Sachin Tendulkar tribute thread

[Chandan]

Man-child superstar Tendulkar the cricketer seemingly emerged fully formed when he first picked up a bat. So too perhaps did Tendulkar the luminary Rahul Bhattacharya November 15, 2009 In a zone of his making: Tendulkar's quest on the field is equilibrium © Getty Sachin Tendulkar comes to the ground in headphones. He might make a racket in the privacy of the bus, who knows, but when he steps out he is behind headphones. Waiting to bat he is behind his helmet. The arena is swinging already to the chant, "Sachin, Sachin", the first long and pleading, the second urgent and demanding, but Tendulkar is oblivious, behind his helmet. At the fall of the second wicket, that familiar traitorous roar goes round the stadium, at which point Tendulkar walks his slow walk out, golden in the sun, bat tucked under the elbow. The gloves he will only begin to wear when he approaches the infield, to busy himself against distraction from the opposition. Before Tendulkar has even taken guard, you know that his quest is equilibrium. As he bats his effort is compared in real time with earlier ones. Tendulkar provides his own context. The conditions, the bowling attack, his tempo, his very vibe, is assessed against an innings played before. Today he reminds me of the time when … Why isn't he …. What's wrong with him! If the strokes are flowing, spectators feel something beyond pleasure. They feel something like gratitude. The silence that greets his dismissal is about the loudest sound in sport. With Tendulkar the discussion is not how he got out, but why. Susceptible to left-arm spin? To the inswinger? To the big occasion? The issue is not about whether it was good or not, but where does it rank? A Tendulkar innings is never over when it is over. It is simply a basis for negotiation. He might be behind headphones or helmet, but outside people are talking, shouting, fighting, conceding, bargaining, waiting. He is a national habit. But Tendulkar goes on. This is his achievement, to live the life of Tendulkar. To occupy the space where fame and accomplishment intersect, akin to the concentrated spot under a magnifying glass trained in the sun, and remain unburnt. "Sachin is God" is the popular analogy. Yet god may smile as disease, fire, flood and Sreesanth visit the earth, and expect no fall in stock. For Tendulkar the margin for error is rather less. The late Naren Tamhane was merely setting out the expectation for a career when he remarked as selector, "Gentlemen, Tendulkar never fails." The question was whether to pick the boy to face Imran, Wasim, Waqar and Qadir in Pakistan. Tendulkar was then 16. Sixteen and so ready that precocity is too mild a word. He made refinements, of course, but the marvel of Tendulkar is that he was a finished thing almost as soon as began playing. The maidans of Bombay are dotted with tots six or seven years old turning out for their coaching classes. But till the age of 11, Tendulkar had not played with a cricket ball. It had been tennis- or rubber-ball games at Sahitya Sahwas, the writers' co-operative housing society where he grew up, the youngest of four cricket-mad siblings by a distance. The circumstances were helpful. In his colony friends he had playmates, and from his siblings, Ajit in particular, one above Sachin but older by 11 years, he had mentorship. It was Ajit who took him to Ramakant Achrekar, and the venerable coach inquired if the boy was accustomed to playing with a "season ball" as it is known in India. The answer did not matter. Once he had a look at him, Achrekar slotted him at No. 4, a position he would occupy almost unbroken through his first-class career. In his first two matches under Achrekar Sir, he made zero and zero. Memory obscures telling details in the dizzying rise thereafter. Everybody remembers the 326 not out in the 664-run gig with Kambli. Few remember the 346 not out in the following game, the trophy final. Everyone knows the centuries on debut in the Ranji Trophy and Irani Trophy at 15 and 16. Few know that he got them in the face of a collapse in the first instance and virtually out of partners in the second. Everyone knows his nose was bloodied by Waqar Younis in that first Test series, upon which he waved away assistance. Few remember that he struck the next ball for four. This was Tendulkar five years after he'd first handled a cricket ball. Genius, they say, is infinite patience. But it is first of all an intuitive grasp of something beyond the scope of will - or, for that matter, skill. In sportspersons it is a freakishness of the motor senses, even a kind of ESP. Tendulkar's genius can be glimpsed without him actually holding a bat. Not Garry Sobers' equal with the ball, he is nevertheless possessed of a similar versatility. He swings it both ways, a talent that eludes several specialists. He not only rips big legbreaks but also lands his googlies right, a task beyond some wrist spinners. Naturally he also bowls offspin, usually to left-handers and sometimes during a spell of wrist spin. In the field he mans the slips as capably as he does deep third man, and does both in a single one-dayer. Playing table tennis he is ambidextrous. By all accounts he is a brilliant, if hair-raising, driver. He is a champion Snake player on the cellphone, according to Harbhajan Singh, whom he also taught a spin variation. His batting is of a sophistication that defies generalisation. He can be destroyer or preserver. Observers have tried to graph these phases into a career progression. But it is ultimately a futile quest for Tendulkar's calibrations are too minute and too many to obey compartmentalisation. Given conditions, given his fitness, his state of mind, he might put away a certain shot altogether, and one thinks it is a part of his game that has died, till he pulls it out again when the time is right, sometimes years afterwards. Let alone a career, in the space of a single session he can, according to the state of the rough or the wind or the rhythm of a particular bowler, go from predatorial to dead bat or vice versa. Nothing frustrates Indians as much as quiet periods from Tendulkar, and indeed often they are self-defeating. But outsiders have no access to his thoughts. However eccentric, they are based on a heightened cricket logic rather than mood. Moods are irrelevant to Tendulkar. Brian Lara or Mohammad Azharuddin might be stirred into artistic rage. Tendulkar is a servant of the game. He does not play out of indignation nor for indulgence. His aim is not domination but runs. It is the nature of his genius. The genius still doesn't explain the cricket world's enchantment with Tendulkar. Ricky Ponting and Jacques Kallis are arguably not lesser cricketers than he, but have nothing like his following or presence. Among contemporaries only Shane Warne could draw an entire stadium's energy towards himself, but then Warne worked elaborately towards this end. Tendulkar on the pitch is as uncalculated as Warne was deliberate. Warne worked the moments before each delivery like an emcee at a title fight. Tendulkar goes through a series of ungainly nods and crotch adjustments. Batting, his movements are neither flamboyant nor languid; they are contained, efficient. Utility is his concern. Having hit the crispest shot between the fielders he can still be found scurrying down the wicket, just in case. Likewise, outside the pitch nothing he does calls up attention. In this he is not unusual for the times. It has been, proved by exceptions of course, the era of the undemonstrative champion. Ali, Connors, McEnroe, Maradona have given way to Sampras, Woods, Zidane, Federer, who must contend with the madness of modern media and sanitisation of corporate obligation. Maybe Tendulkar the superstar, like Tendulkar the cricketer, was formed at inception. Then, as now, he is darling. He wears the big McEnroe-inspired curls of his youth in a short crop, but still possesses the cherub's smile and twinkle. Perhaps uniquely, he is granted not the sportstar's indulgence of perma-adolescence but that of perma-childhood. A man-child on the field: maybe it is the dichotomy that is winning. The wonder is that in the years between he has done nothing to sully his innocence, nothing to deaden the impish joy, nothing to disrupt the infinite patience or damage the immaculate equilibrium through the riot of his life and career. -----------------------

[Chandan]

http://goo.gl/17lTEU Tendulkar, the moveable feast Suresh Menon | 11 October 2013 Every well-known statistic of Tendulkar, if not repeated, might make the reader uncomfortable. Yet, figures were only a small measure of the man. © Getty Images If you are lucky enough to have followed the career of Sachin Tendulkar, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, he stays with you. For Tendulkar is a moveable feast. Those of us who have followed him professionally will be grateful that he played in our lifetime. The late Peter Roebuck once said that whenever he felt low, he only had to remind himself how privileged he was to be writing on the game when Tendulkar was playing it. When the physicist Stephen Hawking was writing A Brief History of Time, his publishers told him that every equation he included in the book would halve the sales. In Tendulkar’s case, it is the reverse. Every well-known statistic, if not repeated, might make the reader uncomfortable. Yet, figures were only a small measure of the man; not irrelevant, of course, but of greater significance was the psychological effect of his batsmanship on the opposition. Bowlers soon got used to seeing their best deliveries speed to the fence thanks to the mixture of science and art he brought to his batting. Tendulkar, the textbook batsman, showcased the range of orthodoxy while bringing an element of mischief to his innovations. He was fiercely competitive – even off the cricket field. We once played a hectic game of table tennis while on tour (Sri Lanka, I think), and his refusal to give up in what was a friendly knockabout with a journalist was intriguing. I can’t remember who won, but I can recall the tension! We had our disagreements, of course. A few years ago, I suggested that he should retire from one-day cricket to preserve himself for the longer game. “In 1946,” I wrote, “Don Bradman was 38 and in bad health. Fibrositis and gastric troubles plagued him. The English cricket team was in Australia (and) he had an offer of £10,000 to quit the game and write on the series. ‘If I played, the risk of failure was very great and the possible adverse effects on my business had to be considered. The financial reward for not playing was tempting,’ wrote Bradman. “Nearly six decades later, the man Bradman saw as his successor, Sachin Tendulkar, is in a similar situation. An injured toe is beyond repair; his strained back continues to cause worry. And now the tennis elbow. No sane doctor will give him a clean chit. Tendulkar will have to choose. But in his case, the greater temptation is to play on rather than quit.” The national magazine where this appeared gave the evocative but misleading title, ‘Endulkar’, and his fans erupted. “Every morning when I wake up, I don’t feel the same,” Tendulkar had confessed. And quite the remarkable thing about this remarkable man was that he played on for almost another decade. The suppression of pain alone would make him special. That, and his obsession with batting that never once sagged. How did he motivate himself? Yet however willing the spirit, the flesh has its limitations. In recent years, he had become a one-man corporate, supporting a cottage industry of marketing men, cricketing men, advertisers, journalists, hangers-on and television men, whose families depended on him for their livelihood. It had begun to dim the halo over his head. And even now, it is unclear whether he jumped or he was pushed. I know that many players he respected had spoken to him, telling him he had nothing left to prove, that he sat on a peak all by himself. His heart must have told him, said Rahul Dravid, with whom he played 146 Tests. I last spent a day with him in Mumbai some three or four years ago. We spoke of the match-fixing days of 1999-2000; he was forthright, but in the end requested that I not write about it. We played a parlour game. I would name a venue, date and opposition – and he would immediately respond with his individual score, the match result and how he was dismissed. He never got a single detail wrong. He signed a photograph for me with a personal message – and one for my son too, whom he had met as a little boy. It is one of only three photographs on the wall before the table in my study. There is one of the artist Matisse working on a sculpture propped up on his bed in his last days. The other is signed by Don Bradman. I have found that combination of sporting greatness and artistic passion apposite. Those qualities came together in Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar. -------------------------------- http://goo.gl/kEm7Ks With a young Sachin Tendulkar at an Irani restaurant The first ever interview on Sachin was published in MiD DAY: After interviewing him for the first time in 1986, then MiD DAY journalist Sunil Warrier thought Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar would emulate the dashing Sandeep Patil October 13, 2013 MUMBAI Sunil warrier (Published in December, 1986) Shardashram, be it the English or the Marathi medium school, has always been in the news because of the cricketing abilities it produces. It has always managed to win a major inter-school title every year. This year Shardashram (English) has been in the news. The players annexed both, the Giles as well as the Harris Shield. A young Sachin Tendulkar with his friend Atul Ranade A young Sachin Tendulkar with his friend Atul Ranade (right) in the mid-1980s Picture courtesy -- ‘Making of a cricketer’ by Ajit Tendulkar In the Harris Shield, they retained the title when they beat their sister schoolmates, from Shardashram (Marathi) and in the Giles, they defeated Don Bosco, Matunga to record a grand double. And the boy who made it possible was Sachin Tendulkar. Sachin, who is 13 years old and studies in Std VII, took up playing cricket at his brother’s insistence. Ajit Tendulkar is the only other member of the family who plays cricket. He plays in the ‘A’ division in the local league matches. Although his father, who is a professor in Kirti College, did not know much about cricket, Sachin was always encouraged by him. Nowadays, Sachin plays so much that he is hardly at home and does not even get time to study. But he does intend to obtain his graduation degree. Sachin was coached by Ramakant Achrekar, the school coach, Vasu Paranjape, Das Shivalkar and also by Milind Rege. He also used to attend camps conducted by Balwinder Singh Sandhu at the Rashtriya Chemicals & Fertilizers venue where the latter and Sandeep Patil advised him to bowl leg-spin, but eventually changed tactic as Sachin wanted to be an attacking bowler. Sachin does not like to plod on while batting. He always prefers to attack. His only ambition is to score centuries. This season in the Harris Shield (under-17) he scored 276 against BPM High School, Khar in one day. He came in to bat when his side was tottering at 26 for 2 and went on to score a double century. In the second round against St Xavier’s, he scored 123 and also captured eight wickets for a paltry 29 runs. Although Sachin did not have a good score in the semi-final against St Mary’s, he rattled up 42 and 150 runs, and captured two wickets for 48 in the first innings and two for 57 in the second against Shardashram (Marathi) in the final. In the Giles (under-15) tourney, in the first round against Balmohan Vidyamandir, Sachin had an unbeaten knock of 159 against his name. In the next round against Barfiwala he scored another century -- 156. He also captured 4 wickets for 29 runs in the second innings. Against St Mary’s in the semi-final, Sachin missed a double ton by a whisker, falling three short. He again captured five wickets conceding 75 runs in the second innings. In the final against Don Bosco, he scored two half centuries and also captured a wicket. After all his good showing it was no wonder that he was selected for the Bombay and West Zone team for the Vijay Merchant Trophy. And in that trophy, Sachin scored another ton -- 123 against Maharashtra. Playing for West Zone he scored 74 runs and also captured a wicket against the South Zone team. He also captained the under-15 Giles Shield team and was the vice-captain for the Harris Shield team. The square-cut and the off-drive are his favourite strokes, while Vivian Richards and Sunil Gavaskar are his favourite batsmen. Sachin does not miss an opportunity to see them in action, either on video or in the cricketing arena. He loves to play one-day cricket more than a four-day match. His natural instincts are to attack from the word go. Sachin devotes so much time to cricket that he does not have time to take interest in any other game. But he loves to watch tennis. After the memorable Borg-McEnroe clash in 1980, Sachin let his hair grow -- Borg style. Since then it has always been cricket and more cricket. In the few free hours that he gets, he listens to western music. Why western music, when his father is a poet? Most of his friends are from Bombay Scottish, as he lives in Shivaji Park, and they all love western songs. He thrives on Michael Jackson’s songs. Sachin is also a good singer. Seems to be another Sandeep Patil in the making!

[Chandan]

