 100th 100 in the process or not. In fact, there would remain a certain romanticism about his career in every fan's heart if he were to hang up his boots at 99 centuries- much like the Last Don, whose greatness would hardly have been any lesser had his batting average actually made it to the three figure mark. And if he were to mastermind yet another Escape to Victory, Yem Yes Dhoni would definitely etch a permanent place for himself in the annals of Indian cricket, and in the Hall of Fame of celebrated captains who were rather more accomplished skippering than wielding the heavy willow (a list headed by Mike Brearley, the flawed genius who last spearheaded an English challenge at a World Cup).

Had it not been for a reinvigorated passion in the unofficial national sport, my dismal writer's block (for want of a better term) could have extended for a long long time still. As things stand, if the meek kaiser is seen in attendance on the night of the 2nd April, it could only mean 28 years turning to none.