I haven’t been watching the Cricket World Cup since its inception in 1975 as I wasn’t even born! Back then, it was called the Prudential World Cup and wasn’t as glamorous as it is now. The game was black and white and so are most of the photos from that era. The jerseys and styles were very ’70-ish with the players sporting long sideburns, hippie hairstyles and bell-bottoms. Our Ravi Shastri was arguably the most stylish emerging cricketer as evidenced in the picture below.
25 June 1983, India lifting the World Cup. Notice Ravi Shastri and his unkempt hair.
As the world moved on, the Cricket World Cup did too. With the advent of coloured jerseys in 1992, the ICC Cricket World cup added more glitz in terms of day/night matches where the audience in front of television could see sweat glistening on the forehead of a parrot-green clad Imran Khan. If someone is the most handsome cricketer still, it’s him.
The battle has begun. Media has labelled it as ‘The Greatest Carnival of Football on Earth’. And indeed it is so. We’ve already had the Indian General Elections and a dying IPL back to back this year. But, this is the real thing most of us had been waiting for.
Childhood – top to bottom – Batistuta, Roberto Baggio, Roberto Carlos. Image Courtesy: Google
A month of sleepless nights is all I wish for. The World Cup this year, has begun at a very opportune moment for me. With things not exactly going well here and there, 90 minutes of adrenaline rush each day seems to be the best refute. I’ve been watching football effectively since the 1994 World Cup. Prior to that, I was just old enough to listen the nitty-gritties of the game during Italia ’90 from my previous generation. Summer vacation meant a trip to my maternal grandparents’ home. My father, maternal uncle and my elder cousin participated in animated discussions over each match and carefully dissecting the game of players like Batistuta, Roberto Baggio and Goycoechea. Their names sounded like pieces of enigma to my pre-teen ears while my cousin being four years elder than me had gained the privilege of discussion with our parents. He played the game himself, with his friends in school and our maternal uncle at home. They would make a dummy miniature football of a ‘cambis’ ball, and run all around it on the terrace.
I was never an outdoor sports person and would spend the hot sweltering evenings on the terrace, eating purple Kalo Jaam (Java plum) soaked in salt, and watching my uncle and cousin play. The elder one would pass tips and tricks, laced with anecdotes from previous world cups, trivia about every player and the faults of the game to the younger one. I bet those sessions were enriching to my cousin, though he never pursued the game since he was short like his idol Maradona. I had, rather imbibed the bits and pieces of information, names of the players, game statistics and an overall idea of the enthralling game. By the next world cup, I knew most of the international players – Valderrama with his huge crop of hair, Rene Higuita with efforts to score a goal, Roberto Baggio with his ponytail and Buddhism and many more. We used to buy chocolates more often than needed to collect the football cards with different players and compare with friends in school.