Even God can't hit a woman

I was waiting excitedly for October 30th. The birthday of Diego Armando Maradona. Born in 1960, the Argentine legend would turn 54. I was going to post it on Scoopwhoop. Together with the epic song from his documentary.

I even had a headline ready:

The Pele vs Maradona Debate Will Rage On Forever. But For Those Of You Who Worship The Argentine, Your God Just Turned 54.

And I would play this song below:




That was all that was needed. That song gives me goosebumps every time. Especially the part where the fans sing, "Marado! Marado!"

But I couldn't post it. Why? Because on the eve of his birthday, he was trending on Twitter. For all the wrong reasons. He was caught on video assaulting his girlfriend.

I didn't give up. I tried to find a way around it. Maybe tweak the headline and mention the incident in way that the article wouldn't get flak.

For A Man Who Courted Controversy All Through His Career, Nothing Has Changed Even As He Turns 54.

It's true you know. His debut World Cup ended when he kicked an opponent in the crotch. His international career ended because of a failed drug test. His most famous goal was scored with his hand. Off the field too, stories abound of substance abuse and tax evasions.

But that's the thing. We forgive him for everything. All the cheating and the drinking. All the drugs and even the tax fraud. We overlook all that and treat him as a God because of how good he used to be with a football. He still is by the way.

But even for him, there is absolutely no excuse for hitting a woman!



He used his hand to score a goal and we hailed it as the Hand of God. But when he raises the same hand on a woman, we don't tolerate it.

Long story short, even God cannot hit a woman!

You can switch off the television now!

There was a time when I hated cricket. Absolutely hated it. Despite my best efforts, I just wasn’t good at it. I couldn’t connect bat with the ball, and neither could I bowl straight. And the less said about my fielding, the better.

But I had to watch cricket.

No, I am not saying that I was a hardcore fan who couldn’t bear not watching cricket. What I mean to say is that there was a time when I had no choice but to watch every damn match that India ever played.

Because my dad had this ridiculous idea that India would win if I watched with him. There was no escaping this ludicrous notion of his. Absolutely no way: If I had an upcoming exam, I could sit on his lap and study while he watched the match on mute. The one time that the TV stopped working (Hallelujah!), he went out and bought a new one in time for the toss. I kid you not!

And so it was that every single time India played - be it a weekday, a Sunday, in the middle of my summer holidays, my Christmas break, the eve of my final exam - while the other kids were out playing in the park, there I was, sat on his lap, watching cricket.

I used to hate it. And then, I started missing it. I missed my dad all the time after he passed away but I missed him more when a match was ongoing. I was supposed to feel liberated. For the first time in my life, I was free to join the other kids at play but somehow I didn’t want to. It just didn’t feel right. Not when a match was on...

Soon after my dad passed away, we started living with my grandparents. And I realized where my dad had got his addiction from. Just like him, my grandfather too watched every single match. But this time, I voluntarily joined in.

And one of the first matches that I watched with him had me convinced that he was a genius. India were batting first, and after 30 overs, he predicted what our final total would be. And at the end of 50 overs, he was just 7 runs off the mark. Just 7! And I couldn’t believe it!

He explained how the team batting first usually scores as many runs in the last 20 overs as it did in the first 30. Unless the team had lost too many early wickets, he added. It didn’t make much sense then but gradually I began to understand more and more about the game. And I began to love it too. Mainly because it reminded me of my father!

While my dad was more of a purist, my grandfather was more pragmatic. Maybe I was too young but I don’t remember my dad analyzing a batsman’s footwork or his back lift. All I remember is him shouting “Did you see that?” and “Now that’s what you call a shot!”

There is, however, one line that I distinctly remember both of them saying: “Sachin’s out! Might as well switch off the TV now!”

It was the common refrain of the Indian cricket fan whenever Sachin made the long walk back to the pavilion. The collective acceptance of impending defeat was indeed justified. For a huge part of his career, Sachin’s wicket was almost always the turning point in a match.  But despite that comment, both my dad and my grandfather were the eternal optimists. Suffice to say, until the last run was scored or the last ball was bowled, the TV in our house was never switched off.

Like every other Indian (well, the sane ones at least), both of them absolutely loved Sachin Tendulkar. They just couldn’t get enough of his batting. And for that reason, I grew to love him too. It is thanks largely to my grandfather that I actually started paying attention but I remember my dad ‘Ooh’ and ‘Aah’ every time Sachin struck a boundary.

Like I confessed in Paragraph 1, I never played much cricket. Not enough to fully appreciate Sachin’s technique (though that has never stopped me from doing so). But you’d have to be blind to miss the grace and finesse in his batting, the authority, the elegance… (I could go on but I would hopelessly digress from my topic.)

As much as Sachin signified runs and centuries and Indian victories, watching him bat always made me feel closer to my dad and my grandfather. By the time of my grandfather’s passing, I was a full-fledged fan. I had started watching every match. Out of my own free accord.

And now, the time has come to say goodbye to Sachin too.

Longevity has always been his hallmark. That his career outlived both my aforementioned forefathers is testimony to that fact. But now, his time has come too. And as much as it is about never getting to see the best-batsman-there-ever-was bat again, I feel like I am losing a connection that I had with my dad and my grandfather.

Sachin’s gone. But this time, it isn’t just about switching the television off. I might as well cancel my DTH subscription!

(This was written a couple of months ago. I admit it should have been published at that time too but hey... better late than never.)