http://goo.gl/qjBALu In Perth a star is born October 10, 2013 Peter Roebuck Fvw5xHOFn1E 114 at the WACA in 1992 Sometimes it is a privilege simply to be there. Perth yesterday was one such occasion. To see Sachin Tendulkar batting was, for two hours, to be transported from our humdrum world and taken to a distant land, a land of magic, an impossible land in which a boy of 18 summers can bat as man can seldom ever have batted. One shot, in particular, will linger long in the memory. Mike Whitney, it was, who bowled a fastish delivery just short of a length and around middle stump. Tendulkar rocked on to his back foot and drove straight of mid-on, a shot demanding extraordinary timing, a shot of the highest pedigree. Since time began, few players can have conceived, let alone executed, a stroke such as this, let alone in a Test match and with his team in trouble. All summer Tendulkar has been promising something special- some confirmation that he is what he seems, as good a batsman as any on this earth. Sydney was not bad, but once is never enough, and anyway, Sydney was a slow track and Bruce Reid was injured. Tendulkar murdered spin, now he was faced with pace and a pitch bouncier than any seen in his upbringing. In Perth his batting was mastery itself, especially his cutting anything remotely short, and his straight driving, and those unerring clips off his pads-all of them the shots of greatness. His running, too, was fast and faultless, as if he could judge a run as quickly as he judges each delivery, as if running, too, was learnt in his nappies-not so long ago. Maybe his first words were: "Yes .. no" and "for goodness sake play straight". Tendulkar showed that neither pace bowling nor rising deliveries held any fear for him, and nor should they on a pitch whose bounce is true. Unlike his colleagues, he knew which balls to leave alone, knew how to bat here as if he had been born to it. All summer he has carried the fight to Australia, has enjoyed the fight, enjoyed the toughness of cricket downunder because he is above all a gutsy cricketer. As a 15-year old he was desperately disappointed to be omitted from India's team to tour the Caribbean. Not every 15-year-old fancies facing Patrick Patterson and Curtly Ambrose. Toughness sits beside technique as the chief characteristic of this maestro, and its presence shows that one day he will be a formidable leader. To see his withering stare as his captain lost his wicket to a feeble shot was to see a fierce competitor who expects no less from his colleagues. To see his frustration when Manoj Prabhakar bowls recklessly, or Kapil Dev hoiks to long leg once more is to see a man who knows good cricket and cares deeply about his team. This is a player as absolute in his commitment as the young Vivian Richards. Tendulkar's colleagues were put to shame by his bold and proud effort, an effort which ended after lunch, and deservedly so because, for once, Tendulkar strolled three rather than rushing to run four. Obviously, he wanted the bowling but previously he took every run on its merits. Homer had nodded, and the spell was broken. Tendulkar's innings carried all sorts of messages. Plainly, colleagues had not improved since Brisbane, and plainly it is time for youth in Indian cricket. Nor could Australia find solace in his batting because three memorable innings have been played this season-all by Indians. A final thought. Would Tendulkar have been picked by Australia yet? Shield fixtures are so shockingly arranged that it is hard for anyone, let alone an 18-year-old, to challenge for a place. And, anyhow, after the fuss about the dropping of a batsman who had failed in eight of his previous 10 innings, it is a matter for wonder if the selectors will ever dare to drop anyone again. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Mastery with grace, Tendulkar is his own power source GIDEON HAIGH THE AUSTRALIAN OCTOBER 12, 2013 12:00AM Shane Warne and Sachin Tendulkar head indoors out of rain at The Oval in London at practice for the 1999 World Cup. AT the 2011 unveiling of the statue of Shane Warne that now trundles into eternity outside Gate 3 of the MCG, Mark Taylor told a story of Warne bowling to Sachin Tendulkar at Chennai 15 years ago that was worth setting down in similarly permanent form. In the Test's first innings, Warne had dismissed Tendulkar cheaply, caught by Taylor at slip; naturally, Warne was quickly called up when Tendulkar came to the crease in the second innings and began with a wicked, fizzing leg break. Tendulkar slapped it reproachfully through cover for four. Warne swapped to around the wicket, and whirled another huge turner into the footmarks. Tendulkar slog-swept it for six. Warne tried again, spinning it even harder. Tendulkar scampered down the track, and smashed it inside out over the off side for another boundary. The rocking of Chidambaram Stadium after each blow would have registered on the Richter scale. Wow, thought Taylor. What a contest. Game on. He ran up to his great champion and asked keenly: "So, what next?" "Well, Tubs," Warne replied. "We're stuffed." And he was right: Tendulkar blasted his way to an unbeaten 155 from 191 balls, and India to victory. But it wasn't just the accuracy of the prophecy that made it so apt. Somehow, in the way he now exhibits as a commentator, Warne had penetrated to the heart of the matter. Where Australia's other predominant opponent of the era, Brian Lara, was inclined to leave you feeling half a chance of his wicket, bowling to Tendulkar afforded no such latitude or levity. Where Lara would bat as if pursued by furies, Tendulkar was somehow his own power source or motive force. He would stay as long as he wished; you almost might as well enjoy it. Warne has said subsequently, in fact, that it was "a pleasure bowling to him". Such was Tendulkar's precocity, in fact, that it is hard to recall the world ever being otherwise. Opponents quickly accorded him nodding acknowledgment. He was coming, all right; there might be no stopping him. "This little *****'s going to overtake your records, AB," confided Merv Hughes in Allan Border after bowling to the boy Sachin more than 20 years ago. Not long ago, Daniel Vettori commented ruefully: "He has been in form longer than some of our blokes have been alive." In this sense, in this enduring, unflagging, unappeasable appetite for cricket, Tendulkar reflected his homeland. India is ever a wonder, somehow never tired or bored or surfeited by the game in all its forms - fascinated, almost, by its own fascination. So was Tendulkar. His every gesture expressed a total immersion in the pursuit of excellence. Except perhaps that, unlike his country, there was a sense of calm purpose to everything Tendulkar did. There were days he was warmer and cooler, but he rarely blew hot and never cold, even in ecstatic moments when his trademark look skyward had a supplicant's serenity. Certainly, he has left a strong imprint on his cricket contemporaries. They knew him, for example, for never throwing his bat after a dismissal; he would sit down in the dressing room, reflect, but never brood. They knew him, similarly, for immaculate preparation. "He never comes late to any practice session," Virender Sehwag once said in wonderment. "Never comes late to the team bus, never comes late to any meeting - he is always five minutes ahead of time." It will be interesting to see how long it takes after his final game before someone observes: "That would never have happened in Tendulkar's time." In this, Tendulkar represented something for all his countrymen to aspire to, and not just in cricket: a kind of mastery with grace, confident of its place in the world, without bluff or bluster, swagger or swank. This will be interesting, too: how a country with one of the world's gaudiest and most self-regarding social elites assimilates one whose hallmarks have been humility and unostentation. For his, so far, has been a life mainly apart, on field and off. Tendulkar has been isolated by skill but also by circumstance, and perhaps even by disposition. Fame having been his companion since he was a teenager, his self is firmly fortified. Long-term teammates talk of having barely had a conversation with him that was not about cricket; he seemed to have his own little space that he withdrew into, where it was understood one did not enter. It may even be true of him what John Arlott wrote of Bradman, that he has "missed something of cricket that lesser men have gained". Yet isolation suited him, for what sporting activity is so isolating as batting, with its little scuffed and scored rectangle of the crease in the huge field inside the enormous ground? An intimidating prospect? For Tendulkar, the opposite. Here this little figure was a giant, hero of a thousand fights, master of every predicament, capable of controlling everything save the utterly extraordinary - which we identified as extraordinary precisely because it threw Tendulkar off his stride. The criticism sometimes made of him was that Tendulkar tended to bat within comfortable limits, that he seldom extended the bounds of batsmanship, that he was not a genuine batting innovator. There is some truth to this, even if there are enough exceptions across his 24 years at the top to construct almost a whole counter-narrative of his career. He could at times, as at Sydney in 2004, seem to ration his strokes, like a sniper intent on preserving bullets in order to outlast a siege. Yet in doing so he reminded us just how manifold are the possibilities of orthodoxy. There is no need to concoct new strokes if you have command of all the existing ones; he could almost access all 360 degrees of the field already; how many more degrees did he need? And this monolithic totality was itself a form of dominance. Bowlers would feel like they were merely tending his shrine, as much idolators as the worshipful spectators themselves. They were hopeless, helpless, harmless - "stuffed". And no one in cricket history has done more stuffing.

[GoldenSun]

Gideon Haigh writing a pro Sachin article? :--D

[Chandan]

http://goo.gl/xWW3BV Tendulkar and Lee create the perfect day October 10, 2013 Peter Roebuck R8G5dh-f_4I 116 at the MCG in 1999 Sachin Tendulkar smashes a four from the bowling of Shane Warne. THIS was a day to remember, a day upon which Brett Lee made a startling first appearance for his country and Sachin Tendulkar stood alone at the crease defying formidable odds, and with courage and skill keeping his wicket intact. It was a glorious confrontation between old and new, mighty and promising, an expression of the great gifts of the game, the brilliance of batsmanship, the excitement of pace and the powers needed to reach the gods. Meanwhile, a superb leg-spinner bowled with artistry and cunning as he pursued his own landmark. It wasn't a day to stay in bed. There haven't been many better. Lee was a revelation. Thrown the ball as samosa-time approached and showing not the slightest inhibition, Lee began by bursting through Sadagopan Ramesh's loosely constructed defence with his fourth ball, whereupon the orange-topped paceman celebrated with undisguised joy. Probably he did not know that the previous Australian to strike with his fourth delivery was Fred Freer, later to make his name as a footballer with Carlton. Recalled for a second spring-heeled spell from the pavilion end as the wind shifted around, Lee struck again as India's first drop fiddled at a ball too fast to permit an opportunity to think again. It was a fine start by a young man prepared to be himself in this most intimidating arena. Already Lee had shown his spirit by losing his wicket as fast bowlers ought, swiping at something subtle and lifting it into the clouds. Immediately the crowd took him to its heart. Soon Lee was rested. Throughout he resembled a colt running a few furlongs for the fun of it. Recalled to the crease in the gloaming, Lee responded with the fiercest spell of the match, an explosion of athleticism and endeavour that destroyed the Indian innings. First he broke through Mannava Prasad's push with a fast inswinger that did not bother with such minor matters as bouncing and instead went straight to the stumps like some guided missile. Seeing the wicket broken, the crowd roared. Lee is the sort of bowler popular in the public seats. He excites people with the incisiveness of his approach, with a vitality inevitably missing from more seasoned practitioners who've seen a thing or two and nowadays rely upon attrition and craft. Lee is not an innocent he comes from Wollongong way but he has the enthusiasm of youth. Also, his style is simple. He's been blessed with pace, a most precious gift and not to be wasted upon timid souls. Lee struck again a couple of paragraphs later, removing Ajit Agarkar with another searing inswinger that crashed through the batsman's defence in a manner that brooked no argument. Nor was that all. Lee was smoking and promptly greeted Javagal Srinath with a flyer that the lugubrious paceman could not subdue. Immediately Anil Kumble was struck on the helmet by another lifting delivery from a man whose run-up was long and smooth and whose action seems natural and not affected by any kink. As it turned out, Kumble had no intention of surrendering his wicket lightly. Meanwhile, Tendulkar stood firm like St Paul's Cathedral in the blitz. Any fool can score runs against tame bowling. Anyone can impress in easy circumstances. Like a true champion, Tendulkar rises in the tightest corners. He, too, had to keep an eye on Lee's yorkers and took evasive action as the speedster flung down a bumper. It was a tremendous struggle between them, as the master craftsman fought tooth and nail while the gregarious youngster streamed in. Tendulkar alone could resist the force of this fierce assault. He seemed to be playing in a different match from anyone else except Sourav Ganguly. Unaffected by the wickets tumbling around him, and realising the need to push the score along, Tendulkar moved from caution to aggression as he launched a breathtaking attack upon the bowling. Eight long years ago he appeared in this land as a teenager with superb skills and enough spirit to fuel an entire team. Now he has reappeared as a man bearing responsibility and carrying it lightly, for he does not allow any situation to be his master. When Tendulkar reached his hundred the entire crowd rose in acclamation. His dismissal brought the crowd to its feet a second time. It had been the perfect day. The visiting champion had scored a century, and a new fast bowler had arrived upon the scene. -------------------------------------------------------- http://goo.gl/9oEMna Little master Sachin Tendulkar a work of timeless art GIDEON HAIGH THE AUSTRALIAN DECEMBER 26, 2011 12:00AM Sachin Tendulkar celebrates a century against Australia in Bangalore last year. Source: AP GREAT players have a habit of setting records. Only very, very special ones actually invent them. Nobody dreamed of one hundred first-class centuries becoming a landmark until W. G. Grace made it conceivable. Likewise the milestone of one hundred international centuries- that is, until Sachin Tendulkar. As Tendulkar set to scaling that summit, it seemed to shrink a little in proportion. That's another quality of the very, very special. They recalibrate the world by their capabilities. Tendulkar is known colloquially as "The Little Master", but he is also a master of littling, of scaling achievements down so that they grow thinkable, permissible and achievable. Combining five-day and one-day hundreds contains inevitably an inexactitude: it is like adding apples to oranges to obtain a count of fruit. But the century remains batting's most incorruptible unit of currency, with a lasting historic and cultural utility, and a century of centuries at the game's elite level has an undilutable whole-ness, like a round-the-world journey or a perfect smile: complete in itself, theoretically repeatable but essentially unimprovable. You must factor in the distance travelled since the first, at Old Trafford in August 1990, when he looked so slight and tiny that a puff of wind might have blown him away even though England's attack could not. You must contemplate how the world has changed since. When first Tendulkar toured this country 20 years ago, there were only seven Test nations (South Africa was excluded at that time), only two umpires per Test, and only home viewers saw replays. Australia hosting India in a Test series, too, was considered an act of antipodean philanthropy, rather than an opportunity to line the vaults of Jolimont with gold bars as it is now. So much has changed, and so little, because Tendulkar's game, for all its variations and iterations as years have passed, has remained instantly recognisable in its adherence to cricket's first principles and his unaltering sureness of touch. You could stop a Tendulkar career showreel at any time and it would look like the acme of batting. Above all, contemplate the scale and intensity of the hopes that have accumulated around Tendulkar in the course of his career, greater than those heaped on any other cricketer in history. Balzac once said he hankered for a fame that would permit him "to break wind in society, and society would think it a most natural thing". Tendulkar breaking wind in society today would hit India like a monsoon. It is one thing to become famous; quite another to stay famous, in a world more conducive to the perishable quality of celebrity. It is one thing to succeed; it is another to continually stave off failure and maintain a baseline excellence. Here, then, is an epic of expertise and endurance, like the Mahabharata and Ramayana rolled into one. Tendulkar has become an exceedingly wealthy man between times, but in a sense because he has had to be - because that is the way aspirational, materialistic societies reward their heroes. He has continued to understand value in a world obsessed with price, taking nothing not insistently offered, and in the totality of his career he will come out comfortably as a giver who is certain that cricket will be perennially in his debt. What comes after him will not be of the same character. In so altering the financial stakes of his game, in fact, Tendulkar has inadvertently insured it. In their book The Business of Cricket (2010), Shyam Balasubramanian and Vijay Santhanam cite a table prepared by TAM Sports delineating "the Sachin Factor": that Tests and one-day internationals with Tendulkar playing outrate those in which he does not by a huge degree in 2010, by three to one. They also present a graphic they call "The Tendulkar Ecosystem", in the centre of which sits Sachin, sluicing value, financial and psychic, between Team India, fans, sponsors, media houses and state associations. It looks, at first glance, exceedingly complex, but its essence is simple - because without one small man who enters his 40th year next April, it cannot work. Want really to grasp Tendulkar's importance to the modern game? Try to imagine it without him. The record on the brink of which he stands is in a sense an artefact already. Tendulkar came into his majority as the calendar was being glutted by forms of the game of a duration conducive to the compilation of hundreds. It is virtually impossible to imagine his heirs and successors emulating him in playing on for approaching a quarter of a century, let alone facing international opponents in more than 600 games of at least a day in length. Thanks to the ascendant of the Indian Premier League and Champions League, the next generation of cricketers are likely to play far more T20 for "clubs" and less international cricket for their countries. The shortening of our pleasures has entailed a contraction in cricket's scope. It was always a possibility that there would never be another Tendulkar, but perhaps now there cannot be. He has constructed a career along the lines of one of Europe's great gothic cathedrals, built to last, guaranteed to serve future generations, full of splendour, grandeur, romance. And all cricket can now think of doing is surrounding that cathedral with lookalike apartments and trying to sell them at a huge mark-up. In writing of the immediate post-Bradman era, Ray Robinson described Australian cricket as like a man bumping around a darkened room. Something similar looms today. Tendulkar is sui generis. To imagine another Tendulkar ranks in audacity with imagining him in the first place. The effect of the end of Tendulkar's career will be particularly pronounced in cricket's richest and most populous market. Sixty-five per cent of India's population is younger than 35. They can recall no cricket without the Little Master. When he retires, it will be for them not just the loss of a sporting hero but an intimation of mortality. That is as profound and expressive an idea as any record he may set, even the most remarkable.

[Chandan]

