Hero Worship

I can't see any wrong in this guy. I don't even try to. I am an adult of sound mind and in perfect possession of all my mental faculties, but I still can't see any wrong. He cast this spell from the moment I first saw that straight bat with the copybook follow-through as the ball sped straight down the ground. Geometric precision, yet a mellifluous melody in that instant. I still tingle when I see that shot and I have seen it too many times to count; a testament to both the strength of my adulation and the longevity of my idol.

How do I say anything that hasn't been said! How do I even try and imagine some facet yet to be explored! Over two decades in the limelight is enough to strip anyone of their privacy and lay out their faults and frailties for all to see. He's been deconstructed and reconstructed ad nauseum; anything and everything related to him, his life and his conduct have been analyzed and discussed to death. He should ideally have nothing new to offer to the new generation who have just woken up to the sport. They should instead idolize the ice-cool captain or his firebrand upstart of a deputy. Generations past have adulated the Wall; rallied behind their Dada; marveled at the exploits of the run machine before him. How then has this mania survived? How does my heart still skip a beat when a ball beats his outside edge or caroms into his pads? How does this little man with the heavy blade still make me choke up with emotion when his mates take him on a lap of honour around the Wankhede on their shoulders? He's not a politician nor actor nor some religious icon. He's just a sportsman; a supremely talented sportsman yes, but still just a sportsman. How can he make a billion-plus people so frenetic! How can he make me so frenetic! I'm not the most passionate guy after all. Far from it. How does this guy pierce my armour?

The thing about poets is this. You might barely understand the words or the sentence structure or where the bloody hell one line starts and the other begins. You might very well not get the entire point of the piece. But there is that haunting melody underlying that verbiage that your subconscious listens to that makes you see beauty even if you can't fathom it. Your spirits soars on some great emotion; you know not what. The poet weaves a spell around you that beguiles because it's unfathomable; because that beautiful image or impression that gave rise to this melody can't be captured by such feeble mortal constructs as mere words. All you are left with is this tingling feeling down your spine and this lightness in your heart. And that's what this man does. With each flourish of his blade he leaves me a picture too beautiful to comprehend. The mind rebels at the improbability of its existence, but the heart knows what it saw. That one moment captured infinity.

Sachin is a poet, the opiate of the masses, the messiah that carries our hopes every time he walks out onto that oval. He is the perpetual child who grins for all he's worth when he does anything on the field. He's the everlasting fir that spreads its heady fragrance far and wide. The legends will continue long after he hangs up his boots and walks off into the sunset - the assault in the swirling dunes, the scorching brilliance in the veld, the spectacular double without the cover drive, the vindicating century in the chase down south... So many moments. So many memories. So many glimpses of absolute unadulterated perfection. The lone remnant of an era, yet he still strides this world like a colossus. Nothing more I can say can do justice to him. I was lucky to have grown up with his exploits, to have these images in my mind that still move me. All good things must pass and so must he, but these memories will last forever.

That straight drive. That perfect, perfect straight drive...