He’s 35 years old and owns practically every batting record in the game, but you couldn’t escape the feeling that this was probably Sachin Tendulkar’s finest hour. Dileep Premachandran in cricinfo:
As Graeme Swann prepared to bowl the second ball of his 29th over, more than 20,000 people in the stands abandoned their plastic chairs. They were on their feet, creating the sort of bedlam and noise I last witnessed at this very venue seven years ago, when Harbhajan Singh’s squirt past point clinched the most famous of India’s series victories. Swann bowled. The batsman came forward and patted the ball back with almost exaggerated flourish. The crowd was momentarily quieted but the primal scream started again as Swann went back to his mark.
Again, there was sharp turn, but the paddle-sweep that greeted the ball was emphatic. As it streaked to fine leg, the batsman ran down the pitch and punched the air in celebration, before being held aloft by his equally delighted partner. He’s 35 years old and owns practically every batting record in the game, but you couldn’t escape the feeling that this was probably Sachin Tendulkar’s finest hour.
To score the winning runs in a record-shattering chase was special enough, but when that last stroke also brought up your 41st century, it became ineffably so. Boyhood dreams are made of this, and it says a lot about Tendulkar that he has never lost that child-like passion for the game.
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How I finally passed the Tebbit test
The courage, poise and decency of England’s cricketers are irresistible. Tunku Varadarajan in the Times:
If anyone had any doubts that cricket is a magnificent game – or that England (as Britain is called when kitted out in whites) and India are magnificent, humane, manly, kind, resilient, fraternal nations – these were dispelled over the last five days in Chennai (né Madras).
There have been few Test matches more special than the one that concluded there yesterday, and cricket is only part of the reason for that. I write here as an Indian who moved to England as a 16-year-old, and who, even after becoming a subject of Her Britannic Majesty, cheered always for the Indian cricket team – especially when they played against England. Norman Tebbit, one of Maggie Thatcher’s less enlightened ministers, had contempt for my type; but with apologies to Kipling: what should they know of cricket who only England know?
And yet… as the Test match began I found that I was shouting for England. I had, for the first time in my life, passed the infernal “Tebbit test” – which, in a nutshell, decreed that immigrant Britons must not cheer for the land of their forefathers when teams from said lands were playing teams from Britain.
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Night of the screamers
Why the commentators’ desperate hawking of the IPL may have started to work against the tournament. Gideon Haigh at cricinfo:
It’s working. Two weeks of the second season of the Indian Premier League and it’s finally been drummed into me who the damn sponsors are. Thanks. Thanks a lot. Now GO AWAY!
Actually, had I money to invest, I’d be wondering why DLF, presently being squeezed by slumping property values and a share price a quarter of its peak, and Citigroup, insolvent but for Barack Obama’s indulgence, were wasting shareholders’ funds on staking sixes and endowing so-called “success”. As I don’t, I’ll simply vary that old Bob Hope gag concerning the night he went to a boxing title fight and a game of ice hockey broke out: the IPL is fast degenerating into a series of three-hour advertisements through which are sometimes discernible glimmers of cricket.
Cricket, of course, has much to thank television for. How much richer is our appreciation of a Shane Warne legbreak or a Kevin Pietersen cover-drive for the luxury of studying it, frozen in time; when we can hover over each detail of the harmonious human mechanism. But either Lalit Modi is pumping nitrous oxide into the commentary box, or the IPL is bearing out JK Galbraith’s observation that television allows for persuasion with no minimum standard of literacy or intelligence. More: