Monica Seles - Fighter, Winner, Legend!

French Open at 16.

World No. 1 at 17.

7 Grand Slams by 19.

Stabbed at 20.

Wins another Grand Slam at 23.

Monica Seles’s tennis career reads like a footnote of a Shakespearean tragedy. Her strokes bore no particular elegance or grace. But she brought to court a certain amount of awe and grit, power and purpose by uniquely using both her hands for the forehand and backhand.

Her most potent weapon though, didn’t come out of her tennis racquet. The thundering groundstrokes were quite mute in comparison to her vociferous grunt – a sonic war cry that resembled the ‘Phantom Punch’ Muhammad Ali delivered to Sonny Liston in 1965. And like Sonny Liston, her opponents gave up in slow capitulation. Some like Martina Navratilova even complained about her grunt. It even got Peter Ustinov to remark – ‘I’d hate to be next door to her on her wedding night’!

All said, Monica Seles played like only she could. Ferociously competitive to the core. Her comeback after the stabbing to win a Grand Slam was a victory – both emotional and physical – a real purple patch in a chequered career.

 

The Colonel of a different class - Dilip Vengsarkar

1986. 

In sport, it was quintessentially the summer of Diego Maradona. Many miles away from Mexico, it was also the year of a tall, stylish man from Bombay – who was crowned the Lord of Lord’s. Dilip Vengsarkar had already anointed himself as an elegant artist with the willow. At Lord’s, he just happened to transform into Michelangelo.

While the local radio commentary paid a loud and exaggerated tribute to that fabulous 126 by Vengsarkar, I would like to imagine his knock in a very English fashion. Because it was so sophisticated and English in all its glory. 

Imagine this: A politely mild London sun. Hushed applause. Henry Blofeld on commentary. And Derek Pringle runs in to bowl. Vengsarkar, looks at his grip and looks up, looks at his grip and looks up, feet and stance so perfectly balanced. Pringle releases one outside the off-stump and Vengsarkar launches into an immaculately executed front-foot drive. The ball dissects the ground between cover point and extra cover and careens hastily to the boundary. Poetic and pragmatic at the same time.

His unbeaten century is considered one of the finest that has been played in Lord’s. So pure in its execution, so eclectic in its charm and so complete in its responsibility. The English Summer that year truly belonged to the Colonel.

The Sultan of Sixty Four Squares - Viswanathan Anand

The most consistent individual champion from India at the global level is a man who wears his genius behind his thin spectacle frames and buttoned-down garb. But rarely does Viswanathan Anand get the mass adulation an international sporting sensation deserves.  

Part of the problem lies in the fact that chess is an impenetrable sport. Your adrenaline kicks in as Bolt scorches to the finish line. Your appreciation for the sense of beauty is on the ascent when you witness a Laxman cover drive. And you sit back in awe as Federer produces that gobsmackingly awesome drop volley. In Anand’s case, the spectator cannot feel such aesthetics. Although, you wish you could. You wish you could decipher the thousands of calculations running in his head. The geometry of moves planned. Or, the salacious strategy that foxes his opponent.

For most of us who think Ruy Lopez is a new soccer sensation in the Spanish League or Queen’s Gambit is the Queen’s thoughts on Brexit, Viswanathan Anand and the game he so brilliantly plays will always remain an enigma. The only way this could be reversed is to take the game to the grassroots – to schools, where it becomes part of the curriculum. It’s the least we can do to help the younger generation imbibe the intricacies of the game. And make a man like Vishy Anand proud.

Dravid - A cricketer like no other

VVS Laxman offered us scintillating art. Sachin Tendulkar, flashes of genius. Sourav Ganguly served us a concoction of grit and excellence. Virender Sehwag dolled out a liberating experience to batting patrons. And Rahul Dravid, gave us what the rest couldn’t: a sense of reassurance over a period of 16 long years. Truth be told, he made the Famous Five look erudite, classy and intense.

Rahul Dravid wasn’t your average cricketer. He could debate on Schopenhauer and Saigal. Discuss Chaos Theory and Calvin and Hobbes. He ambled across bookstores and visited art galleries before a test match. And by the end of next day, he would have built an innings, which would have given India a lead, changed the course of the Test match or rescued the team from a surefire loss.

When he walked back to the pavilion with his shirt drenched in sweat and a demeanour that wore an unassuming smile, a classic innings would have been composed. No outlandish celebration. No flashy interviews.

For Rahul Dravid, it was just another day in office.

Stefan Edberg - The Boss of the Single-handed Backhand

In the mid-80s to the early-90s, Stefan Edberg exuded icy calm as he executed those awe-inspiring volleys and a magically flawless stroke that is fast disappearing from tennis today – the single-handed backhand. He played in an era when tennis was still beautiful. Craft was enshrined. And skill was worshipped. Power tennis hadn’t yet blasphemed its way into the hallowed portals of the game.

