Shock and shell

There are no words of comfort that will ease away V’s anguish. Like many other die-hard Indian cricket fans he spent Friday night tossing and turning, weighed down by the defeat of the Indian cricket team. As if he bore that burden solely and squarely on his shoulders. As if it were his faith that had come short and made Team India lose.

I came home quite late that Friday evening, having spent the afternoon gazing at glorious Amrita Shergill paintings at the Tate Modern with S and then gone for a bout of gym working to avoid watching yet another nail biting India match. I imagined that the 413 record scoring from the previous match was the start of bigger & greater things to come and that my presence in front of that TV would only jinx a good thing. I came home as the last few balls of this decisive match were being played, only to encounter a forlorn V. His chilled Gambrinas looked very cheerful in contrast.

I knew when I met and married V that I would have to change my ways and become the ‘Wife of a Sport Fan’. I signed into that club pretty quickly and quite easily because it’s not a lot to ask and really, I ask a lot more in return. Also sports are basically organised games and individually I like rules/ games/ teams and love organisation of all kinds so even combined it wasn’t an imposition I couldn’t bear. It also meant that I could have holidays around sports fixtures when we could afford the time and effort and moolah.

During the last world cup we didn’t have enough money or time to travel to watch matches. And then India got to the final and we sighed and insisted ‘next time’. Well, this is next time and many months ago V got us 4 tickets to go and watch 2 matches in the Caribbean with friends. The friends bowed out but we went ahead and booked our flights, found a beach resort, bought that sunscreen and packed our bags. Now we have 4 tickets to watch both Bangladesh – England and Bangladesh – Ireland. It’s a sad, sad day and even the sunshine prelude to our upcoming getaway isn’t helping cheer V up. I on the other hand cannot wait for the sandy shores to pick shells off while V lies under a beach umbrella, nursing a cocktail and hoping to recover from the shock. It’s a difficult life but somebody has got to do it.

I, for one, am no longer supporting cricket – not today, not next month, not next year, not ever. I’ll go and watch it when forced upon (seeing as we have 4 tickets for each match and are hardly likely to find Bangladesh/ English/ Ireland fans wanting them now) but really in my eyes it lost its lustre as a game the second poor Bob Woolmer was killed. I won’t discuss this now because it’s all under investigation, but I will say that in my heart it’s now a tainted game. Even India going through would not have changed that. And to top it all that ridiculous Usha Utthup song from the new movie ‘Hatrick’ (that plays in a loop on one of the desi channels, one of 3 world cup ‘go India’ songs on constant display), will not leave my head. Bah humbug!

At a brilliant home cooked Mexican meal with friends on Saturday night the discussion centered on India’s failure to make it to the Super 8 stage. My suggestion was to sack the entire Indian team, but hey, what do I know of sport, politics, money or the world. I had to quickly back down from that argument. Mostly V and our hosts were plotting about how Bermuda would miraculously beat Bangladesh on Sunday thereby pushing us back into contention for the next round. As V oft quotes from his phrase book of life, “‘eternal optimist’ equals ‘Indian cricket fan’”. I believe him. Bermuda didn’t triumph. I am still going to bask in sunshine and bake in the sand. The End.

I baked him a ‘cheer up’ chocolate cake. And promised I’d collect him a unique shell from my foray to the beach, string it up on a length of leather and use it as a good luck charm for next time.

He still isn’t smiling.