http://goo.gl/9Ib0mh Aug 27 1998: With Bradman on his 90th birthday The Same Thing, Personified Twice Their crickets are remote from one another, a more fruitful comparison is their fame: how they gained it, and retain it GIDEON HAIGH Bradman. Tendulkar. Even on their own as words, they have an incantatory power. Put them together in a sentence and they combine like a magic spell. ‘Bradman Tendulkar’: guaranteed to make bowlers disappear. Stick a little ‘v’ between them, too, and you’re inciting one of the most fervid of sporting debates, even if it is one that usually generates more heat than light. I mean, Bradman v Tendulkar? Why not Shakespeare v Dickens? Or Tagore v Naipaul or Narayan? Or apples v oranges? Because on reflection, there isn’t a lot of the common coinage that makes for straightforward comparison. Bradman arose 70 years ago in a country of six million people; Tendulkar is the hero of a thousand fights in a land of 1.3 billion. Bradman played cricket in two Test countries, Tendulkar in ten; worldwide war left its ugly slash across Bradman’s career, while Tendulkar has lived mostly amid peace and plenty. The careers of both span roughly two decades, but are as different as their statistical breakdown: Bradman’s encompassed 52 Tests and 182 other first-class matches, Tendulkar’s has featured 176 Tests, 442 one-day internationals, 103 further first-class games and then some ...so far. In Bradman’s time, bowlers were roughly equal partners in the cricket enterprise; in Tendulkar’s, thanks to a cricket calendar that seems to squeeze 15 months activity into every 12 months, they’ve been reduced to serfs in a feudal batting society. Bradman’s challenges came chiefly from his opposition; Tendulkar’s challenges flow, increasingly, from himself, finding new ambitions, new directions, staving off satiety. The capping century: After the 50th Test hundred at Centurion, SA, Dec 19, 2010. (Photograph by DUIB DU TOIT/Getty Images) Don’t underestimate the difference in equipment too. Pick up a bat of Bradman’s and prepare to be amazed that he spread such terror and dismay: it is as light and slim as a switch. Impregnated with oil, it would have been a little heavier to use, but not much. Wield a bat of Tendulkar’s and...actually, it gives you the shivers. It looks almost as thick as Bradman’s was wide, yet picks up like something half its actual weight. You’ll also grasp why, while Bradman hit only six sixes in his international career, Tendulkar has hit two hundred and forty-seven. Add to this the advent of the helmet and of feather-light protective gear, and not only can Tendulkar’s blessings can be seen to have abounded, but the difficulty of comparison can be gauged. If their crickets are perhaps remote from one another, however, their fames may make more fruitful comparison. Bradman was and Tendulkar has been their country’s best known local and international figures for much of their lives. It is one thing to become famous; it is another to remain famous. Fame requires great deeds; its continuation involves an avoidance of the pitfalls that follow. Their feats have been not only to succeed but also not to fail: no two cricketers in history have disappointed their countrymen so seldom. Both Bradman and Tendulkar have made batting as secure an occupation as going to work in an office. They made batting, that most complex, various and precarious of arts, appear as secure an occupation as going to work in an office. Cricket is proverbially a funny game, full of chance, but in their hands luck, coincidence and fluke seem controllable, replicable, even predictable. On being wished “good luck” by a comrade as he went out to bat, Geoff Boycott is meant to have retorted: “It’s not luck. It’s skill.” Bradman and Tendulkar come as close as any cricketers to rendering that an absolute truth. They had an appeal, too, that struck countrymen in the heart. Both have been progressive rather than traditional figures. They symbolised new possibilities—that their respective countries could be better than all the world, that they could rise above national ignominy. Bradman achieved fame during the Great Depression, Tendulkar in the aftermath of India’s 1991 economic crisis. They became captives of their fame—wary, reclusive, even a little aloof—but their popularities have made them wealthy. They have sought out commercial opportunities without incurring public displeasure. On the contrary, their peoples have cheered them on. In the early years of Bradman’s career, he seriously entertained the idea of abandoning Test cricket because the rewards available in the Lancashire leagues were so lucrative; he shifted states in search of greater financial security when it was virtually unheard-of. In the early years of Tendulkar’s career, he put himself in the hands of the savvy Mark Mascarenhas, who turned him into his country’s biggest billboard; his net worth now exceeds $1 billion. Nobody begrudged either of them the fortunes they accumulated. What Ray Robinson wrote of Bradman is true of Tendulkar too: he did not make money so much as overhaul it. Marked man: Mascarenhas made him our biggest billboard. (Photograph by RABIH MOGHRABI/AFP) In doing so, they became fullest expressions possible of the professional cricketer in their eras, exploring the limits to the potential for the monetisation of cricket talent. These possibilities had until Bradman’s era remained untapped outside England, which for much of the 20th century had the world’s only full-time professional cricket circuit; Tendulkar brought them to the greatest cricket bazaar of all. Bradman began the displacement of England as cricket’s citadel; Tendulkar has completed it. Bradman made contemporaries see that a man with a bat could change the world; Tendulkar wakened us to by just how much. If Bradman could be expressed as a question, the answer would be Tendulkar. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- http://goo.gl/pIjkqY Friday, November 20, 2009 He makes time stand still By Gideon Haigh GIDEON HAIGH: The England-born Aussie is one of the leading cricket writers of this age. Melbourne-based Haigh has been writing on sport and business for more than 22 years, having authored 19 books. He can’t make up his mind whom he loves more: Tendulkar or his pet cat, Trumper In a sport that specialises in the manufacture of instant stars and transient celebrities, Tendulkar is the real thing. Even now, twenty years after his debut, there’s always a sense of occasion every time he comes to the crease, no matter the game, no matter the place Many tributes to Sachin Tendulkar. This month will begin with a recollection of one of his epic innings. I wish to cite one of the shortest. It was in Melbourne, my hometown, on Boxing Day 2003. It was a day rich in entertainment, containing a Virender Sehwag century full of eye-popping strokes. Seldom, however, have I sat in a crowd so obviously awaiting one player, and when Tendulkar appeared they radiated happiness and contentment, bursting into heartfelt applause. Tendulkar at the MCG? Delayed Christmas presents come no better. Except that it was all wrapping and no gift. Tendulkar feathered his first ball down the leg side, and was caught at the wicket — a miserable way to fall for any batsman, in addition to being a lousy anti-climax. The crowd had hardly ceased cheering than it was compelled to resume, cheering Tendulkar off, and the feeling afterwards was almost devastation. You could hear the sibilance of conversations, as connoisseurs ruminated that cricket sure was a funny game, and fathers tried explaining to sons that even the greats had bad days. About three overs later, three spectators at the end of my row got up and left. It was mid-afternoon, Sehwag was still mid-spectacular, and they left. This was not what they had come for, and they would accept no substitute. I had to stay — it was my job — but I could easily have followed them. The hollow feeling persisted all day. When it comes to communicating Tendulkar’s place in cricket history to future generations, I suspect, this is what will be most significant, and also the hardest to convey. In the twenty years of his career, international cricket has changed unrecognisably: elaborate and ceremonial Test cricket has been usurped, economically at least, by the slick, shiny celebrity vehicle of Twenty20. Yet even now, Tendulkar makes time stand still: every time he comes to the wicket, no matter the game, no matter the place, there is a sense of occasion. It needs no pop music, no cheerleaders, no word from his many sponsors. He is announced by his accumulated excellence, the effect somehow magnified by his tininess: little man, big bat, great moment. His entry could not seem more dramatic if he was borne to the crease on a bejewelled palanquin by dusky maidens amid a flourish of imperial trumpets. This, moreover, has been the case almost for longer than one can remember. I first saw Tendulkar bat live in England in 1990. He looked so young, so small, like a novelty item on a key chain. Any sense of frailty, however, was quickly dispelled; instead, there was a sureness of touch, not just impressive but altogether ominous. You told yourself to remember him this way; you wanted to be able to say you were there; he was going to be good, so good. By the time he first toured Australia eighteen months later, he simply oozed command. All that held him back, and it would be a theme of his career, especially abroad, was his sorely outclassed team. Sometimes, this looked almost eerie. Ten years ago in Melbourne, India and Tendulkar played a Test at the MCG. To distinguish between the two was only fair. India were terrible, a shambles. Kumble dropped the simplest catch imaginable from the game’s second ball and took 2-150; Dravid batted more than three and a half hours in the match for 23 runs; Laxman and Ganguly failed twice, the latter playing on to Greg Blewett, of all people. Tendulkar batted as if on a different pitch, to different bowlers in a different match. Shane Warne came on in front of his home crowd with Australia in the ascendant. Tendulkar promptly hit him into that crowd beyond mid-off. Brett Lee, in his debut Test, bowled like the wind. Tendulkar treated him as a pleasant, cooling breeze. The follow-on loomed, apparently unavoidable. Tendulkar guided India past it, toying with Steve Waugh’s formations, making the fielders look as immobile and ineffectual as croquet hoops. Had it not been for his ten teammates, Tendulkar could have batted until the crack of doom. As it is, he had to rest content with 116 out of an otherwise bedraggled 238. And this wasn’t just an innings; it was, at the time, a synechdoche of Indian cricket. No matter where he went, Tendulkar was the main event, preceded by acute anticipation, followed by grateful wonder, seasoned with sympathy, that such a flyweight figure had to bear such burdens. There is no discussing Tendulkar, even in cricket terms, as batsman alone. He is also, of course, Indian cricket’s original super celebrity; as Pope wrote of Cromwell, ‘damn’d to everlasting fame’. In this sense, he has been preternaturally modern, at the forefront of developments in the culture of stardom in his country, with his telephone-number television entanglements and sponsorship deals, and his reclusive private life. Without Tendulkar’s prior demonstration of cricket’s commercial leverage, Lalit Modi and all his works would have been unthinkable. What’s truly amazing, nonetheless, is that the simulacrum of Tendulkar has never overwhelmed the substance. He has gone on doing what he does best, and has done better than anybody else in his generation, which is bat and bat and bat. Like Warne, albeit for different reasons, cricket grounds have been a haven for him: in the middle, he always knows what to do, and feels confident he can do it. Life is full of complications and ambiguities; cricket by comparison, even shouldering the expectations of a billion people, is sublimely simple. Tendulkar’s fame, then, is of an unusual kind. He is a symbol of change, but also of continuity. What’s astonishing about his batting is not how much it has changed but how little. He set himself a standard of excellence, of consistency, of dominance, and challenged the rest of Indian cricket to meet him up there. Gradually, in the 21st century, albeit not without setbacks, stumbles, financial excesses and political wranglings, it has. His presence now is an ennobling one. First it was his excellence that rubbed off; now it is his integrity. Cricket today specialises in the manufacture of instant stars, temporary celebrities, glorious nobodies. Tendulkar acts as a kind of fixed price or gold standard. To choose a well-loved and well-worn advertising catchline, he is ‘the real thing’. In his sheer constancy, in fact, Tendulkar unwittingly obscures just how completely cricket has been transformed, to the extent that it is almost impossible to imagine his fame being replicated. Who in future will play international cricket for twenty years, losing neither motivation nor mastery? Who in future will master all three forms of the game, capable of spontaneous spectacle and massive entrenchment alike? Who in future will excite us simply by walking onto the field, just a man and a bat, and disappoint so seldom? Recalling how shocked, even grief stricken, was that crowd in Melbourne six years ago as Tendulkar’s back was swallowed by the shadows of the pavilion, I find myself brooding anxiously on the thought of what it will be like when he disappears for the last time. .

[jatindra]

So which is your favorite Tendulkar inning in tests? Tough to choose. Many more.

My Favorite is this one which has helped india to won a test match after 25 years in West indies ypwi0ezLq0I&feature=c4-overview&list=UU24MfxxcAv-dShw7WQoxI3A :two_thumbs_up:

[Chandan]

http://goo.gl/cQXaSa He would create his own shots to suit the situation: Greg Chappell Sumit Mukherjee, TNN Oct 11, 2013, 12.53AM IST KOLKATA: In his 13-year international career, punctuated by the Kerry Packer 'revolution', Gregory Stephen Chappell played 87 Tests, scoring a century each in his first and last Test innings. Though Sachin Tendulkar began his international career five years after Greg bowed out of Test cricket on a high, the former Australian captain has been a great admirer of the Little Master and had a chance to observe him closely during his two-year stint as the Team India coach (2005-07). Excerpts from an interview... Did you reckon that anyone would go on to play 200 Test matches? Never did, and I don't think anyone else will. The fact that Sachin has virtually played non-stop since making his debut in 1989 is a testimony to his focus, longevity and resilience. It will be a remarkable achievement when he reaches the milestone. Where would you place Sachin in cricket's hall of fame? He has been one of the best players of his era and I rate him on a par with 10 of the very best that I have had the privilege of watching in the last 50 years. The list, strictly not in any specific order, would include Garfield Sobers, Graeme Pollock, Neil Harvey, Sunil Gavaskar, Vivian Richards, Rohan Kanhai, Javed Miandad, Ricky Ponting, Brian Lara and of course, Sachin. I have not included Barry Richards only because he was unlucky not to have played much Test cricket. Make no mistake, Barry was in a league of his own. It's a special group of players, each exceptional in his own way, so rating them is a futile exercise. What makes Sachin special? Any player who plays international cricket for such a long time is bound to be very special. All-time great players (from any era) have not only scored runs consistently against all types of bowling and in all conditions, but have also influenced the outcome of games in doing so. Tendulkar, too, has done so with distinction over the longest period of time in Test match history. Having watched Sachin in action over the years, how would you assess him as a batsman? At the peak of his prowess, he could master any attack. He had the ability to conjure up runs against the best bowlers of his generation - Wasim, Waqar, Akhtar, McDermott, McGrath, Lee, Donald, Steyn, Qadir and Warne. Would you say that the straight drive is Sachin's speciality? He not only has shots all round the wicket but also remains delightful to watch at the crease. In his prime, he would create his own shots to suit the situation. I have seen him play three different shots to three similar deliveries, and each time the ball disappeared to the boundary in different parts of the ground! With the heavy bat he uses, he doesn't have to hit the ball hard. A firm push with a prominent bottom hand is enough for the ball to speed to the boundary. How special is Sachin's feat of scoring 100 international hundreds? It's remarkable in every way, and for every reason. That he has been robust enough to keep doing it for 24 years is a great advertisement of his physical prowess and mental strength. I consider it a privilege and honour to have worked with him for a brief period of what has been a fascinating career. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- http://goo.gl/t1ljkE Where does Sachin Tendulkar rank among the sporting greats? By Ben Dirs BBC Sport There is something faintly absurd about journalists ranking the deeds of our finest sportsmen and women: who am I, to whom greatness is a stranger, to judge greatness in others? And how 'great', really, is someone who happens to have been conferred with the talent of ball control? Nelson Mandela-great? Give me a break. Yet there was lionisation of gladiators in ancient Rome and wrestlers in ancient Greece, suggesting it is inherent in humans to be awed by the athletic prowess of others. No pub bores back in Neolithic times, but there were probably caves full of blokes arguing over who was the greatest tree-climber ever. Even Mandela, usually taken up with more cerebral matters, admits one of his biggest heroes is Muhammad Ali. Tendulkar in numbers Test matches (198) He has scored 15,837 runs at an average of 53.86, hitting 51 tons and 67 half centuries. His top score was an unbeaten 248 against Bangladesh in Dhaka in December 2004 One-day internationals (463) He has scored 18,426 runs at an average of 44.83 and a strike rate of 86.23. He has scored 49 centuries (highest score 200) and 96 fifties Twenty20 internationals He only made one international appearance in the shortest form of the game, scoring 12 from 15 balls against South Africa in Johannesburg in December 2006 Tendulkar's full career statistics (Cricinfo) So, let's have it then: as he announces he will retire from cricket next month after his 200th Test, how great is Sachin Tendulkar? To answer that question, it is necessary to define sporting greatness. Then we must address how closely Tendulkar fits each component part of that definition. Don't worry, this isn't a university thesis, but Tendulkar hagiographies will be everywhere in the coming days and weeks. When Andrew Flintoff retired from cricket in 2009 arguments raged in the media and in pubs across the land as to whether he was great or not. Some said not, because the first component part of greatness is cold hard statistics. In 79 Tests and 141 one-day internationals, Flintoff scored eight centuries and took five five-wicket hauls, and never a 10-for. South Africa's Jacques Kallis has to date played 162 Tests and 321 ODIs, scoring 61 centuries and taking seven five-wicket hauls. In addition, his bowling average in Tests is better than Flintoff's (the Englishman's ODI bowling average is, admittedly, markedly lower). If a great cricketer is someone whose numbers are comparatively better than all or almost all of his contemporaries, then Kallis qualifies. Flintoff does not. Tendulkar, meanwhile, has scored 29 more tons than the next highest century-maker in international cricket, Ricky Ponting, which puts the Indian out on his own. Miles out, in fact, just like Don Bradman's vertiginous batting average. Flintoff was a cricketer who occasionally did great things, which is different from being a truly great cricketer. Which takes us to our next component parts of greatness - longevity and consistency of performance. Muhammad Ali Heavyweight boxer Muhammad Ali is considered by many to be the greatest sportsperson ever To score 100 international centuries, it was necessary for Tendulkar to be at the top of the game for 24 years, which in any sport is extraordinary. In that time, at least until his struggles of the past two seasons, he has suffered nary a blip. He had a rough time in Tests in 2006, but the following year he scored 776 runs at an average of 55.4. Not much of a blip. Paul Gascoigne had more talent in his big toe than most England footballers playing today. But truly great? It is difficult to countenance the idea - too few highlights, far too many lows. John Daly has won two majors in golf, but only one tournament since claiming the Open Championship in 1995. Does that make him a better golfer than Colin Montgomerie, who has 40 professional wins to his name, but none of them a major? And if so, does it follow that Daly is necessarily a great? Again, many would say no. Longevity was a big part of Ali's greatness - he won Olympic gold in 1960 and regained the heavyweight world title 18 years later. Mike Tyson, past his best at the age of 24, did not even make venerable boxing historian Bert Sugar's all-time heavyweight top 10. Tiger Woods Tiger Woods has come in for criticism for his manners and bearing on the golf course Sugar, meanwhile, had Britain's Lennox Lewis down at 18 in his list. This is frankly bizarre, but I can understand his thinking: Lewis's achievements, Sugar would no doubt have argued, were diminished by a lack of competition. Competition and rivalry are also significant factors when it comes to measuring greatness. Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal are considered by some to be the two greatest tennis players of all time, in large part because they have amassed 30 Grand Slam titles between them. But also because they have amassed those titles by having to beat each other on a regular basis. In Tendulkar's first Test, against Pakistan in Karachi in 1989, the 16-year-old faced fearsome pace duo Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis and he played during the last flourishing of great West Indian quicks. Continue reading the main story “ The true greats transcend their sports, become almost god-like. And gods don't go to the supermarket for their shopping ” Against Australia, the world's best team for most of Tendulkar's career, he averaged 45 in ODIs and 55 in Tests. Like Federer and Nadal, he thrived against the best. Tendulkar 'only' won one World Cup (in 2011) but a better gauge of the greatness of team players is how they perform as individuals on the biggest stage. In that respect, Tendulkar is peerless. In six World Cups, Tendulkar has scored the most runs (2,278), most centuries (six), most 50+ scores (21) and the most runs in a single tournament (673 in 2003). When it comes to judging greatness, aesthetic considerations are secondary to numbers. But ask a Brian Lara devotee why they believe their hero to be greater than Tendulkar and there is a chance they will mention that majestic cover-drive of his, like honey dripping off the back of a spoon. Lara, an alchemist like Ali, transformed sport into epic poetry. Tendulkar, meanwhile, dealt mainly in prose. But anyone who fails to appreciate that timed on-drive of Tendulkar's has a small piece of their heart missing, by definition. Last, it is necessary to look at how Tendulkar went about his business - the manner in which he achieved what he did, temperamentally rather than aesthetically speaking. Some believe Tiger Woods has tarnished his greatness with his personal travails, surly bearing and spitting and cursing on the golf course. And there are those who think Tom Watson, for example, is the greater golfer because of his more dignified nature. Cricket legends rate Tendulkar Tendulkar is more Watson than Woods. During three decades at the pinnacle of his sport, under the glare of more than a billion countrymen, there has been barely a hint of controversy. Indeed, some would argue he has been a little bit dull, that a bit of off-field strife or outspokenness would have made him a more engaging figure. But it is impossible to imagine the pressure Tendulkar was under. As the signs at his home ground in Mumbai say: "If cricket is a religion, then Sachin is God." The poor bloke had enough on his plate without inviting more attention, and perhaps only Manny Pacquiao, whose fights stop wars in his native Philippines, can truly empathise. Ask a member of England's Rugby World Cup-winning side of 2003 who the most important member of the team was and there is a good chance he will say Richard Hill. Hill is a bona fide great, but he is fortunate in that he can stroll round his local supermarket and hardly anyone will recognise him. The true greats - the really, really, really great - transcend their sports, become almost god-like. And gods don't go to the supermarket for their shopping. Tendulkar, a legend in his own career, is on the top table, up there with Tiger and Michael Jordan and Pele. Not the greatest, though - I'm with Mandela, that simply has to be Ali, the greatest great there has ever been and probably ever will be. Note: This story, with some changes, originally appeared as a blog in March 2011 on the eve of Sachin Tendulkar winning the World Cup with India.