The double-fisted backhand is an assault to your senses. Mostly used by today’s gym-toned players with legs that resemble Roman columns. The single-handed backhand is artistic. Practiced by a few who still court grace like Federer and Wawrinka. The double-fisted backhand would be a stroke that a Gooch would play if he took to tennis. The single-handed backhand would be VVS Laxman’s favourite stroke.

On that note, it was pure joy to watch Edberg execute this stroke. As the ball approached him, Edberg would start crafting his return with a huge backswing. Just before the racquet is released, the non-playing left hand would gently hold the neck of the racquet to offer a charismatic push to ensue the stroke. Now the ball is at close quarters to be hit. Edberg would then bend his knees and with one-hand, bring the racquet down like a surfer waiting for the wave. The hitting of the ball and the glorious follow-through would resemble the surfer cresting the wave in style. Well, his genius didn’t end there. That final flick of the wrist when he completed his stroke would decide where the ball was placed. On most occasions his single-handed backhand return just foxed the opponent.

I believe no other stroke comes aesthetically close to this one in tennis. And no other player played it as beautifully and successfully as Edberg did. As the saying goes, ‘they don’t make ‘em like that anymore!

The Awesome Twosome - Greenidge and Haynes

Opening batsmen come in all shapes and sizes. Like Boon and Marsh, for example. They come in distinct styles. Like Gavaskar and Srikkanth. And once in many decades, a pair is born to decimate the opposition with incredible skill, technique and charisma. Gordon Greenidge and Desmond Haynes were two such openers. Both were different as chalk and cheese, but singularly united in sending the red cherry for an unforgiving leather hunt. Time and time again.

Greenidge in full flight was a sight to behold. His hooks and square cuts were mostly pitch perfect, rarely amiss. The power with which the ball was timed was impeccable, and the authority over his bowlers was complete. Like a poignant rabble rouser, Greenidge had the bowling team and the crowds sway to his skill.

Haynes was the quieter one. Less bravado and panache, yet filled with copious talent to match his counterpart. He was Paul McCartney collaborating with John Lennon (that Greenidge was) to compose some of the finest partnership ditties the world has seen.

It’s been a couple of decades since they hung up their boots. Will we see another opening pair like them soon? Perhaps the answer lies in John Lennon’s line, “You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one!”

Bolt of Lightning

A rather intriguing trivia says that the average human takes about 9 odd seconds to tie his shoelaces. In those few seconds, Usain Bolt canters past his fellow racers in the 100 meters. He is the king of cool, the fastest man on the planet. He has danced, waved, jogged and smiled to the finish line on many breathtaking occasions. At times, you wonder how he covers the shortest distance with the longest of gaps with such effortless ease.

At the Beijing Olympics, Bolt was ahead of the silver medallist by 2 impossible meters. He could have cracked open a bottle of champagne and lit a cigar on his way to the finish line. Today, he is not as fast as he used to be in 2008-9. But he’s still faster than the rest. And that’s the mastery he exhibits over his art.

Unlike other sport stars, Bolt doesn’t hog your screen time throughout the year. A mere 9 seconds is all he offers you in twelve months. And the impact he has – on your imagination and your dropped jaws – for the rest of the year, are legendary. At 29, with six Olympic gold medals behind him, Bolt is ready for Rio. This could be his swansong. A blisteringly inspiring sonnet on speed, only he could compose.

Agassi, a Rockstar among Champions!

Circa 1988. “He’s the tonic that America needs!” screamed a billboard in the US. Well, he sure was. At the French Open that year, the wily Mats Wilander got a taste of Agassi’s talent – rare and precocious to the core. Andre Agassi, with his streaked long hair, bright tees and denim shorts, was an anomaly in the tennis pantheon. A prodigious talent and a phenomenal entertainer, Agassi was a sort of psychedelic adrenaline that a jaded tennis world needed. 

While he rode the crest of a wave, winning the major Slams in the early 90s, his career slumped to the shore between the mid to late 90s. And who would have thought he would come back so powerfully once again. Between ’99 and ’03, he was back in business, winning a slew of Slams.

Watching him play was like watching the mercurial Jimi Hendrix at work. Each of those shots seemed effortlessly pure, polished for hours and delivered with raw precision. A magical offspring of faultless timing and pitch-perfect technique. And like Hendrix’s Voodoo Child, Agassi was a wild one - a man with a rocker soul who struck an intimate chord with the fans of his generation.

Azhar, the confounding artist!

