My dear friends, permit me to share with you the tale of my very first catch at a cricket match, an event that shall forever remain etched on the fabric of my memory.
I confess I am not as proficient in the game of cricket as, say, someone like Mike Jackson. Some of you may recall that he was a scion of a cricket clan, a distinction which I cannot claim. Nor do I have such a love for the outdoors as to think of ‘popping off’ a well-paying corporate assignment to play for my country. Anyhow, the sheer thrill of one’s first catch is not easy to forget.
So, grab a cuppa of your favourite tissue restorative and let me describe to you the sequence of events.
It was a bright and warm afternoon. The birds were chirping. The flowers were in full bloom, swaying in a gentle breeze. The bees and the butterflies were flitting about doing whatever they do. The sun, after a day’s hard work, was preparing to call it a day. I was standing at the infamous gully position during a school cricket match, determined to protect my team’s honour. I could not have fathomed the sequence of events that would soon conspire to change my destiny. Now, do not get me wrong, I am a fan of cricket, but I had never really been the one to actively participate in the game. I was more of a sideline spectator, cheering on my team with whatever degree of vibrancy I could muster.
On that ‘fateful day’ (the nearest phrase that I can think of at the moment), I remember how I wished to be an invisible entity, to disappear into thin air from the sight of my teammates, who looked at me with high expectations and aspirations. A keen observer might have noticed that my brow was furrowed. The stress of the mighty responsibility on my shoulders revealed itself in the profuse perspiration which adorned my not-so-handsome visage.
But as fate would have it, there was no escaping the inevitable. The ball, that red-colored round object that has the power to enchant and torment, came hurtling towards me with all its vim and vigour. It was like a thunderbolt, a messenger of the gods, which, if not dealt with, would bring upon calamity and chaos.
I did what any sane human being would do. I put out my open palm in a desperate attempt to shield myself from the oncoming danger. What were the odds that the ball would land in my hand? I must say, the chances were as slim as a hair on my by-now bald pate.
But lo and behold! The ball, in all its infinite wisdom, decided to fall in love with my palm and take some well-deserved rest there. Yes, you heard it right. It chose to stay there, to find solace and comfort in the warmth of my hand. It was a moment of ecstasy and of pure unadulterated joy. Words fail to describe that feel of the weight of the ball in my hands. It was like the loving caress of a specimen of the tribe of the delicately nurtured who had put her faith in my palm, much like Gladys putting her hands in those of Lord Emsworth, reposing her trust in him to protect her from the wrath of an irate Irish gardener charging at them at the speed of forty-five miles per hour. It was like the first-ever tender but electrifying touch of someone from the opposite sex, if you know what I mean.
Oh, the thrill of that moment! My heart was beating faster than a cheetah on a sprint! My breath was caught in my throat as I looked down at that precious ball, safely resting in my palm. The cheers (though not much but whatever my grey cells could register at the time) of my teammates and the people around me were music to my ears! It was as if I had conquered Mount Everest itself!
In that moment, I felt a sense of accomplishment that I had never felt before. I had done it! I had caught the ball, in just the right spot and at just the right time. I had made my team proud. Oh, what a feeling that was! It was as if I was suddenly swept away in a wave of euphoria, a wave that carried me higher and higher until I was sure that I would touch the very heavens, if only I dared to reach out!
And that, my dear followers, is how I felt when I took my first catch in a cricket match. It was a moment of magic, of beauty, of grace and of overwhelming joy! A moment that I will hold dear to my heart for all the days to come!
Mike Jackson would have been proud of me.
(Reviewed and somewhat spruced up by yours truly. Illustration courtesy the World Wide Web)
ashokbhatia 