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.