[Chandan]

http://goo.gl/dSm7dP Sachin Tendulkar a superhero for our times MIKE ATHERTON THE TIMES OCTOBER 11, 2013 10:47AM SITTING in the bowels of the M. Chinnaswamy stadium in Bangalore, after a pulsating World Cup match between England and India, really brought home to me, for the first time, the incredible scrutiny that the masters of the India cricket team must live with every day of their lives. The moment concerned Sunil Gavaskar, Sachin Tendulkar's cricketing hero. We were waiting for the production crew's bus to take us home and some India supporters got whiff that Gavaskar was sitting there, alone but for my company and one other. These supporters rushed in, knelt prostrate before him, and began to kiss his feet. "They only do that to Gavaskar and Tendulkar," Sanjay Manjrekar, the third of our group, said, "but they do it to Tendulkar most of all." The ability to cope with the kind of fame visited upon very few has been at the heart of Tendulkar's greatness, which has seen him score more Test runs and more Test hundreds than anyone in the history of the game, and enjoy the fifth longest career. Longevity brings inevitable records but the span of Tendulkar's international career, almost a quarter of a century by the time his 200th Test match will be complete, is remarkable when you think that none of those who have played longer did so in modern times, under the glare of the modern media. Two decades of wearying scrutiny - every utterance pored over (which is why there have been so few of note) and every move analysed. Yet, scarcely a false turn: no scandalous stories, no Tiger-like demons lurking (as far as we are aware), just an uncanny ability to focus on scoring runs day after day. In all conditions, against allcomers and in all forms of the game. Tendulkar is India's original sporting megastar. Mahendra Singh Dhoni might have overtaken him in earning power, but even he must bend his knee to Tendulkar's iconic status. There was Kapil Dev, of course, and Gavaskar, both there when India won the World Cup in 1983, the moment that began India's long awakening to the charms of one-day cricket, but neither of their careers coincided, as Tendulkar's has done almost to perfection, with the rise of India as an economic superpower. This has been Tendulkar's great fortune, as well as a great burden. As if it was written in the stars: the liberalisation of the Indian economy and the advent of satellite television to cover the game, both tied into the burgeoning spending power of a growing middle class, arrived with Tendulkar. For some, this has not been a coincidence and has imbued Tendulkar in the eyes many of his countrymen with a kind of status that transcends mere sport - almost as if his deeds on the cricket field were the cause of such a national transformation. A burden for sure, but it allowed for the creation of a cricketing brand: sponsorship deals across every imaginable product that have brought him incredible wealth. No cricketing body has better exploited cricket's commercial capacity in the past few years than the BCCI, and of course, if Twenty20 was invented in England, it was commercialised in India through the Indian Premier League. But none of this would have been possible without Tendulkar, and his advisers, showing the way. It is to his great credit that none of the glitz or glamour, none of the commercial tie-ups and none of the celebrity undermined the substance of his career as an international cricketer. In that sense, and probably the only sense, there is a similarity with the other iconic cricketer of the age, Shane Warne. They handled the fame in contradictory ways, but for both performance was everything. For some of the most troubled cricketers, and the greats, there has always been the feeling that the actual playing arena was the place they could relax the most, untouchable. The span of Tendulkar's career has seen remarkable changes in the game. International cricket has become challenged by franchise cricket; Test cricket challenged by, first, one-day and then Twenty20 cricket. Yet Tendulkar's game, the art and craft of his batting, has not changed at all. I played in the game when, aged just 17, he scored his maiden Test hundred and in essence he remains the same player now. Of course, the eyesight might have dimmed a little and the reflexes slowed, but he uses the same classical, simple method that he has always used. For nearly 25 years, he has been the gold standard. The batsman against whom all others are measured. --------------------------------------------------- http://goo.gl/a6lXHB Sachin Tendulkar right to retire after 200 Tests with his legacy intact Geoff Boycott I am glad Sachin Tendulkar has announced he will retire after his 200th Test match because for the best part of 24 years he has been loved, adored and admired by millions. Sachin Tendulkar right to retire after 200 Tests with his legacy intact Complete all-rounder: Sachin Tendulkar has no weaknesses, against spin, seam or fast bowling His legacy to cricket is more important than playing on for another year or two. That would not have enhanced his reputation. It would only swell his bank balance and he does not need any more money because he is already one of the richest cricketers ever. What he requires is to retain his reputation as one of the finest and greatest batsmen who has ever lived. Tendulkar's record-breaking career Playing in 200 Test matches is a remarkable achievement. I realise modern cricketers have the opportunity to play far more Tests in any calendar year than players of previous generations. But to be able to clock up that many matches a player needs exceptional ability to retain his form, which we all know can rise and fall. He must stay very fit, which becomes harder as you get older. On top of all that he must maintain his enjoyment of playing and that is not easy because you become jaded after years of travelling the world on overseas tours and playing in many different cities for Tests in India. After 10 or 12 years at the top most guys have had enough so to play for as long as Tendulkar you need to be single-minded and driven to the point of wanting to play cricket more than anything else in the world. If that desire and passion to play cricket ever subsides, no amount of skill can make up for it. On top of 20 years of Test match cricket, Sachin has played in 463 one-day internationals. And remember the one-day game is more emotionally and physically draining because of its frenetic pace. This guy has kept all that together for nearly a quarter of a century. Why? Because he has no weaknesses. He has been the complete batsmen. He has a wonderful technique and an all-round game that can play spin, seam or fast bowling. He has been a model batsman with concentration and patience that any youngster should model themselves on. He has made so many hundreds on good pitches, but I think you see his class really shine when the pitch is helpful to the bowlers. When you have a deteriorating surface it makes it more difficult for batsmen to stay in, never mind score runs. It is then that your technique, footwork and judgment of length have to be precise so you can survive. I remember seeing him at Edgbaston when he was a 23-year-old in 1996. On a pitch with variable pace and bounce India were hammered by England but he made 122 out of his side’s total of 219 and never looked in any difficulty. I also saw him play some magnificent shots against South Africa at Cape Town in January 1997 during one afternoon of brilliant strokeplay. He and Mohammad Azharuddin plundered 222 runs off 39 overs. They smashed them all around the park. Sachin made 169 and Azhar 115 after coming together when India were 58 for five. It was thrilling counter-attacking against a good pace attack. He has also been an outstanding player of two of the greatest spin bowlers cricket has ever seen in Shane Warne and Muttiah Muralitharan. I watched him in March 1998 play two brilliant innings against Warne on deteriorating pitches. During the first Test in Madras he made 155 not out in the second innings on a spinning pitch. When it turned again at Bangalore, and India lost the match, he scored 177 in the first innings. He went after Warne. When he bowled around wicket in the rough Sachin hit him against the spin. That takes some doing, let me tell you. Ask all those English batsmen who got out to big spinning balls from Warne how hard that is. We were lucky at Yorkshire to have time with him in 1992 when he became our first overseas professional. It seems ridiculous now but there was a lot of opposition to signing an overseas player after nearly 130 years of picking cricketers only born in the county. We decided to go for Sachin but he was hard to track down. Our president at the time, Sir Lawrence Byford, went to see a guy called Solly Adam, a big figure within Asian cricket in Yorkshire, who owned a garage in Batley. He was a friend of Sunil Gavaskar’s. He contacted Sunny, who persuaded Sachin to join Yorkshire by selling him the significance of being our first overseas player. The supporters and players all adored him. He was so polite, well mannered. He was only 19 and an embryo of the great player he would become but he had something about him. Some people say he did not make a lot of runs. But what was important for us was whoever we signed had to fit in. We could not afford any bad publicity and he was perfect. He has maintained that dignity throughout his career. Naturally he has declined as a player. That happens to everyone. We all start off as young men full of promise, talent and ambition. One day we get to the top of the mountain and stay there playing great innings. But age catches up with you. You reach your thirties and the reflexes slow down a little bit, physical fitness is not quite what it was and you slip off your perch. Clever batsmen rely on years of experience to offset what mother nature has taken away. It is a gradual decline. But it can only go on so long. The smart ones realise it is time to retire before slipping so far down as to embarrass your supporters. None of us want to leave the stage. The passion, the emotion and love of the game is in our blood. We want it to go on forever. But the trick is knowing when to go.

[CSK Fan]

Chandan, thank you so much for all the articles. I am saving them for my Sachin collection

[Chandan]

There are many more to come. You can save the entire thread then. http://goo.gl/XWZ01z Where do we go now? By Suresh Menon, Mumbai Mirror | Oct 11, 2013, 06.35 AM IST After giving 24 years of his life to cricket, that's one question even the master will not have an answer to. Forty is a good age. You have been a professional for a while, you know the game as it were, you have put in the hours that could take you to the top. General manager, Managing Director, CEO, whatever. For a sportsman it is different. How many of us can start a new career at 40, asked Rahul Dravid when he retired from the game last year. Even if you skip a few steps and start at the top, the transition is never easy. Not so long ago, 40 was an end rather than a beginning for sportsmen. You lived off your past glories for a while - the great goal or the fabulous smash or the winning run - and then began to fade as a new generation discovered greater goals, more fabulous smashes and more desperate winning runs. Sachin Tendulkar is in no danger of fading from public memory, certainly not in his life time, possibly not ever. Yet the traditional post-retirement distractions hardly seem right for him - coaching, column-writing, administration, television punditry. This is not because he will not shine in any of them. Actually, the reverse is the case. For someone who has been involved with cricket since the age of 12, and as an international since 16, a huge chunk of his life has been dedicated to cricket. But such is his discipline and so fierce his focus that a move in traditional directions could have the same effect as his captaincy did. Sachin tended to be short with those who lacked his own discipline and focus, and that was one of the reasons his captaincy was not distinguished. He also tended to micro-manage, a shortcoming that is often seen among those who give their one hundred percent to everything they do. Such a person would be a misfit as a coach, or a media person. Theoretically, of course, all these paths are open to him after November when he plays his 200th and final Test. The financial considerations would be hard to resist, even for a millionaire of Sachin's stature. More importantly, cricket is the only thing he knows; he brought to the sport all the true elements of greatness - an understanding of its place in the scheme of things, an attitude that was aggressive without being boorish, fair without being soft, and a dignity that overrode all else. This is not a once-in-alifetime player, but one for the ages. Hence the problems with cricket-related activities. He cannot be anything but the best. The best coach, the best commentator, the best writer. Does he have either the equipment or the will? What about things outside of cricket? There is charity work (Sachin is quietly involved in this, but this could now become a mainline occupation). There is business, perhaps after hiring dedicated professionals. There is politics - Sachin is already a Rajya Sabha member, and can make a difference in the Upper House. It would be a pleasant change from his career in sport with its share of politics to one in politics which needs all the sport it can get in terms of attitude and professionalism. Personally, I think what he would most look forward to is a long break from everything. And we must not begrudge him that. His family, his growing children, his long-neglected friends deserve his time. For something like five or six years (if all his playing days were placed end to end) he has had the best bowlers in the world attacking him continuously - that's enough to turn anybody insane if you think about it. The pressures are both mental and physical. And yet, amazingly, Tendulkar never lost the zest for the game, the keenness to bat on and on and on. Now he deserves a break. When someone asked him at 30 what his favourite book was, he replied, "I haven't started reading yet." It was a charming reply. It is unlikely that things have changed in the decade since. Rest, recuperation, relaxation and perhaps reading are indicated in the short term. In the long term, there is always an ambassadorship to a cricket-playing country, perhaps South Africa, who were denied his 200th Test! -------------------------------------------------------------- http://goo.gl/ME909c Clock stops at 24 Sandeep Dwivedi : Fri Oct 11 2013, 14:21 hrs No other team suffered at the hands of Sachin Tendulkar as much as Australia, the dominant force of that era, did. Down Under, however, they adored him as well In a career lasting almost two-and-a-half decades, Sachin Tendulkar negotiated age and injuries to evolve into a less ostentatious but just as effective batsman, writes Sandeep Dwivedi. During an ODI against New Zealand at Christchurch on March 9, 2009, Sachin Tendulkar turned back the clock with an innings straight out of the '90s. He charged down the pitch to slog pacers over long on, launched into overpitched balls with fierce power, pulled the short balls murderously. There was a distinct possibility that he would reach 200. That's when an abdomen muscle twitched and Tendulkar retired hurt, unbeaten on 163 with five overs to go. As Tendulkar walked back to the pavilion in pain, the '200 dream' seemed to be finished. No man had reached the mark in the 50-over game. Fans wondered if he was physically capable of becoming the first to do so. That innings was an aberration in terms of the way Tendulkar had been playing his cricket of late. Early in his career, Tendulkar had put his signature on the no-holds-barred pull, the straight-bat lofted shot aimed at the sight screen, the whipped flick through mid-wicket off length balls, the booming cover drive, and that famous straight punch past the stumps. Tendulkar 2.0 In the final third of his career, Tendulkar was maintaining a shortened backlift with a minimal follow-through, using the power-packed strokes of old judiciously or tweaking them slightly, concentrating more on placement and less on power. Earlier, he might have whipped straight balls forcefully off his legs; now, Tendulkar merely guided them. The low backlift reduced the force on the wrists, allowing him to time the ball to perfection. Similarly, on the off-side, he didn't quite launch into thumping drives, but let the deliveries slide off the face of his bat. Short balls aimed at the throat were nonchalantly directed over the slips and while facing spinners, he rarely went for the fierce sweep, opting instead for the fine paddle. Batting like this, he could make big runs in Test cricket, and conserve his energy while motoring along at close to a run a ball in coloured clothing. But was it possible for him to score as quickly as he had done in Christchurch and maintain that tempo over 50 overs? Was he capable of getting to that elusive 200 mark? Within eight months, Tendulkar got close to that unconquered peak again. Playing against Australia in Hyderabad, he was batting on 158 with 10 overs to go. But at the start of the 48th over, by which time he had reached 175, Tendulkar realised that there was a thin line that separated the cheeky from the over-smart. While trying to paddle-scoop pacer Clint McKay to the vacant fine leg area, Tendulkar top-edged to short square leg. This time, the heartbreak didn't result in Tendulkar changing his approach. Three months later, he had achieved the hitherto unattainable feat, against a South African attack led by Dale Steyn. During his 200* in Gwalior, Tendulkar hardly played a shot that could be categorised as a slog. Steyn was at the receiving end of Tendulkar's subtle touch. He was dispatched for seven fours by Tendulkar that evening, but the one shot that showcased his restrained aggression came after he had passed the three-figure mark. After missing a couple of balls outside off-stump, Tendulkar moved sideways to flick a yorker-length ball to the square-leg fence. The minimalist In terms of physical effort expended, the batsman and bowler involved in this contest were miles apart. Steyn had run in hard, bent his back, and ended the final thrust of his broad shoulders with a grunt. Tendulkar had taken a small step across his crease and performed a subtle roll of his wrists. The result was a boundary and heartbreak for the fast man. In the same innings, he scored heavily through the point region as well. He didn't play the big drive or the slash but repeatedly glided deliveries on the off-stump from Wayne Parnell between point and third man. That cricket has been increasingly unfair to bowlers isn't a secret, but the latter-day Tendulkar made this blatantly obvious. By using the pace of the bowlers, Tendulkar evolved a fresh, energy-efficient approach to batting that accommodated an ageing body that had endured countless X-rays and MRI scans. That double century was to be Tendulkar's last one-day innings of the year. Tendulkar would now take a sabbatical from the shorter forms of the game, all the way until the 2011 World Cup. The move was to ensure that his sole focus remained on Test matches, in a year when India were to play as many as 14 long-format games, including contests against the Australians at home and the South Africans away. But the subtle, controlled destruction of his 200* at Gwalior would carry over into the white-flannelled format, where he ill-treated the likes of Steyn and Morne Morkel all over again with two heavy duty tons on South African shores. In 2010, at the age of 37, Tendulkar witnessed his greatest year in Test cricket, with 1,562 runs including two double centuries in his seven three-figure scores, the last of which saw him reach 50 Test hundreds. The year after that, Tendulkar did what he couldn't in five previous attempts - he won the World Cup, scoring two centuries on the way. Converting the liability of a fragile frame and growing years into an asset, he had not only extended his stay on the field without compromising on his strike rate, but also increased his longevity in the shorter versions of the game. But finally, it all became too much for him. Maybe he still had it in him to take the pressure and innovate to score runs. But it was very clear from the scratchy knocks and tame dismissals of his last two years that the limbs couldn't consistently obey the orders of his mind. During the IPL this year, he got injured again. Another surgery would keep him away from training. The off-season was wasted. The man who for years had believed in sweating it out at the nets wasn't prepared. And with a chance to end his career where it had all begun, Tendulkar decided not to torture his body any more. Stress-free Shots The ramp shot: Where he would have once gone for the hook or the fierce slash over point, Tendulkar 2.0 preferred to guide the ball over the keeper and slips. Playing the delivery well after it had gone past him, Tendulkar connected more often than not. The glides square of the wicket: Tendulkar used the pace to guide length balls from fast bowlers behind point or square leg, depending on the line they'd bowled. The paddle sweep: One of the enduring images of Tendulkar's battles against Warne are his down-on-a-knee slog-sweeps, picking up the leggie from the rough outside leg-stump to dispatch him over mid-wicket. In his mature years, he played the paddle sweep more often.

