The age of Sachin Tendulkar

More than two decades ago, a prophetic snatch of conversation took place in the  Australian dressing room in Perth. The Age reported that after a day of trying to get an 18-year-old out, Merv Hughes cracked open a beer and told his captain Allan Border: “This little prick is going to get more runs than you, AB.”

History now tells us that the prophecy was correct, if substantially understated. And the “little prick” (Aussie praise can come in unconventional packaging) in question would also become the closest thing to Don Bradman that cricket has seen. Today, Sachin Tendulkar turns 40, and regardless of how he spends his day, about half a billion people will be celebrating.

My first memories of Tendulkar are from his debut Pakistan series in 1989. He didn’t score many runs there, just the two fifties, but I remember watching him with eyes that brimmed with tears, and a suspected case of chronic goosebumps. I am pretty sure I wasn’t alone.

I am sure millions of people were thinking exactly what I was thinking: how could a boy of barely 16 stand up that way to Imran Khan, Wasim Akram and a young Waqar Younis? How could he take the blows?

At a time when the tension in India-Pakistan games was at its peak—remember this was after the demoralising last-ball six, and at just about the time Kashmir began to burn—the bravery of someone barely past adolescence, together with that kind of skill had to induce tears and goosebumps. That is how I felt anyway.

Again, I wasn’t alone. The other day, I watched as Navjot Singh Sidhu, the greatest balle-ballebaaz (cum-commentator) India has produced was making fun—believe it or not—of someone else’s English. “Chetan Sharma ordering room service”, he said between guffaws, and mimicked his former teammate trying his best to speak English: “Uzzwiz yauwz whizzz… one cup tea please”.

But it was Sharma, who said the most insightful thing about the early Sachin Tendulkar.

He spoke in Hindi, “Jab woh team mein aaya na, toh hamein laga hum sab timepass kar rahe hain. Cricket toh woh khel raha hai.”

How do people get to be that good? Sachin has been accused of being God, an allegation he has denied. Maybe he has God’s gift, blessings, call it what you will. But even as the stats about Sachin are bombarded at you, consider this: he’s been playing games of cricket relentlessly, with very few breaks, for close to 30 years now.

During his days in Shivaji Park, the equally relentless Ramakant Archrekar would make his boys play matches—he wasn’t such a believer in nets. He has spent almost four entire years (or 10 per cent of his life) playing just Tests and One-dayers for India. If you added up the hours of international cricket Sachin has played, you get a whole year. It works out to nearly 10,000 hours.

In his book Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell argues (controversially, it must be said) that 10,000 hours of practice early in life a recipe for greatness. The Beatles, Gladwell says, were untiring in their early years, specially in Hamburg. They put in the hours. Tendulkar has put in much, much, more. Closer to thrice that number, playing cricket. He is a genius at practice. Why would he not be great?

What are the measures of greatness? That is a huge question, and actually, whatever the answer is, there isn’t much debate in Sachin’s case. Sometimes, you see it in the reactions of those around him in ways both big and small. Every ground he graces these days, stands up to receive him. The world over, the paying fan knows ‘this could be the last time’. This is reserved only for the greats.

I remember covering the 2004 Pakistan tour. At the end of it, players from either side were exchanging shirts, leaning over their respective balconies in Rawalpindi. Yasir Hameed, the Pakistan opener, kept trying desperately to get a shirt, not just any shirt, Sachin’s shirt. “Ek Sachin ka de na,” he kept asking Irfan Pathan. Hameed was a fine player himself, and while he wanted that shirt, might just have been slightly in awe of Sachin to ask. That kind of awe is also reserved for the greats.

In the World Cup in South Africa the year before, anyone fortunate enough to be there saw possibly the best of Sachin. (The other candidate series is the ‘desert storm’ against Australia). His 98 against Pakistan drew as least as many gasps as claps. At an informal interaction with the media, I asked him whether he remembered ever hitting the ball better.

He said he did, in a game in the West Indies in 1997. So how long did it take to reach the neighbourhood of perfection? “Well it took me eight years of international cricket,” he said.

Sachin has a large band of grudging fans as well. They believe he did not win enough games for India, did not finish well. At 40, how he finishes is on top of their minds—and on the minds of even the most hardcore among his devotees.

The ‘Greatest’, Muhammad Ali turned up one night to fight Larry Holmes at 37. Holmes was Ali’s sparring partner, and possessor of the meanest jab in boxing history. The bout had to be stopped in the 10th, because it became unbearable to watch. Ali’s face (“my face is so pretty, you don’t see a scar…”) had bloated to become almost unrecognisable. Holmes wept when he met Ali in his changeroom just after. He said, “Champ, I love you…”
“Then why you beat me up so bad?” asked Ali.

Cricket isn’t boxing. But the people you play for, the people who love you, can nevertheless give you a beating. Happy birthday, Sachin. Go well.

The writer is an author, journalist and consulting editor with dna