You are recognized the world over,the teeming public in stadia and home chants your name,expectations tethered to your bat everytime,lacks of young boys shadow your skills,you have achieved greatest honors you are touted as a game`s great,you are respected and loved,you are .....
In the gloriously fertile space of a genius`s mind,there exists little room for banality.When you delve deep into your energy reserves to make that dive,you realize you could have done more as you watch the ball racing to the boundary.Oh,how you wish you were four-five inches taller.Win! Win! It doesn't take 100 runs always,and it takes only one run in many ways.Spanking shots,elegant drives,effortless wrists,unpenetrable defense and cold steely eyes and then one dropped chance.You sigh! the world thinks you can make it all up,afterall you are superman,and you think-get back to basics.And suddenly you are the apple of their eyes with 90 to your name while the other guy nonchalantly gets the double ton.And then you are sore to them when you fail.You have to do well,you have to perform,its all your fault though,you gave them the panacea,and now they are addicted.
Normal? When you are normal? when you are celebrating the success of the team or when you from the grilled visor of your helmet wait for the red cherry to come near your wood? Do you sleep gloriously when you lead your team to victory or you shift with a nervous energy akin to a young boy.You are also addicted.To the sweat dripping,to the bat raising,to the hand shaking and to the trophy wrapping.You are so very much tied to the game,you are all the more free.Greatly aloof from the known fact about your greatness,your mind is an island,purposeful and artistic.You think simple,while the world gloats.You think humane,while the world gasps at the divinity.Not their fault I say,there are those eyes that looks downwards-your eyes and there are those that look up-their eyes.You act,you don`t think! You mesmerize them not yourself! You do what you have to,every single time-to play.That`s enough,that is what all they ask for.Uninitiated,they will throw brickbats also,for they hate your counterpart,your worse half,the one who fails in the most elementary of tricks sometimes.
Tons of paeans are written the world over for you,millions watch the game so that they could tell their generations about your generation,and scores drool over your left handed signature skills and you?you casually listen to your music player and silently walk when you get a rough decision on the field? Didn't the energy of the world transfer to you.Why you don't change?Why it seems you are still the kid that played fifteen years ago?Your innocent voice perhaps hides more than we can imagine.To go to chasms and eke out the demons would be easier than to define a defiled page of your life and character.And it is not about deitifying you,it is more about getting the pedestal more closer to the commoners so that they can see you more,absorb your more.
Willful admission of the horror of missing you in the entirety from the game`s arena mitigates it somewhat.But the time is close. Notwithstanding some of the people have already retired you in their minds and possibly money ordering your pension to you,the majority of them would agree that none of the earthly limits one sets on a sportsman`s stature doesn`t apply to you.Age,records,wins,losses doesn't matter as long as the game is still made more beautiful-by you.The daydream spell you have casted so many times over fans and non believers alike is lifting but the real world is horrifying.The real world without your purity would not be a nice place to write or talk about.There would be no immortals,no heroes...only shards of reminiscences that would pierce through our memory.We would then remember what you stood for.You,however would be just normal,listening to music,in your home,albeit without those fluffy pads,without those beads of sweat and with no strings attached,in your own solitary confine.
The 22 yards will miss you Sachin once you are done!