[Chandan]

http://goo.gl/S5gOXG Sachin Tendulkar survived pressure of expectation to unite a nation India's master batsman has never buckled in a quarter of a century of fulfilling the dreams of tens of millions of his devotees Andy Bull The Guardian, Thursday 10 October 2013 22.00 BST Batting can be a tricky business, as every amateur knows. At the elite level, it is almost impossible. At 90mph it takes a cricket ball around 500 milliseconds to travel from one end of the wicket to the other. That, the physiologist Benjamin Libet proved, is almost exactly as long as it takes the human mind to complete all the processes needed to produce what he called "a settled field of awareness". To put it another way, a cricket ball moves as quickly as human consciousness. Which doesn't give you much time to think about a cover drive, much less play it. In 2002 two scientists at the University of Sussex broke it down even further, and found that at 90mph a batsman takes 200 milliseconds to judge the ball, 200 milliseconds to decide on the right shot, and then 100 milliseconds to play it. It takes, they say, 150 milliseconds to blink. Those numbers reveal just as much about Sachin Tendulkar's preternatural ability as the more familiar statistics, such as his 100 international hundreds, his 198 Test caps, and his quarter-century career. When you've grown so accustomed to watching him bat, it is easy to be blithe about the sheer skill it takes to be so good at such an ostensibly simple act. Almost every modern player – he has played with or against 982 men in international cricket, 20 of them born after he made his debut – has a Tendulkar story. This one is Allan Donald's. "He hit me for two fours in a row, one through point, one past gully. That was the end of the over, and then I told Jonty Rhodes, who was at point, to be alert because I knew a way to get Sachin out. So I delivered the first ball of my next over, outside off stump just like the other two, only a little fuller. As he hit it I shouted: 'Catch!' and, to my astonishment, it went to the cover boundary." Three balls, almost identical, each played in three subtly different but equally effective ways. Tendulkar mastered an art that defies easy understanding. The cognition, the selection, the execution. It is all done in the time it takes to tap your finger twice on a table. Afterwards, Donald said he gave up devising strategies as to how to get Tendulkar out, simply to spare himself the frustration of seeing his best-laid plans put to ruin. Brett Lee, one of the few bowlers as quick as Donald, said: "You might pitch a ball on the off stump and think you have bowled a good ball. And then he walks across and hits it for two behind midwicket." Tendulkar is one of the few batsmen in the history who has honed his craft to the point where he had a choice of at least two shots to play to every conceivable delivery. That's a trait that puts Tendulkar in elite company, alongside Garry Sobers, Viv Richards, Brian Lara, Jack Hobbs and the others who line up behind daylight and Don Bradman in discussions about the greatest batsmen to play the game. Each has their own fans. Tendulkar, of course, has around a billion of them. And if those minuscule numbers illustrate his rare skill, this hefty one shows the size of the burden he has laboured under. No one, in any sport, has performed so consistently, under such pressure, over such a long period of time. By that measure, the margin between Tendulkar and the rest is as wide as the gap between Bradman's batting average and the next best. The clichés about cricket in India are so old and familiar that they are often followed by apologies for their use. Cricket is a religion, and Sachin is God. Anyone who has been lucky enough to see Tendulkar play an innings in his own country knows those are apt, almost inadequate, descriptions of the devotion he inspires. Indian fans at a Hindu temple during the 2003 World Cup place a photograph of Sachin Tendulkar during prayers. Photograph: Anupam Nath/AP Even the most famous of his contemporaries are awe-struck by the weight of expectation he carries. "You have to watch India in India truly to appreciate the pressure that Sachin Tendulkar is under every time he bats," Shane Warne said. "Outside grounds, people wait until he goes in before paying to enter. They seem to want a wicket to fall even though it is their own side that will suffer. This is cricket as Sachin has known it since the age of 16. He grew up under an incredible weight of expectation and never buckled once." "Irrespective of the score, whenever Sachin Tendulkar comes to bat he is under pressure" was Mark Waugh's take. "The pressure comes from all those people who look up to him, who pray that he gets a century, who cheer like India has already won when he comes in to bat, and who silently troop out of the stands once he gets out." Matthew Hayden said it was "beyond chaos" when Tendulkar came out to the crease, calling it "a frantic appeal by a nation to one man". The late Peter Roebuck told a story of being on a train between Shimla and Delhi which stopped at a station simply because Tendulkar was on 98. "Everyone on the train waited for Sachin to complete the century. This genius can stop time in India!" While covering the World Cup in 2011 I watched, rapt, as he scored 120 against England in Bengaluru. It is just another among the many great centuries he made, but for me it stands out as one of the precious occasions when I got to sit in court with a king, a moment akin to watching Roger Federer on Centre Court, Usain Bolt at the Olympic Stadium, or Michael Phelps in the Olympic pool. There was a banner in the ground, a copy of one which had been seen at the SCG years earlier. "Commit your crimes when Sachin is batting," it said. "They will go unnoticed, because even the Lord is watching." There had been baton charges by the police before the match to control the crowds who were clamouring around the ticket booths. They say there were 38,000 in the Chinnaswamy Stadium, but that cannot possibly have been right. The noise they made was enough for a hundred times that number. Their cries seemed to carry up into the night sky and echo across the subcontinent, as an entire nation joined in supplication and celebration of one man. ------------------------------------------------------------- http://goo.gl/iGMQbf Where do warriors go? Dileep Premachandran | 10 October 2013 In the first Test without Sachin Tendulkar, when the second wicket falls, there’ll be that familiar frisson of anticipation. Then, you'll realise it's someone else striding out and that's when it'll hit you. © Getty Images Ernest Hemingway called ‘retirement’ the ugliest word in the language. Bill Shankly compared it with a walk to the electric chair. On Thursday afternoon, as he pondered an existence removed from what he has known for the past three decades, Sachin Tendulkar said, “It’s hard for me to imagine a life without playing cricket because it’s all I have ever done since I was 11 years old.” Some of us had known for a while that a South African farewell was unlikely. Long before the unseemly disagreements between the two boards and the shoehorning in of a home series against West Indies, the writing was legible on a wall that had seen better days. As much as his own lack of form over the past home season, Tendulkar would have been conscious of how many of his brothers-in-arms had either moved on or been left behind. In every sense, he had become the last man standing. The timing is right. Forget the nonsense you read about the Mumbai Indians’ Champions League Twenty20 win providing a fairytale ending. Tendulkar didn’t grow up dreaming of glory in franchise cricket. That, like the IPL win earlier in the year, was just an autumnal bonus. For him, like for every other cricketer of his generation, playing for the country was what mattered most. That national cap, and what you did while wearing it, was the ultimate yardstick. During the first season of the IPL, Rahul Dravid spoke to me of priorities and how they affect the memory. He admitted that he’d probably struggle to remember too many of his Twenty20 innings, before adding: “I doubt I’ll have any difficulty recalling the memorable Test knocks.” Tendulkar’s memory, when it came to the games he had played, was beyond formidable. I remember an interview in 2006, when he basically talked me through an entire spell that Mohammad Asif had bowled to him in a One-Day International in Lahore. He didn’t just recall the strokes he played. He emphasised the ones he didn’t, the deliveries that had to be left alone because they were simply too good to take liberties with. It was the same reason why, a few years earlier, he had nominated an ODI innings of 44 in Trinidad as one of his finest. It didn’t matter to him that he hadn’t crossed any milestones. What mattered, he said, was how he’d felt that day, how the ball had sped off the bat, against bowling of searing pace and quality. If and when India do assemble in Cape Town for a Test match in early 2014, there will scarcely be anyone at Newlands whose mind doesn’t rewind three years, to a contest within a contest that was as good as anything cricket has ever seen. Dale Steyn was rampant, with the wicked swing that trapped Cheteshwar Pujara indicative of both his pace and mastery. Gautam Gambhir was the epitome of defiance at one end. At the other, Tendulkar had more than resistance on his mind. He struck 17 fours and two sixes, but it was the manner in which he kept Steyn out that made the innings unforgettable. Of the 83 deliveries he faced from Steyn, 72 were dot balls. Occasionally, he would play and miss. There were edges too, off both sides of the bat, which fell kindly. But for the most part, he left impeccably or rode the bounce perfectly to drop the ball down at his feet. He had played an innings of similar quality in Perth 19 years and half a life earlier, and it was nothing short of incredible that the passage of time had dimmed neither the brilliance of his strokeplay nor his desire to test himself against the very best. It was that desire that kept him coming back season after season. The records long ago ceased to matter. Several of them are forever out of reach, like Sir Donald Bradman’s batting average. What he craved was the adrenaline rush of the contest, whether against Warne or Asif or Steyn. Two-thirds of India’s population is too young to even remember a cricket world without Tendulkar. Reality will really bite hard when India play their first Test without him, whether that’s in South Africa or New Zealand. When the second wicket falls, there’ll be that familiar frisson of anticipation, that waiting for the buzz in the crowd to reach a crescendo. Then, you’ll slowly realise that it’s not the familiar figure striding out, but someone else. That’s when it will hit you, like an uppercut to the chin. We will only ever be able to speculate about this, but how will Tendulkar feel when it happens? Will he even be watching? And if he is, what emotions will hurtle through his mind? Regret? Relief? Pride? Sadness? Where does a warrior go when he downs his weapons and walks away? “I hate to quit,” said Johnny Unitas, greatest of American Football quarterbacks, after he retired with pretty much every record in the game. “I’d like to play for another 30 years. Your mind is willing, but your body wears out … it would be foolish for me to try to do things I once tried to do.” Tendulkar has come to the same conclusion. Now, it’s up to the rest of us to make peace with it.

[Chandan]

http://goo.gl/sOUWUZ Sachin Tendulkar: A 24-year habit for Indians Sachin Tendulkar was a one-man industry who helped imbue people with self-belief Thu, Oct 10 2013. 07 43 PM IST Sachin Tendulkar’s arrival in 1989 virtually coincided with India’s economic rise—the liberalization of old controls that opened up society in ways until then unimaginable. Photo: Reuters No other issue—not even the identity of India’s next Prime Minister—has been more widely discussed in recent months than Sachin Tendulkar’s impending retirement. On the afternoon of a balmy October Thursday, the batsman regarded as the best of his generation put speculation to rest when he sent a message to the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) that the second Test against the West Indies in November, his 200th, would be his swan song. There will undoubtedly be some residual debate whether this decision was imposed on him by the BCCI: in recent weeks, stories have emerged in the media that Tendulkar had been spoken to by selectors and administrators, only to be promptly denied by all parties concerned. However, once the BCCI juggled the dates around so that his 200th Test would be played at home, it was clear to the discerning that this would be Tendulkar’s last. It is naïve to believe that there was no dialogue between him and the authorities on the matter, though the decision to retire—as it must—vests in the player. Once Tendulkar made up his mind, what remained was a suitable exit plan. photo To encapsulate a career such as Tendulkar’s in a few hundred words would be impossible for the simple reason that he is more than just a sportsperson, at least in the Indian context. Through his prowess as a cricketer and his personality, he became a metaphor of something bigger: a New Age India. Tendulkar’s arrival in 1989 virtually coincided with India’s economic rise—the liberalization of old controls that opened up society in ways until then unimaginable. This imbued people with a new desire and self-belief that, in many ways, Tendulkar himself embodied. He was a virtuoso as far as batting technique was concerned, but also bold in his stroke play, unscarred by the defensive nature of the Indian greats whom he followed. In a sense, he combined the sterling qualities of his two childhood heroes, Sunil Gavaskar and Viv Richards, and cricket had a genius in its midst. As the economy opened up, so did Tendulkar open up the coffers for cricket and cricketers, becoming not just the leading batsman of his era, but also the preferred brand icon of a bold new India, striking deals of a size that had, until then, been unheard of in the country. In 1995, he signed up with the late Mark Mascarenhas’s WorldTel for approximately Rs.18 crore for five years. When the deal was renewed, it was worth approximately Rs.90 crore. Tendulkar’s presence in the middle also helped television rights for Indian cricket skyrocket to dizzying heights. In short, he became a one-man industry. But commerce is the derivative factor in the Tendulkar saga. As far as the sport is concerned, one can call him the Pied Piper of cricket—not for its dangerous connotations but because, when he played, the entire cricketing universe followed him. In a cricket-crazy country such as India, Tendulkar managed to charm and dominate the environment like none other, from any walk of life; for the rest of the world, he was a talent of extraordinary proportions that they would love to call their own. He started out as a child prodigy, smashing records as a schoolboy. By the time he was 15, he found stellar mention in Wisden and the Guinness Book of Records. He made a century on debut in the Ranji, Duleep and Irani trophies—and all this before he was 16. He played his first Test some months later and scored his maiden Test century a couple of months after he turned 17. But unlike many other such precociously talented youngsters, he proved himself as an adult as well through a long and glorious career that has lasted over 20 years. There is almost no record that Tendulkar has not broken and there are innumerable impossible targets that he has set for those who will follow him. For example, 100 international centuries and 200 Test matches, both of which might stand the test of time. Like the Pied Piper, he called hundreds of young children to take their chances with cricket. Parents felt that they might as well try their luck, inspired by him. Perhaps Rahul Dravid with his determined work ethic and dogged persistence would have been a better practice model than Tendulkar, but tell a child that you have to practice 10 hours a day and he might run the other way. Tendulkar made you feel that you could. The clarion call that Tendulkar gave with his talent, achievements, consistency and determination was such that in his heyday, people would switch off their television sets when he was out. Indeed, he was arguably the strongest unifying factor of a hugely diverse country. Though the past couple of years have seen him below his best, the roar that Tendulkar gets when he steps out on to a cricket field anywhere in the world has been unmatched. When he takes the field for the final hurrah in his 200th Test, this roar will undoubtedly reach a crescendo. No other Indian cricketer has wielded so much influence, swayed so many Indians emotionally for so long. Over the past quarter of a century, Tendulkar had become a habit that his countrymen might find extremely difficult to overcome. ---------------------------------------------------------- http://goo.gl/lTwQPI The Fandulkars Karthikkrishnaswamy : Fri Oct 11 2013, 03:07 For a generation, he was the last link to childhood When I was three or four, and cricket was still only a nebulous concept, my neighbour asked me who my favourite cricketer was. "Kapil Dev," I said. Was he really my favourite cricketer? I don't know. I hadn't really watched him play. Even as I said it, I felt a vague sense of unease. I didn't really like his moustache, and therefore — with that being the extent of my knowledge about him — I probably didn't like Kapil Dev that much. But Kapil Dev was the only cricketer's name I knew. "No," said my neighbour. "Sachin Tendulkar." I grew to disappoint my neighbour. Tendulkar never came to be my favourite cricketer. That place, over the years, came to be occupied by Ajay Jadeja, Shiv Sundar Das (yes, him) and VVS Laxman. Gradually, the physical symptoms of hero-worship (that lurch of the stomach accompanying every play-and-miss during the hero's first ten minutes at the crease) disappeared, and the question of having a favourite cricketer ceased to matter. But all that while, as Jadeja and Das and Laxman came and went, Tendulkar endured. I watched him on TV, I watched him from the stands, I watched him from the press box. All that while, each time he played a straight drive, I reacted the same way I had when I first saw it. When he announced that his 200th Test next month would be his last, Tendulkar said that he would find it hard "to imagine a life without playing cricket." All around India, cricket fans of a certain age will find it hard to imagine cricket without Tendulkar. It isn't something they have ever known. They've prepared themselves for this moment, of course. Some of them feared for his career as far back as 1999, when a back injury gave them the first, nasty intimation of his sporting mortality. After the 2007 World Cup, some of them agreed with Ian Chappell when he urged Tendulkar to "look into that mirror." Since then, Tendulkar has scored 16 hundreds in Tests and eight in ODIs. For most other cricketers, that's an entire career's output. But over the last couple of years, fans have seen the end loom closer than ever. Tendulkar has grown older than most cricketers who continue to play the game, and his powers have waned. Even some of his biggest fans — we all know a few of them — have been urging him to quit. "I've been *****ing about Sachin for a few years, not understanding why he won't retire," one such fan wrote in the comments section of Vic Marks' tribute to Tendulkar in the Guardian. "Now that he has, I feel overwhelming sadness." All of us who grew up with Tendulkar know this sadness, the sadness of losing the last link to your childhood. And sports fans feel that loss more keenly than most. A couple of months ago, three of my colleagues and I discovered over rum and Coke that we had shared a childhood, living thousands of miles apart. We had watched the same matches, experienced the same thrills and, more vividly, the same heartbreaks. Late at night in 2002, as May 21 became May 22, Tendulkar had caused all four of us to harbour the hope that India would successfully chase 408 against the West Indies in Kingston. And then, as Pedro Collins got one to keep low and bowl him for 86 (India 170/4), all four of us — watching in Chennai, Madurai, Mumbai and Muzaffarnagar — cursed the left-armer. Eleven years on, we were still cursing Collins. Ten + Dulkar Ten others (but of course) played for Mumbai (Bombay then) when Tendulkar made his first-class debut on December 12, 1988. On the day when he announced that he would retire from the game after his 200th Test, The Indian Express takes a look at what his first ever teammates went on to do Shishir Hattangadi, 52 Played his last first-class match on January 2, 1992, the same day Tendulkar hit his first Test hundred in Australia, 148* in Sydney. Runs a management company in Mumbai and is often seen as a cricket expert on news channels. Alan Sippy, 51 Stitched a 155-run stand with debutant Tendulkar, while also scoring a century (127). Played his last first-class match in 1991. Went on to become the executive director of Samira Habitats, a property chain in Alibaug. Badruddin Khan, 45 finished his career with Assam, in 1999. Works in a dispensary in Yorkshire, England, as a manager. Used to host Tendulkar before every Headingley Test that India played. Sameer Talpade, 46 Made his debut in the same match as Tendulkar. Played his last match in 1993. Is now a businessman in New Zealand and often plays for the Auckland Marathi Association (now known as Bombay Boyz) in the local league. Suru Nayak, 58 Played two Tests for India in 1982, before Tendulkar had faced a real cricket ball. A constant on the veterans' circuit. Is BCCI's manager of cricket operations. Pradeep Kasliwal, 49 Played his last first-class match nine months before Tendulkar made his Test debut. Is now director of MCA's indoor cricket academy, where he analyses, among others, Arjun Tendulkar's performances. Anup Sabnis, 53 Retired in 1990. Is the CEO of a steel engineering plant in Pune. Is still on Tendulkar's invite list for get-togethers. Ravindra Thakkar, 50 another Mumbai cricketer who finished his career with Assam, in 1994. Is an employee with TATA and is also a junior selector for the MCA. Sulakshan Kulkarni, 46 Hung up his wicketkeeping gloves in November 2001 as a Madhya Pradesh stumper. Currently coaches Mumbai, under whom Tendulkar played his last Ranji Trophy match last season. Lalchand Rajput ©, 51 Tendulkar's first captain in first-class cricket. His dismissal, run out on 99, witnessed Tendulkar's entry to the batting crease. Waited for the boy to score his hundred before declaring the innings. Has served Indian cricket in various coaching and managerial roles (currently India A coach). Interestingly, he retired on November13, 1998 — the same day Tendulkar scored his record ninth ODI hundred of that year.