He’s perhaps a perplexing enigma. Thanks to Harsha Bhogle’s book on him, we get to know that Azhar’s room had designer suits next to his prayer mat; stylish designer glasses next to the amulet; and for a boy who wasn’t allowed to watch films, ended up marrying an actress. He is known as a cheat who sold his soul, a man who loved the high life, and an arrogant chap who clipped his toenails in a press conference in Sharjah.

All of this makes him a great study in psychology. Yet, his game is a serious study in aesthetics.

His communication skills could put a Trappist monk to shame. But he spoke through his batting. In free verse. His wristy strokes were impossibly carefree. His cover drives, a delight to the senses. As a result, the ball caressed through the greens to the boundary, waltzing its way in delight. He was our David Gower. Lazy elegance and incredible mastery rolled into one. And what about his fielding? The backhand flip was perhaps the visual rendition of Keats’s famous line – a thing of beauty is a joy forever.

Azhar was a consummate artist. A rare breed who befuddles us with his flaws and finesse alike.

The Road to Rio

My dear athlete – You have been waiting to get to this pinnacle of sporting glory. For four years. And athletes like you, know that a hit or miss at an Olympic medal can change your fate. Forever. Your country is going to be behind you. Your family is hoping for a blaze of glory. And your coach is breathing down your neck.

But you are still alone in your pursuit of perfection. No one knows about the painful blisters in the African runner’s feet. No one cares about your sore shoulder, tired of throwing the javelin endlessly at nights. No one is aware of your heart rate pumping belligerently, every time you try to deceive gravity by perfecting the Fosbury Flop. All the world cares for is a medal.

In a few days, the bell will ring at Rio. The starting gun will be fired. The stadium will go hush. And in that deafening silence, you have the chance to prove to the world that you can rewrite history. Loud and clear.

Requiem to a Legend

For elevating hockey from being a mere sport to an artistic endeavor

For making every defence look like Swiss cheese

For being our very own Hassan Sardar

For those deft dribbling skills that were always magical like an Eric Clapton solo

For those feeder passes that zipped out of your stick with geometric precision

For evoking awe amongst players, coaches and fans alike

For not forgetting your humble Varanasi beginnings even after you became a giant in the field

For every unforgettable run on the inside flank with Zafar Iqbal, dodging multiple defenders

For telling Zafar Iqbal last week that you will dodge through your disease as well

For looking at death on its face and yelling that John Donne line – Death be not proud!

For standing aloft as the greatest player, genius and human nonpareil to have played this sport in my lifetime

For being the one and only Mohammed Shahid – Rest in Peace, sir

King of Cool, Courtney Walsh!

4.4 – 3 – 1 – 5. Well, that’s shorthand for the havoc wreaked by Courtney Walsh on Sri Lanka, in the 1986 Champions Trophy in Sharjah. He was an underrated gentle giant, who could bowl fast, over after over. No wonder, his club-mates at Gloucestershire called him Duracell. The action was reminiscent of Mr. Whispering Death himself. That cool, gazelle-like run-up reminded you of David Ogilvy’s classic headline for Rolls Royce – At 60 mph, the loudest noise in this new Rolls Royce comes from the electric clock! Just replace ‘electric clock’ with ‘deep breath of sighing fans’ and you’ll understand what I mean. His gentlemanly demeanour seemed more suited to Saville Row than Lord’s, you may think. Perhaps, true. He was a classicist at heart, who could mesmerize batsmen with variation, pace, acumen and unwavering length. The slow yorker, which he mastered towards the end of his career, was a joy to watch. Delivered from 11 feet high, the ball torpedoed into the batsman’s crease, often uprooting his wicket. We live in an era where brashness and bravado are celebrated in cricket. Courtney Walsh is a rare reminder that calmness and control could work wonders as well.

Shane Warne, the Spinning Sensation

Shane Warne was every bit a quickie. That grease paint on his face, cold and mesmerizing eyes, deliciously brazen demeanour and a fetish to sledge – all traits of a nasty fast bowler. Not the body language of a gentle spinner, you would reckon. Having said all that, you will forget his adolescent antics once he starts to approach the wicket to bowl. That moment is akin to Miles Davis swallowing his saliva to prepare for a trumpet solo. Something epic is on the anvil. When the red cherry leaves Warne’s hand, time stands still. The loop is picture perfect. The flight is on a terrific trajectory. The ball, on its halfway mark is a vision of dizzying mystery - is it going to plummet, dart, turn, skid or deceive? Well, on most occasions, the batsman never had the answer. Shane Warne could loop, spin and flight at will. It was a guarantee of grand journeys, ball after ball, yet no two balls resembled each other. Cricket today, sorely feels the absence of enigmatic folks like him. Because when geniuses like Warne are in residence, mere mortals like us could witness what Coleridge referred to as ‘the willing suspension of disbelief’.