[Trichromatic]

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qfwC6xBqTVI]Sachin Chalisa: Total Hungama, No Logic - YouTube[/ame]

[Sachin=GOD]

great work Chandan and others for these articles.

[Chandan]

The Tendulkar special with @Aggerscricket , @pakwakankar , Dravid, Ganguly + Kapil Dev BBC Podcast on SACHIN RETIRES: . http://goo.gl/VN3uXq -------------------------------------------------- http://goo.gl/jQHniw The Patriotic Pandemonium of Sachin Tendulkar Posted on October 15, 2013 On the announcement of Sachin Tendulkar retiring, Rohit Brijnath, in this morning’s Straits Times. WILL he make a speech, this retiring Sachin Tendulkar, in his home city of Mumbai in November during his last Test and is it the closest we’ll come to a nation crying? Will grown men snivel, maybe me, too, for his 24-year journey since 1989 was made alongside ours. He, 40, is part of our history, our dialogue, our reading, our growing up. Sport always goes on, but there is a sense of something ending – his career and every vestige of our youth. Will another player ever find his entry to an Indian field an event in itself? He had India’s attention before it could see him, a frozen nation waiting for him to emerge from the pavilion and adjust his crotch and take his stance, the only sane man in the stadium Tendulkar himself, unmoved as the crowd sang out his name like a single-word anthem. Perhaps Napoleon arrived on the battlefield with such similar pomp. Will people elsewhere ever understand what he meant and the absurdity of his life, wherein a vast, ancient land found something sporting, substantial, reassuring and unifying in a 16-year-old with a bat? Genius who didn’t swear, smoke, drink. Genius so venerated that he never got to taste the beauty of the ordinary life. And genius he was, evident in his technique, his composure, his consistency, his longevity, at his best a perfectly-designed, perpetually-polished machine of batsmanship. He could never be the greatest batsman ever for Donald Bradman had that seat, but he was there next in line. Will he awake in December happy not to be this secular god any more? Or will he ache for the applause that was his daily music? Tendulkar could not tuck his shirt in or burp without India clapping. All worship has a tinge of madness and a taste of addiction. Will he potter through 2014, no team meetings, no nets, and will he pick up a bat and put his nose to it, searching for the intoxicating smell of wood, sweat, tension? Will he switch on an old DVD of himself and watch alone, lonely forever without this game? Will he regret his last years, his stumbling towards his final century, his testing of public faith, his riding for a brief time on his name when for his entire career he had so wonderfully done the opposite? Will he write a book and confess his fears or would fans rather he did not, for few want to see their heroes as imperfect? Will he, a reserved man, speak out and settle scores or will he remain this modest, decent, fast-car-driving, image-conscious, soft-spoken enigmatic poet’s son? Will he watch TV and enjoy the truth that he is the measurement by which modern batsmen are gauged? Yet will he cringe and wish people would not use his deeds to burden another prodigy for he knows too well what burdens feel like? Will India pander to the moment by awarding him the Bharat Ratna, its highest civilian honour, and will he please refuse it for despite all he did, highly-paid cricket does not truly qualify as service to a nation? The star athlete is unworthy alongside the anonymous hero who helps the disadvantaged lead a more dignified life. If India truly cares it should strike a medal in his name, given not for hundreds scored, but to the young man of any given year who wears his excellence unpretentiously. Greatness is common; in wearing his greatness gently and his legend discreetly, for so long, Tendulkar was uncommon. Will he please agree to some tests of heart, brain, muscle so we can map his genius and unravel how he wore pressure so persuasively? And what pressure it was. He played not for a club like Ronaldo, not for a franchise – except later in Twenty20 – like LeBron James, not for himself like Tiger Woods. He did all his work in an India shirt for a struggling nation absent of sporting idols to the sound of patriotic pandemonium. He was constantly informed he was not allowed to fail. Will Tendulkar, as he lets go of cricket, be finally let go by India, can he be returned, older, worn, lined, back to his family with grateful thanks, for what more can a nation take from him? India should let him breathe and stand at a distance and at best point and grin and say his name. For the generation that grew up with him, he will be always “Sachin” , never “Mr Tendulkar”. For them he is forever that boy of wonder and the batsman who can never be equalled. Without such myth, sport is incomplete. But will Tendulkar also understand that everything passes, even him, and new generations own separate heroes, and there will be a time when a snotty kid will ask, in earshot of him, “This Sachin, he was really that good?” Ah, unless you lived in his time, you’d never believe it. He wasn’t just a person, you see, and certainly no god, he was in fact a singular Indian experience.

[Chandan]

Sachin Tendulkar's Test career: First 100 Tests: 8405 runs (ave 57.97), 100s: 30 next 98 Tests: 7432 runs (ave 49.88), 100s: 21 1-100 Tests: 12y-9m-22d 101-200 Tests: 11y-1m-6d http://goo.gl/zHBrMX Salaam Sachin Salaam Sachin: The world's greatest cricketer calls it a day KUNAL PRADHAN OCTOBER 11, 2013 | UPDATED 19:00 IST Sporting epitaphs are meant to be easy to write. You string together a few poetic lines, add a dash of statistics, sprinkle some memorable moments, and voila, you have a farewell note that passes muster in the half light. But writing a Sachin Tendulkar eulogy is different-a personal investment for anyone who has been touched by his bounty. His career is not his story. It's the private history of every Indian with a passion for this crazy game. Most days in our lives are unremarkable. They start and they end, without leaving behind any lasting memory. But there was something different about Wednesday, November 15, 1989. It was the first time that a curly-haired 16-year-old stepped on a cricket field in an India shirt. We remember where we were that day. Just as we remember what we were doing when he first opened the innings in a one-day match on a chilly morning in Auckland in 1994. When he single-handedly dismantled Australia at Sharjah in 1998. When he waged a lonely battle against Pakistan in Chennai and fell just short in 1999. When he amassed 241 in Sydney without hitting on the off-side in 2004. When he pushed the boundaries of the one-day format with a double century in Gwalior 21 years into his career. And when he was carried on their shoulders by a bunch of delirious teammates after India won the 2011 World Cup at the Wankhede Stadium in Mumbai. It's hard to imagine Sachin without cricket, harder to imagine cricket without Sachin, but perhaps hardest to resign to how our own dry, dour lives will no longer be enlivened by his genius. Sachin, 40, announced on October 10 that the forthcoming two-Test series against West Indies, which will take his personal Test match tally to a staggering 200, will be his last. It's a milestone retirement-something that doesn't always sit well with critics who want team players to be relentlessly selfless and disappear without ceremony. It may not be his best-timed shot considering how desperately the Indian team would've needed him on the away tour of South Africa in December. But Sachin had long said, sometimes under intense pressure from his interviewers, that he'd quit when he felt he wasn't enjoying the game enough. He has decided that time is now. Over the last 24 years, Sachin has become a metaphor that has defined a generation. From boy wonder to superstar to elder statesman, he's fulfilled every role. But unlike many other sporting greats, he is more than just a feeling or sensation. He's collected such incredible numbers-nearly 16,000 Test runs, 18,426 one-day runs, 100 international hundreds-that you wouldn't need to have been here, in our life and times, to understand his impact. He's not like Viv Richards, whose aura was magnified when he walked to the pitch lazily chewing gum. Or like Brian Lara, whose one hopping cover drive was worth the price of a season ticket. Sachin's story can be told through scorecards alone. If W.G. Grace was the first batsman to play both on the front foot and back foot, and Donald Bradman the perfectionist who made the bat a natural extension of his limbs, Sachin took batting to a statistical high-point where the sheer volume captures the entire story. He did so much for so long that he made class tangible. The early part of his journey is as engaging as what we've seen on television. Taken to Ramakant Achrekar as a mischievous pre-teen after he was caught stealing mangoes from a tree, Sachin's first earnings as a cricketer were the 25 paise coins that his coach would give him if he went through an entire net session without getting dismissed. He'd ride pillion on Achrekar's scooter, going from venue to venue, match to match, playing up to four games a day. Preparing for matches became an obsession. He still can't sleep well before a Test. Ironically, some of his opponents-Australian leg-spinner Shane Warne for one-couldn't sleep either, worried about what Sachin would do to him the next morning. His emergence, coinciding with a newly liberalised India, made Sachin even more majestic. The Rs 100-crore contract in 2001 and the Rs 200-crore deal in 2006 were all stories that a fast-transforming nation was aspiring for. His personal worth is now estimated to be around $120 million (Rs 720 crore). If he was the new God, television commercials put him in heaven. In one of them, he sat on a chair flicking cricket balls with a stump as 'Govinda ala re' was replaced by 'Sachin ala re' in the background. With great power comes great responsibility, and Sachin understands this pop culture dictum better than most. Always polite, always happy to play the role model, he usually keeps cricket opinions close to his chest. To an extent that he sometimes gives the impression of being too self-obsessed with his own batting to care about larger issues such as administration and direction. But there have been occasional forays into uncharted territory that have established the weight of his words. After the 2007 World Cup debacle, when it seemed the Indian cricket board would not sever ties with coach Greg Chappell, Sachin stepped in with a memorable one-liner: "Paani sar se ooncha ho gaya hai. (The water has risen to dangerous levels)". The BCCI had no option after that-Chappell was sacked and order was restored. As the first of the golden generation to arrive and the last to go, Sachin's departure on the back of the exits of Sourav Ganguly, Anil Kumble, Rahul Dravid and VVS Laxman over the last four years finally puts the spotlight on a new Indian team. Luckily for India, the core of the middle-order is in some sort of shape. Cheteshwar Pujara is a player in the Dravid mould, and Virat Kohli will perhaps be pushed up as Sachin's successor at the number four slot. But the Indian line-up without Sachin's name in it will take some getting used to. Australian opener Matthew Hayden once said, "I have seen God. He bats at No. 4 for India." Not for much longer. Sachin's cricketing narrative, of course, is not all over yet. There is an epilogue to follow in the two Test matches against West Indies-an otherwise meaningless series, perhaps put together for his farewell, has suddenly gained tremendous significance. It will be one last opportunity to hear a partisan crowd cheer the fall of the second wicket, seamlessly switching to Indian sport's most famous four-syllable chant: "Sach-in, Sach-in." He will mark his guard, do a couple of mandatory sit-ups, shuffle before he faces his first delivery. In all likelihood, he'll play it towards mid-on and gesture to the non-striker that there is no run. But after these two matches, the on-drive for four, the upper-cut for six, and the bat raised to the heavens with his head thrown back after yet another milestone will be relegated to nostalgic video clips. Rest assured, you will remember where you were the day he walked back to the pavilion for the last time. Sachin Tendulkar's career is emblematic of a young, rising India. He predates everything-flashy cars, mobile phones, laptops, the Internet, six-figure starting salaries, and the hope of a bright future. He is the most emphatic symbol of how being young and successful could make you iconic. It's perhaps fitting that he's stepping away at a time when the mood of the nation is sombre because of a stumbling economy, Government paralysis, and rising crime against women. Once, we could turn to Sachin to forget about these troubles for a while. Who will we turn to now? ---------------------------------------------------- http://goo.gl/Dl19AW God and the Argumentative Indian Posted on 12 October 2013 by mohankaus | This article first appeared in DNA on 11 Oct 2013 in two parts: Part-1 and Part-2 I once had the opportunity to travel from Mumbai to Singapore with Raj Singh Dungarpur. He was on his way to New Zealand as a representative of the BCCI at an ICC meeting. During our conversation, I asked him what his best decision was. Almost before I could finish my question he said, “Selecting Sachin Tendulkar to play for India,” and added with a twinkle in his eye, “although if you had seen him play as often I had, it wasn’t really a risky decision. It was bold, but not risky. And mark my words, any investment in Tendulkar will always pay off.” Raj Singh Dungarpur, Akash Lal, Ramesh Saxena, Gundappa Viswanath and Naren Tamhane selected a young, bright-eyed, squeaky-voiced, curly-haired teenager to represent India in Pakistan. A young and determined 16-year old Sachin Tendulkar played against a tough Pakistan team on 15 November 1989; a Pakistan team that had three genuine pace bowlers (in Wasim Akram, Wakar Younis and Imran Khan) and a world-class leg-spinner (in Abdul Qadir). Almost twenty four years after that bold decision, Tendulkar will retire from International cricket after having played 200 Test matches. And in these 24 years, almost as often as we have heard the chant “Saaaaaachin Saaaaaachin” we have also had Tendulkar embody the very essence of the argumentative Indian. Rahul Bhattacharya captures this beautifully in his piece “Man-child superstar” in which he writes: “If the strokes are flowing, spectators feel something beyond pleasure. They feel something like gratitude. The silence that greets his dismissal is about the loudest sound in sport. With Tendulkar the discussion is not how he got out, but why. Susceptible to left-arm spin? To the inswinger? To the big occasion? The issue is not about whether it was good or not, but where does it rank? A Tendulkar innings is never over when it is over. It is simply a basis for negotiation. He might be behind headphones or helmet, but outside people are talking, shouting, fighting, conceding, bargaining, waiting. He is a national habit.” ***** Tendulkar never promised us that he would lead India to victory in every match he played. Yet, we wanted him to. No. We expected him to. No. We made him mortal if he did not. We expected more from Tendulkar than we did, from even our politicians. Tendulkar never promised that, at 40, he would produce the fluent strokes he played when he was 28. Yet, we always expected ‘the Tendulkar of old’ or ‘the Tendulkar of 1998′. We could, of course, purchase a DVD of the famous ‘Desert Storm’ series and see that Tendulkar of old. But that wasn’t enough. It was as though even time stood still when we evaluated Tendulkar. We could not accept an ageing Tendulkar and watch the Tendulkar of now. For the argumentative Indian, if Tendulkar did not reproduce his shots from 1998, he did not deserve to be in the team in 2013. Tendulkar himself never promised us that all his centuries would be made in ‘winning causes’. Yet we expected his centuries to always result in India wins (or else those centuries wouldn’t count, or we labeled him a selfish cricketer). Tendulkar himself never claimed he was God. But, we made him God and then the rest of us brought him down. Bit by bit. In the end analysis though, in a country that is somewhat bereft of (sporting) heroes, Tendulkar, the hero, has outlasted the argumentative Indian, crafted a career without a single blemish and stood as a beacon of hope and a giver of pleasure. Perhaps that is the mark of (his) greatness in the Indian context. Greatness in sport in India is perhaps not defined by the heady confluence of elegance, balance, poise, grace, technique, focus, determination, power, dominance, imperiousness, confidence, occasional arrogance, consistency, longevity, awareness and intent. He has been all of that over a long career. He has had all of those qualities over an extensive and distinguished career. Perhaps greatness in the Indian sporting context has to be marked by violent disagreements on the very essence of that greatness; what exactly that greatness is about. His greatness should have been automatically assured. Yet in India, Tendulkar has always polarized opinion. And that, perhaps, ought to be the accepted definition of greatness in a country that needs heroes but is equally eager to tear them down and ‘cut them down to size’ every now and then. ***** Sachin Tendulkar announced his retirement from all forms of cricket on Thursday, 10-10-2013. The fact that he had always worn the Number 10 India jersey may have had something to do with the timing of his retirement on this day. Or maybe it was the TEN that prefixed his surname which, in turn, may have earned him the number 10 jersey early on in his career. The one other date that may have worked better for him — from the point of view of the numbers – would have been 10-10-10. If he had retired on 10 October 2010, he may have retired some five years too early. Indeed, on that very day, he was 44 not out at Bangalore against the visiting Australians. He went on to make a beautifully crafted 214 in that match. If he had retired on 10-10-10, we would have also missed his majestic 146 that he made at Cape Town on 4 January 2011. That Cape Town knock was his last Test century although, after that, he did come close to the 3-figure mark on a few occasions: a 91 (against England at the Oval in 2011) a 94 (against West Indies in Mumbai in 2011), a beautifully crafted 73 (against Australia at the MCG in 2011) a 76 (against England at the Eden Gardens in 2012) and an 81 (against Australia at Chennai in 2013). So, on 10-10-2013, he has, in my view, retired two years too early. I say that although I am confident that my view is going to be questioned quite soundly and ridiculed significantly. But that is what you get when you have an opinion on Tendulkar. There is no middle ground. You are either pro- or anti-Tendulkar. He polarizes opinions like no other champion players does (particularly in India). As Siddhartha Vaidyanathan says in a post on Tendulkar, “What pains me is how a large part of discourse on the Internet is so limited to black and white. You are apparently either for Sachin or against him. If you question his place in the side, you are a moron who has no right to express an opinion or an ignorant bum who has never held a bat in his life or someone with a vested interest.” ***** For all talk that he didn’t care about numbers and statistics, numbers did seem to matter to the man; or at least to the people around him who had a stake in him — and many did. So the choice of 10-10-2013 to announce his retirement was possibly deliberately crafted and carefully constructed like the 241* he made in Sydney in January 2004. Numbers may not have mattered to the man, but they did to the industry around the man. And there is an industry around the man; an industry that seems filled with brand merchants, product architects, advertising honchos and people who launch things. Perhaps I ought to have said ‘there was an industry around him’. I would, if I can bring myself to talk about God in the past tense. I cannot. At least, not yet. Numbers did seem to matter. He worked hard to get to that 200th Test. Whether he did so because he wanted to, himself, or because of the people who had invested in him who had a vested interest in prolonging his career, we will never know. But it had been an open secret for far too long that he would play on until his 200th Test and that that 200th Test would be played in India. Indeed, it was the worst kept secret in the Indian cricket landscape; an environment that seems to have a steady growth — and not a decline — in innuendo and secret handshakes and less and less of assured planning and fact. That his retirement in a home series was engineered so blatantly by his cricket Board just makes the cricket world sit up again and wonder at the beast at the ICC table that we Indian fans have created; the ogre that we continually endure and support. ***** So how did you feel when you heard of the news of Tendulkar’s retirement? Me? Although I sensed, since the start of this year that Tendulkar would retire after his 200th Test and even though I was prepared for the announcement, I felt a numbness when I heard the news. I cannot imagine an India Test team without Tendulkar. I cannot quite bring myself to accept that someone else will now walk in at the fall of the second wicket. Image There was always a calm sense of assurance that Sachin Tendulkar would walk to the middle at the fall of the second wicket; that he would walk down the pavilion steps (or ramp), look skyward, squeeze his eyes, walk purposefully to the wicket, take guard and perform his pre-stance box adjustment routine. That was assurance. It gave me comfort. And I cannot yet bring myself to accept that the now famous and always assuring pre-stance box-adjustment routine will now be replaced by the vigorous bat twirl and ‘inside of the helmet visor wipe’ routine that belongs to Virat Kohli. That acceptance may happen too, only because it must. Tendulkar had given me — and many others like me — much joy in the 1990s when India got routinely thrashed all around the world. He gave me cause to celebrate because of the way he played the game. His cricket was simple, uncomplicated and beautiful. His cricket was untainted and joyous. His cricket was pure. I had watched with admiration and pride as he grew in stature: he was first a kid playing in the midst of grown-ups, then a boy, then a lad, then a man and then, a God in his country and then, a statesman in world cricket. He did not want to be a God, mind you. We made him God. And the same people who made him God cruelly called him Endulkar in 1996 2006 when he was going through a rough patch, as all human beings must (and do). But that was us fans. This God did have clay feet. Sometimes. In the end, however, there was only one constant. He had always played the beautiful game with the same wide-eyed enthusiasm. He only wanted to play. He knew no other life. ***** I had watched him score 119* in Manchester. Yes, that innings that really announced his arrival on the world stage. I was in England in those days. A few months later, I moved to Australia and there, I watched every ball he faced when he made 148 in Sydney in January 1992 in the company of Ravi Shastri. But more importantly, a month later, I watched in awe, with pride and a growing sense of admiration as he braved the pace of Craig McDermott, Merv Hughes, Paul Rieffel, Mike Whitney and Tom Moody when he made 114 in Perth. I had watched the young boy grow up to be a man and then, a legend. All in the space of 18 months. During that defining Perth innings, a boy wonder had become a man. That is, to date, the best innings I have watched Tendulkar play. Or is it? Was it that 241* in Sydney in 2004? Or the 111 in Johannesburg in November 1992? Or the 177 in Nottingham in 1996? Or the 169 in Cape Town in 1997? Or the 155* against Australia in Chennai in 1998? Or the 155 in Bloemfontein in 2001? Or the 193 in Leeds in 2002? Or the 194* in Multan in 2004? Or the 154* in Sydney in that Test in 2008? There are too many wonderful knocks to list. But talk about the best Tendulkar innings always polarizes opinions, like talk about the man himself. And that is what you get by having an opinion on Tendulkar. There is no unique answer. Was that 241* his best or was it that 194*? Perhaps that is the point about greatness. We can’t quit agree on what constitutes greatness, although there can’t be much doubt on greatness itself. ***** And then there were the endless debates on whether Tendulkar played for himself or for his team. Siddhartha Vaidyanathan wrote on “Tendulkar and the ‘clutch’ question” in which he quotes his friend Jay, who said: “Most fans agree on what is a big game and what is not. There comes a time during these big games when most fans smell the moment, the moment when the game is balancing on the finest of threads. I have seen Tendulkar occasionally sense the moment and pounce on it, imposing his greatness on the occasion. But I feel I’ve seen him not seize these moments more often.” Perhaps these arguments would never have happened if Tendulkar had finished the game off and won that Chennai Test against Pakistan in 1999. What that ignores is that there were a whole bunch of players who could have stayed with and helped a bruised Tendulkar win that game for India. Perhaps these arguments won’t have happened if Tendulkar hadn’t skied that McGrath bouncer in the 2003 World Cup final. What that ignores is that it was perhaps because of Tendulkar that India even reached the 2003 World Cup final. Perhaps… But that is also an integral part of Tendulkar’s greatness in a country that is only now getting used to thinking about greatness in cricket. Fans have to either criticize his 136 in Chennai against Pakistan for what he did not do, or celebrate it, for what he did. ***** Many will say that Tendulkar had extended his stay; that he ought to have retired from all forms of the game on 2 April 2011. But he continued playing all three forms of the game after that day. It was not his responsibility to select himself in the team. To play was his choice; one we must always respect. He had earned it. But did we respect him? No. Arguments raged notwithstanding the fact that, of the four member middle-order who have retired in the last four years, India has only found stable and able replacements for Rahul Dravid (Cheteshwar Pujara) and VVS Laxman (Virat Kohli). Four years after his retirement, India still does not have a steady replacement for Sourav Ganguly after trying out Yuvraj Singh, Suresh Raina, S. Badrinath, Ajinkya Rahane and Ravindra Jadeja. All of these have only had mixed success. Yet, we were keen to disrobe God although it was clearly the duty of the national selectors to have a chat to the man and talk to him about retirement — that is, if they wanted to replace him. Did he overstay his welcome? No. As I indicated earlier, in my view, he still had a year or two of Test cricket left in him. The team has already seen the departure of Ganguly, Dravid, Laxman, Kumble and perhaps Sehwag and Zaheer Khan. These days, a team that loses all of its stalwarts in one fell swoop is called Australia which thought — somewhat arrogantly — that there is an endlessly rich talent pipeline that affords selectors the luxury of a brutal revolving door. National sporting teams need to carefully nurture talent and this needs the hands of an artist and not the axe of a wood-chopper. Of course, Tendulkar’s place in the Indian team has never really been questioned (even in 1996) except, perhaps marginally, in the last one year or so of his career. Tendulkar still seemed to love the game and every time he took the field, seemed to play the game with the same zest that I saw in Manchester some 22 years ago. And he can still hold that 2-down spot. In his retirement announcement, Tendulkar says, “It’s hard for me to imagine a life without playing cricket because it’s all I have ever done since I was 11 years old.” His job was to play. He knew nothing else. ***** So, the debates will continue to rage. And I had one within 5 minutes of his retirement announcement. I thought that his best shot was the straight drive to a fast bowler. A colleague said it was the upper cut over the slips, back arched, eyes focused on ball, neck slightly inclined. Yet another said that it was the back foot drive through the covers. Another said it had to be the casual flick through deep square leg. We could not arrive at a meaningful conclusion. Perhaps one is not necessary. We moved instead, to a discussion on his best innings ever. 241*, 194*, 111, 177, 155*… An hour later, with no conclusion in sight, we moved on to his best ODI innings ever. And so the night meandered on. When an international sportsperson plays for as long as Sachin Tendulkar has, it is hard — nay, almost impossible — to pick out one specific shot, one specific innings, one specific moment. All of them were perhaps equally brilliant. All of them were crafted carefully. But more importantly, all of them were played by a young, enthusiastic, curly haired lad who loved the game, loved playing for India and wanted nothing more than to give pleasure to the people who watched him play. Today, a day after the announcement, the numbness is gone. The sadness is gone. I only feel pleasure. Pleasure that I watched it all — from 1989 to 2013. Pleasure that I argued about him. For him. Pleasure that he enhanced the appreciation I have for the game. Pleasure that he was there as a beacon of hope in 2000, a time when the match-fixing saga raged; a time when I thought I would abandon my support for the game I loved so much because I had learned that some of the men who played the game had played it to line their own pockets. But then God was there. He did not know how to cheat or how to throw games. He could not be procured. And in the end, his love of the game is really the measure of his greatness. He played for the team always. He played for the fans who loved the game always. Throughout his life, he lived cocooned in the warm comfort of his home or on the cricket field. He knew of no other life other than cricket. Meanwhile, the arguments will continue unabated…