MOHAMMED SHAHID, THE SORCERER OF THE STICK

In a world that aimlessly hands out superflous epithets and titles for sporstmen with average talent, there comes a time when a true genius walks in and shows the world what real talent is. In this case, the genius walked in with a hockey stick. He was one of the world’s most gifted forwards, the sorcerer of the stick, who could weave through defenders with stickwork that was perhaps, nothing short of magic. The name, Mohammed Shahid.

He was the reason why kids like us watched hockey, dared to hold a stick and try the game, back in the 80s. The sheer poetry with which he dribbled the ball was a treat to the senses. He could compose a haiku with his short, deft passes; create a sonnet with his quick runs; or, often, construct a rivetting ballad by dribbling past 7-8 defenders and score a goal. Mohammed Shahid as centre forward, with Zafar Iqbal playing inside left, and Merwyn Fernandes playing inside right was together one of the most devastating forward attacks that Indian hockey has ever seen.

Today, Mohammed Shahid is battling a different challenge. He is fighting a deteriorating liver and kidney condition in Medanta Hospital, Gurgaon. With his sleight of hand, geometry of angles, miraculous speeds, distinctive feints over defenders, and magical accuracy, Shahid always emerged victorious on the field. I hope he prevails the same way, this time too. I really do.

Leander, the Great Gladiator

If there is ever a man who can be christened ‘great’ from an Indian sporting context, it should be him: Leander Adrian Paes. The longevity at the top is just a case in point. This is his 26th year at Wimbledon. Soon, he will be competing in his 7th Olympic Games at Rio. And he is the only player after the legendary Rod Laver to win Wimbledon titles in 3 different decades. Phew! 

When he started out in 1991, there were many chinks in his armour. His serve was as fast as a geriatric taking a walk in the park; the strokes were wrought with flaws. But he had something in abundance: determination and the will to improve by leaps and bounds. And you saw it first at the Atlanta Olympics in 1996. He had become incredibly fast, with volleys that struck like lightning. His eyes glowed with determination and playing for the country (always) brought out the adrenaline-infused, manic gladiator in him. Leander won a bronze at Atlanta – an individual Olympic medal for India after 44 years! 

Today, he has so many Grand Slam titles under his belt. But for a goose-bumpy ride as a spectator, you need to see him play the Davis Cup for India. He transforms into a Superhuman, playing like a man possessed with fire on his feet, ever ready to light up and release the pressure-cooker-like atmosphere around him. May your tribe live on, Leander!

Can Roger do it once again?

Roger Federer’s grass court play is gloriously precise – just like the Wimbledon grass that gets an 8 mm trim every day. In the last few years however, his creaking body has been showing signs of fatigue. It’s painful to watch genius slowly capitulate before our eyes, much akin to a great painter falter with his brush-strokes. That he is the last remaining patron of that incredibly lithe and artistic ritual – the serve and volley – is perhaps, the reason why the lawns need him more than anyone else. At a Wimbledon press conference yesterday, when asked about his injured back, Federer said: ‘My back is better. It’s won me 88 titles for all its worth!’ So, was it coincidence that London’s teary skies opened up after that? 

Maybe. 

So, here’s what I would say to the naysayers. Before you write his epitaph, lend your ears to that man on the microphone, who in his clipped British accent says: Quiet please, thank you!

Kapil Dev - Talent Incomparable

When the 5th wicket fell in the 80s, be it in Tests or One-Day matches, India never lost hope. The atmosphere in the stadium didn’t descend into a pall of gloom. Instead, the collective anticipation of the nation was suffused in pride and joy. Because, one of the finest all-rounders of the game was yet to wield his mace. Yes, in his hands, the bat turned into one quite often. Kapil Dev Nikhanj – is arguably, the most talented cricketer India has produced. He was India’s first (and perhaps, the best) genuine fast bowler. His smooth run-up and side-on action had such fine rhythm that could leave a Mercedes engineer wide-eyed in awe. He was no Kohli, who intimidates the opposition with tattoos and fiery eyes. Kapil stood in the middle with his toothy-smile, his body-language resembling a lumberjack ready to pulverize the opposition. His look just said: Are you man enough to take me on? It was under his marshaling that India tasted victory in the world stage for the first time. When Kapil lifted the Prudential World Cup on June 25, 1983, the nation shook away its garb of self-doubt. And adorned a new avatar of trust and belief. That picture of him, smiling with the cup in the Lord’s balcony, was flashed across newspapers the next day. It was the day when our country took to his genius, like moths to a flame.