[Chandan]

http://goo.gl/rKSaJ8 Sachin Posted on October 11, 2013 by Matt This is my tribute post to Sachin Tendulkar. I never saw Sachin bat in person. Sachin never made me cry tears of joy in my living room. I never thought he was God. He did not define my childhood. He did not represent my nation’s coming of age. And his career for the most part while not in decline, was nearing its natural conclusion when I started following the sport. But I am a cricket fan, and so I respected him as one of the all time greats, and I loved watching him bat, and I loved the adoration he commanded wherever he went. At the same time, however, I am not an Indian cricket supporter, and so his successes or failures did not affect me in the way they affected the one billion Indian cricket fans the world over. There is no real reason for me to mourn his retirement from Test cricket – but I still do. Very much so. I mourn because my friends the world over are mourning. I see them weep for their hero, weep for their childhoods. And I cannot help but empathize and get wrapped up in their sadness. It is never easy to see people you like in pain. But it is more than that… I mourn because the tributes I have been reading all day – whether they be 12o character tweets or 2,000 word essays or just simple pictures – have been heartbreakingly perfect and sad and full of that strange sort of melancholy we reserve for our childhood heroes, even if we only knew them as old men. As I have mentioned time and again, cricket – and cricketers – inspire fantastic sportswriting, the best sportswriting, and so it would follow that the retirement of the greatest cricketer in a generation would generate beautiful tribute after tribute, and you all have not disappointed. I look forward to reading all of them. With a lump in my throat. But it is more than that… I mourn his retirement because I feel it might be one of the final nails in cricket’s coffin. If India turns its back on the game, then the game dies. And without Sachin, it will be far easier for India to do so – even with its current crop of rising stars lighting up the Wankhede. As I tweeted earlier, I feel that cricket, the game, has lost its center of gravity, and is spinning uncontrollably into deep, dark, cold space. I am not sure if it can be saved. There will never be another Sachin – no one else will be able to elevate the sport quite like he did – and so this might be it, this might be how cricket dies. Historians will not write about DRS or matchfixing or the IPL when they talk about the death of the game, they will simple say: the game died with Sachin. But it is still more… A few months ago, I wrote a post about my dad and Sachin. Linking the two forever even though my dad probably didn’t know a blessed thing about cricket. And all the talk about Sachin’s debut in November of 1989 keeps bringing me back to that fateful day a month earlier. And I mourn my dad again. And I think about all the times Sachin batted: all those matches, all those runs, all those hundreds – and it just makes me realize how long my dad has really been gone. And how much has happened since he died. And it makes me so unbelievably sad. And so I guess it worked. And I guess I was wrong above. My life is intrinsically linked to Sachin Tendulkar’s – tenuously linked but linked nonetheless – and now that he has retired, I feel like the grief for my dad should be changed in some way. But it hasn’t changed. And it won’t change. It will continue. Sachin will soon be gone. But my grief will be here always. And that is why I mourn Sachin’s retirement. All those reasons above. Many of you are losing a hero, some of you are losing the last links to your youth, and all of us are losing the Patron Saint of this game we love. That right there is plenty of reason to mourn. But because I decided to write the post linked to above, Sachin’s career timeline also reminds me of my personal grief cycle – and that is enough to send me over the proverbial cliff. And so I mourn. God speed, Sachin. We miss you already. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- http://goo.gl/uzE7zI 19 October 2013 Goodbye Sachin Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar - sporting colossus; Michael Jordan rolled into Pele rolled into Mohammed Ali and then spit out. We've had a while to digest it now. The decision that is. Everyone and their mother-in-law have had their say. Too early, too late, team-man, record-breaker, god, not god, batting genius. It’s hard for me to put into words exactly how I feel. A sad despairing parting that I knew was coming. In so many ways, Sachin was a surrogate. A surrogate for everything. Pride, defiance, success. I hated that tagline - ' the hopes of a billion Indian's on his shoulders', just thought it was a tad hyperbolic. I think of it now again, and realize perhaps it wasn't that hyperbolic after all. Especially if I considered how much meaning and import I attached to his every performance, forget the rest of the country. The thing is, Sachin was there before we got there. A teenage boy wonder already when I first saw him on TV as a 7 year old. My first hero was Kapil Dev, but he barely lasted long enough as a player into my cricket watching days to register significantly. There were others of course - Sri with his wicked leg-cutters, Azhar in all wristy,attacking elegant glory, the peerless Anil Kumble and within another four years of course the triple threat of VVS, Saurav and my own other personal favorite Rahul Sharad Dravid. And while I had other heroes (especially The Wall), there was something about Sachin that just was. Something that beggared description and rational analysis really. It wasn't the numbers, it wasn't the precocious talent, and it wasn't that beautiful straight drive or that simultaneously booming and elegant back-foot cover drive. It wasn't all those centuries or all those victories (after already having sustained years of consistent defeats through the 90’s). Sachin was a friend. That constant, redoubtable, reliable fellow that was just always there. That was part of the charm I think - regardless of his genius; he was an unbelievable and otherworldly phenomenon, but also somehow, in some small intrinsic way, one of us. My first Chepauk test also coincided with Sachin's first century on Indian soil - India's win over England in 1993 on the way to 3-0. We were lucky at Chepauk, incredibly so. From that 165 versus England, to that marauding 155 not out versus Australia in '98, the 136 in *that* test match versus Pakistan in 1999, all of which I was lucky to watch in person. Playing and watching cricket is my shared connection with my dad. He'd bowl his off-spin to me at home, his hawaii chappals flapping about, fooling me in the flight, making me go red-faced that I’d missed an easy off-break. He took me to that first test. The cheering crowds rising crescendo amid the warm sea breeze inching its way above the concrete columns by mid-afternoon. The giant mechanical scoreboard that seemed so much more massive than it was. Long-off and long-on just beneath us, almost within reach, the bowler setting into his run-up. Packed sandwiches and idlis with The Hindu and the Sportstar for lunch break company. My Thatha's redoubtable black binoculars passing back and forth from my dad to me. That's when we saw Sachin together for the first time. Of course I'm not alone, and many, many others have written extensively about their Sachin memories and what he has meant to them. And therein lies the beauty of it. The same experience, the same joy, the same exuberant, hopeful screaming joy was had by children across India. A single cover drive, straight drive and fine paddle sweep and simultaneous celebratory hooping and cheering in every household. Watching India play cricket in the 90's was a community activity (I'm now reduced to streaming it on whichever device I have available to me at the time, usually with headphones plugged in). Sachin immortalized our individual experiences of childhood, of adolescence, of becoming adults and fitting into adult-sized lives while still inhabiting a Sachin-sized mind and spirit. Sachin calling it a day is definitively the end of any semblance of childhood I have left, a final vestige. The only one left standing who debuted before I can remember starting to watch. You gave us everything you had, and we have loved you for it every time you've stepped foot on a cricket field. Goodbye Sachin. So long and thanks for all the fish old friend. undefined Now that Sachin's walked off as a batsman, in all probability, for the final time, I just had a short post-script to add. It finally feels truly appropriate to say 'Thank you Sachin'. In these past few days and weeks it has become abundantly clear how much of a shared experience it was watching Sachin play for India; rooting for him and for the country. We established a special bond with him, each of us thinking that it was our own personal connection with the little master, but at the same time instinctively knowing and sharing in being co-conspirators of a sort, recognizing 'fan-hood' in one another. Especially among those of us who've been lucky enough to have seen him from his early days in the 90's. He really did transcend it all, from when he began till his last moment with bat in hand - it didn't matter what else was happening, for nothing could detract, from the sheer fluid joy and beauty of his batting. Thank you Sachin.

[Chandan]

http://goo.gl/wUAav1 SHIVAJI PARK TO SIALKOT: THE BUILD-UP TO THE BLOODIED NOSE by Ayaz Memon Published 22 October 2013 Shivaji Park to Sialkot: The build-up to the bloodied nose For most cricket followers, their introduction to Sachin Tendulkar invariably come from the 644-run world record partnership with Vinod Kambli, playing for their school Shardashram in the Harris Shield in Mumbai. This was some time in February 1988. It earned the pair mention in the hallowed pages of Wisden Cricket Almanack and sparked off great interest (in both originally) across the cricket world. But Tendulkar’s achievements even before the `record’ were not insignificant. I remember a story (perhaps the first) about him appearing in the sports pages of Mid-day where I worked then. The focus in this section was on Mumbai’s budding sportspersons. The writer likened Tendulkar to Sandeep Patil, more for his free-stroking ability than any physical resemblance: Patil was a hefty six-footer and Sachin barely five feet and even then it did not appear he would grow much taller. My first `sighting’ of Tendulkar came some time after the record partnership with Kambli. By now he was already much talked about in Mumbai cricket circles. He had made his mark with a series of brilliant innings in schools cricket, topped up by the world record, and was already drawing big crowds filled with curiosity wherever he played. Interestingly, Tendulkar would be unfazed by attention even then; if anything, he seemed to thrive under pressure. His school friend Amol Muzumdar, himself a prolific run-getter in first class cricket, says about Tendulkar, “Even at age 13, he was self-assured, he had poise at the wicket and power and timing behind his strokes way beyond his years. Scoring big was like child’s play for him. He never got tired, and all of us would be surprised if he failed.” Together with that were sure signs of team spirit, a sense of fun and an abiding love for cricket. Mazumdar recalls an instance where Tendulkar made 178 not out against a Mumbai school, the match won practically off his own his bat. The reward was to watch the Tom Cruise starrer Top Gun. But after the colas were drunk and chips were eaten, it was back to Shivaji Park for more practice. The practice bit after the movie Muzumdar mentions here is crucial in understanding Tendulkar’s mental make-up even as a 13-year-old. Like all kids his age, he liked to enjoy himself, but his passion and commitment for the game were non-negotiable. And practice, practice, more practice was the one constant theme in his life. Tendulkar’s resolute ambition and the dedication to realise this have been tellingly captured by the brilliant chronicler of cricket Peter Roebuck who traced the master batsman’s life down to the maidan level. In his engaging anthology `It Takes All Sorts’, the former Somerset captain gets terrific insights into the mental make-up of the growing up Tendulkar from David Innis, his contemporary at Ramakant Achrekar’s Shivaji Park coaching school. Citing Innis, Roebuck relates: ``…practice under Das Shivalkar (understudy to Acharekar) would begin at 6 am. The boys would be split into pairs, the matches would begin and each youngster got a chance to bat. ``Whether you hit the ball or not, you had to run or you were declared out, says Innis so there was no scope for lingering.’’ “Tendulkar was in his group, says Innis, and quickly learnt to find the gaps in the field and running hard between wickets. Even then, Tendulkar’s dedication was legendary. Innis recalls arriving early one morning and chatting to his coach when a small curly-haired child appeared complaining that the maalis would not put up the nets until six and could Sir Shivalkar please tell them to erect them himself.” The story I found even more fascinating (and pertinent) is of a couple of years later. Along with a youth team, Tendulkar travelled the night by train. Having reached their destination at 3 am, everybody else retired to sleep: all except Tendulkar who practised in the corridors till the sun rose, then woke his coach up at 5.30 and insisted on going to the ground as soon as possible as he was not happy with his batting! In those days, writes Roebuck again borrowing from Innis, Tendulkar’s captains and coaches used to send him to third man because he was full of suggestions and it was the only way to keep him quiet! The experience of several India captains in the 25 years since has been no different, though no one has had the temerity to banish him to the outfield once he became an international cricketer. But back to 1988 and my first view of this much talked about youngster. One day I get a call from Dilip Vengsarkar, then India captain: “This young fellow Tendulkar is poised to get another century. Let’s go and watch him.” When India’s cricket captain calls, even bosses melt and I got permission immediately to spend the day at cricket rather than edit copy and make pages. When Vengsarkar and I reached CCI where the match was being played, Tendulkar was well past his century but looked in to mood to give up. By and by, the Indian captain veered off to meet fellow cricketers and friends while I found myself with the late Raj Singh Dungarpur, then president of the venerated cricket club, as always seated in a vantage position in the pavilion right behind the bowler’s arm. Ever the cricket romantic, Dungarpur said to me, “Watch this boy. He is not quite 15 but has the mind of a 35-year-old veteran.” We watched. Tendulkar looked indefatigable and played with an abandon and astuteness that I had seen in very, very few: To be more accurate, none. “He has got intrinsic cricketing intelligence,’’ said Dungarur admiringly as Tendulkar chased runs relentlessly. ``He is unafraid to clear the field with lofted shots, and whenever the opposing captain spreads the field, he pushes for singles and twos. The scoreboard never stops moving.’’ Many have accused Dungarpur of exaggeration in matters cricketing, especially when it came to Mumbai batsmen (some reckon this is because he suffered most at their hands) but it is safe to say that this time he was right. By all accounts, Tendulkar was on his way to playing a pivotal role in Indian cricket. Just how soon was the only issue. The India cap though did not come quite so easily as the runs flowing from Tendulkar’s bat. In his Ranji debut in late 1988, he made a century against Gujarat at the Wankhede stadium. He also made a century in his Duleep and Irani trophy debuts. Tendulkar’s three tons on debut made him a notch higher even at 15 than other Mumbai greats like Sunil Gavaskar and Dilip Vengsarkar, tireless run-getters themselves at school and college level. In spite of Tendulkar’s prodigious talent, there were still doubts about him and is ability. Many were worried that he might fizzle out like so many other child geniuses. Could this precocious talent be transplanted to the real world? Would it not be squashed and destroyed? Did a young boy have the stomach to deal with the pressure of international cricket? But the selectors were still not so sure about blooding him so early. The West Indies tour was coming up and Tendulkar’s 15 years looked very young on paper against the most dreaded team in the world. Ironically, among those who voted against him was Raj Singh Dungarpur, then chairman of the selection committee. He reasoned, “The West Indies have this fearsome pace attack. If Sachin gets hit or injured, he might lose confidence forever.” This was not entirely unfounded, but like all those who had seen him play and were clamouring for his inclusion, Tendulkar was also deeply disappointed when he did not make the cut for the West Indies tour. What was astonishing, however, was his rebuttal of Dungarpur’s apprehensions. At Sportsweek where I worked then, we had ventured into a monthly sports video, Grandstand, to be anchored by the actor Tom Alter. When the team for the West Indies was announced, skipper Vengsarkar and reject Tendulkar were obvious choices for interviews. Vengsarkar was the big star then and needed some cajoling. Tendulkar agreed immediately. On the appointed day, he reached the Hindu Gymkhana straight from a match carrying his kit bag and accompanied by older brother Ajit, then his minder and confidante. A biggish crowd had collected there, more to see Vengsarkar than Tendulkar, who stood patiently under the shadow of a tree for his turn to be interviewed. When the cameras rolled, Tendulkar was short on words, but not on confidence. The key question was obviously whether he was disappointed at the selectors not picking him. “Yes,’’ he told Tom. “They were worried that you might get injured and lose confidence,’’ Tom followed up. ``If I got hit, I would learn quicker,’’ came Tendulkar’s bristling response in the squeaky voice that was soon to be identified all over the globe. I have gone over that video hundreds of times and have never failed to marvel at the 15-year-old Tendulkar’s self-belief. He didn’t have the vocabulary then, but what those few words communicated was, “How can they do this after I have scored so many centuries and runs? Can’t they see how much I’ve dreamt and waited to play Test cricket? Can’t they see I am born only to do this?’’ In hindsight, it was perhaps just as well that Tendulkar did not go to the West Indies. Malcolm Marshall, Ian Bishop and the other fast bowlers left some bones broken, many stumps and Indian reputations shattered. Barring Sanjay Manjrekar and to some extent Ravi Shastri, India’s batting was reduced to a shambles. How 15-year-old Tendulkar would have coped can only speculated, but I think it was just as well that he wasn’t exposed then. The defeat was massive (losing three of the four Tests) and compounded by an unseemly row that erupted after several players went for an unofficial tour of the United States to play exhibition matches against the directive of the BCCI. Relations between players and the Board were strained to snapping point, leading to a legal conflict too and a revision in selection strategy that was to become evident when the 1989-1990 season dawned. A marquee away series against Pakistan first up was to be the highlight of the new season, but the lead up to this was loaded with acrimony, controversy and some cataclysmic changes. Skipper Dilip Vengsarkar not only lost his job, but also his place in the team. Mohinder Amarnath lost his place, prompting a comparison of selectors with `jokers’ – a line that has since been immortalised. The upshot of all this, however, Krishnamachari Srikkanth was now unexpectedly India’s captain and had under him a fairly new look squad. `Team of the 90s’ is how Raj Singh Dungarpur, the chief selector, described it. The metaphor for this was 16-year-old Sachin Tendulkar, finally poised to win the India cap, almost two years after he and Kambli had the world record. Interest in the young batsman had permeated the border much before the Indian team landed in Pakistan. By this time I was sports editor of The Independent, launched by the Times of India Group that year, and remember getting a trunk call (cell phones were not even a pipe dream them) from a Karachi paper wanting details on Tendulkar. “Playing Imran, Wasim and Waqar is not easy,’’ warned the journo on the other side of the line after hearing of his achievements. True. But if Tendulkar lived up to promise, I said provocatively, they would have ample things to write about him. The needle edge of an Indo-Pak cricket series spills over into the media too! Tendulkar’s arrival at Karachi was accompanied with a lot of curiosity and interest in Pakistan, including by Imran and his team. I remember Javed Miandad asking me whether he had a good defence or played too many shots, as he had heard. But in some ways, his debut was eclipsed the big story on the eve of the Test: Raman Lamba injuring himself just before the toss, which allowed Mohammed Azharuddin to regain his place in the side. This was to have far-reaching consequences in Indian cricket which obviously nobody could have known then. Azhar’s return was highlighted by some spectacular slip catching and two useful knocks, but the man who saved the match for India was Sanjay Manjrekar with a controlled, unbeaten 113. These two put Tendulkar’s 15 runs on debut (batting at number 6) in the shade though I remember Imran Khan telling me that ``ladke me himmat hai’’ (the boy has courage). What Imran probably meant then was that young Tendulkar had held his nerve well at the highest level. But this quality was to find magnificent expression in the last Test of the series at Sialkot. Against all projections, India had not lost a match to the strong Pakistan side. Sanjay Manjrekar, riding the crest of form, had been the most cultured batsman and heaviest scorer. When the fourth Test began, Imran’s desperation to force the issue was palpable. It was a quickish, seaming track to help the home team bowlers, but Pakistan’s batsmen played rashly and conceded a first innings lead for the first time in the series. This seemed to rile Imran even further, and with time running out, he went on an all-out attack. In the second innings, India found themselves on the precipice of a collapse as Imran and Wasim bowled with hostility: when Shastri was fourth dismissed, the score read a measly 38. Among the batsmen dismissed was Manjrekar, who had been like a rock throughout. The attention was now turned on Sidhu and Tendulkar. The partnership was steady, without flourish when Waqar unleashed a cruel snorter that caught the latter on his face. Imran, unwilling to cede even a millimetre, turned his head away as some blood spilled on to the pitch, causing some anxiety in the Indian dressing room. Medical assistance for Tendulkar was prompt, but brief. Sidhu now remembers asking his partner if he wanted to retire hurt and resume later. ``Main khelega,’’ (I’ll play) was the reply. The fielders soon resumed their positions as Tendulkar settled into his stance. The spectators, who had been baying for a wicket (and some more blood), went suddenly quiet as Waqar steamed in for his next delivery. It was pitched up and on the off-stump which Tendulkar leaned into and caressed past cover for a boundary. The audience and Pakistan players seemed spellbound at this show of bravado. The losing psychological battle had been overturned. Sachin Tendulkar’s batting genius had taken wing. ------------------------------------------------------------------- http://goo.gl/WkUlek Remembering Sachin's competitive streak on and off the field Little Maestro's teammate and rival Kedar Godbole reminisces a younger Tendulkar's mischievious streak October 23, 2013 MUMBAI Kedar Godbole Kedar GodboleI can claim to be one of the select few, who played with or against Sachin Tendulkar during the school days and thus, saw him behaving exactly the way a school boy should — full of pranks and mischief. At the same time, qualities like guts, determination and never-say-die spirit that turned him into a cricketing idol, were so evident even at that tender age. It was a rewarding experience to be in his team, travel with him and share the same dressing room for Mumbai, West Zone and in the National junior tournaments organised by the BCCI. To begin with, we were opponents. Sachin was a member of the strong Shardashram Vidyamandir team led by Mayur Kadrekar, while I was leading IES English. Beating Shardashram was quite a task but we managed to beat them in the quarter-final of the Giles Shield and then went on to win the tournament. Sachin Tendulkar plays a game of tennis in Lahore on the 1989 tour of Pakistan. Pic/Getty Images Our good performances for Mumbai and West Zone were rewarded when Sachin, Jatin Paranjape and myself were selected for a month-long U-15 National camp conducted by BCCI at Indore. We Mumbai boys were accommodated in one room and in the adjacent room we had East Zone players Sourav Ganguly and Avijit Chatterji. One day, Sourav and Avijit played a prank on the West Zone boys. It was high time we got even. Late at night we put our plan into action (do I need to tell you, who was the leader of the plan?). We collected buckets full of water from the bathroom and emptied them through the gap under the door of our adjacent room. Next morning, Sourav and his buddy found their kit bags floating in water. Dada came out fuming and screaming, but we kept a straight face. We “khadoos” Mumbai boys hate to lose you see, even off the field. A few years ago, when I met Sourav, we remembered this incident and had a hearty laugh. During the same camp, Sachin injured his toe. For him, wearing shoes became a painful task. We had a practice match the next day. The opponents had crafty spinners like Narendra Hirwani and Sunil Lahore, who played for the Madhya Pradesh Ranji Trophy team and fast bowler Ashish Winston Zaidi, who was nippy and lethal. Sachin desperately wanted to play as he was very keen to face this quality attack. He somehow convinced our coach Vasu Paranjape sir and got himself included in the playing XI. Sachin scored a half-century. He hobbled for his ones and twos and made his never-say-die spirit all the more visible as a 13-year-old. Touring England with Sachin for Star Cricket Club was another awesome experience. We were managed by Mr Kailash Gattani and Mr Nitin Dalal with Vasant Amladi Sir as chief coach/mentor. During this month-long tour we played matches against much senior opponents. However, Sachin outperformed all his senior teammates. On the tour we were often put up at college hostels that had excellent sports/recreation facilities like tennis, squash and badminton courts. Sachin, as all of us now know, was a big John McEnroe fan. After he picked up a racquet out of sheer curiosity, one of our senior teammates, who used to play tennis, challenged Sachin. The challenge was immediately accepted by our hero. Age and tennis experience of our senior teammate did not deter him. Sachin won the tennis match without wearing sports shoes. He fired in his winners with his black leather shoes. Another victory... Sachin won another competition — this time in the hostel bathroom. The challenge was to dip our heads in a sink full of water. Whoever holds his breath longer wins. Sachin defeated his opponents in the earlier rounds hands down. Sameer Dighe had reached the ‘final’ from the other half and Sachin proved to be smarter in the final as well. The otherwise spick and span bathroom was in an absolute mess and to our bad luck, Kailash sir walked in only to see Sachin and Sameer fully drenched. I still remember the powerful square cut he executed against a Saurashtra left-arm fast bowler while batting for Mumbai U-17. The fielder at point made an effort to stop the ball and endured a deep cut on his palm, which started bleeding profusely as the ball raced to the boundary. In another Mumbai U-17 match, I had taken a few wickets and would do my chances of getting into the West Zone team a lot of good if I scored some runs. Sachin was, as usual, batting brilliantly, but knowing that my selection depended on me scoring a few runs, he sacrificed his wicket. As we crossed, he stopped and said, “Kedar runs kar (Kedar, get runs).” Fortunately, I got a decent score and was selected for West Zone. Sachin always cared for his teammates. When he was picked for his Ranji Trophy debut against Gujarat in 1988, Sachin wanted to play with Sairaj Bahutule’s bat, which he had used in one of his earlier matches. Since Sairaj and me used to play for Podar College, Sairaj handed over the bat to me to be given to Sachin, who came to our house at Shivaji Park the next day to collect the bat. Like a skilled craftsman, he wanted to have the best equipment at his disposal while taking up an important assignment. Sachin scored a century on his debut in first class cricket. And as we say, the rest is history!

[vvvslaxman]

http://www.sportstaronnet.com/ IN the current edition quiet a few articles, interviews about Sachin. Kumble, Ramiz, WV Raman.