The following article is an article by my friend and former Royal Challenger's Chief Blogger, Aneesh Surender. He was there at Wankhede during one of the most memorable and historical moments in Indian cricket if not the most memorable moment. And here's his account of that day, the second of April. A day we'll all remember for a long time to come. Here's his story!
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It was destiny. It had to be.
The hands on my wristwatch nudged towards half past noon. Four hours had passed since me and Neeraj Narayanan had parked ourselves outside the Wankhede stadium, blindly hopeful of securing tickets for the most important event of our lives without having to sell a kidney to afford it.
We’d watched wistfully as a father patiently painted his ten year old son’s face in the Indian tricolor, and then turned model as the excited kid gleefully returned the favour. A final dab later, they walked through the hallowed gates and we nodded approvingly, concurring there could be no greater gift a dad could have possibly thought of. In him we saw our future.
Tickets still needed to be got though. And we put on our best sly-on-the-fly behaviour to approach and negotiate with potential sellers and forge alliances with other buyers in the hope of getting a good deal on a bulk purchase.
But to no avail. With both teams on their way to the stadium, the asking price of a single ticket still stood at the cost of a return flight to the next cricket world cup in Australia and New Zealand.
As we gauged our options standing next to the Ambassador Hotel, that sinking feeling of missing out on the making of a history that mattered so much to us, resurfaced.
The world was a vampire.
And then the phone rang.
It was a call we were hoping to get but weren’t expecting.
“Aneesh, have you gotten your tickets yet?”
“No Sir, not yet”
“A friend has extra tickets which she’s not using. I’m sending you her number. Get in touch.”
And in twenty seconds, our world had turned upside down. I bit my lip to temper a scream of excitement.
“Sure” was all I could mutter.
As I broke the news, the glow on Neeraj’s face was telling. “Kya bola tha maine?” (Told you, didn’t I?)
The adrenalin was kicking in. We were believers again.
Another call and twenty breathless minutes later, we found ourselves by the striking red Grand Piano in the lobby of the Oberoi hotel, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the lady who in our minds we'd already canonized.
As she handed over the two tickets, we lovingly kissed the piece of paper we would safeguard for life and exchanged a look that could only be described as a cocktail of emotion and triumph.
We were going to the Wankhede. Finally.
We hadn't realized immediately, but the tickets were for the Sachin Tendulkar stand.
We'd grown up with Sachin. If corporate life is defined by the weekend-to-weekend phenomena, our childhood was all about going from one Sachin innings to the next.
We basked in his reflected glory. Every century was a notice for unabashed celebration, culminating in a gully cricket challenge to see which kid could bat like him; every picture dutifully cut from the weekly Sportstar and pasted in a scrapbook using gum from a sticky translucent Camlin tube.
With him, and only him, school was forgotten if an innings was due; ice cream refused if he got out early.
This was the hero we loved from the bottom of our hearts.
Hell, we even cheated in book cricket to ensure he had enough runs against his name.
Life was cricket. Cricket was Sachin. Sachin was life.
And we were going to watch him lift the World Cup from the very stand in which he was immortalized.
It was so fitting we could have cried.
Defeat for India wasn't a possibility that crossed our minds. It couldn't have.
Chests puffed as we marched to the stadium, phone call after phone call was made to inform loved ones of the conquest. The outpouring of emotion had just begun, and it was agreed that a Facebook status update would be a worthy investment of time too.
But the hunt for an internet café (no, our phones weren’t 3G enabled and sending a message to 92FACEBOOK didn’t work) was ditched in favour of getting the Indian flag painted on our faces.
Sadly though, we discovered we wouldn't be able to watch the match together, for the seats were in different sections of the stand, with separate gates of entry.
But it was still going to be our day, and like brothers at a Bollywood inspired mela, we parted ways to find the path into the destination of our dreams.
And boy was the ICC ready. Five layers of security checks took just fifteen minutes to pass through, there were seats to be had for every single spectator, food and drink was reasonably priced and the washrooms were five star.
As I climbed out from within the belly of the massive structure into the soft daylight of the top tier of the North Stand, I had my own Julius Caesar moment.
I was the king of all I surveyed, and the Wankhede a Colosseum packed to the rafters, awash in blue.
The view from my seat dazzled too, positioned right in the line of the pitch, perched high above the ground at an angle from which advice could be easily whispered into the ear of third man or fine leg or long-off and long on.
The only thing missing was a wreath and a throne. And it could wait, for goosebumps time had arrived.
After discovering to my utter disbelief that Sri Lanka’s national anthem was indeed not the longest in the world, I geared up for the minute of reckoning.
We sang loud and proud in unison, all thirty three thousand of us, and as the Sanskritized Bengali of “Jana Gana Mana” reverberated around the stadium, there was a sense of assuredness in the crowd that implied “Today is our day”.
And sure enough, it looked that way right from the start. Where the 2003 final had begun with five wides, here Zaheer got one to nip back into the pads. Where all that Yuvraj saw on that fateful Johannesburg day was balls disappearing into the boundary boards, here he lunged and dived but never allowed the Lankans to go past him at point.
In the midst of the fun and frolic, Neeraj’s message arrived. His phone’s battery was about to go out. It was decided that we would reunite at the Hotel Ambassador after the match and dance all night on Marine Drive to celebrate the impending victory. Faith truly had no boundaries that Saturday.
Till the 44th over, we remained steady. Screamed hard when wickets fell, showered noisy appreciation for a good shot or piece of inspired fielding, danced to every song, and mastered the Mexican wave. Crowd business as usual in an ODI.
In our optimistic bubble, these were merely runs being put on the board for Sachin to have a shot at that 100th hundred.
And then the sweet murder began. Mahela Jayawardene brought up the classiest hundred a World Cup final has ever witnessed with a series of exquisite boundaries and as the Lankans rocketed to a total far beyond our comfort levels, a Delhite in the row to the side uttered a rather apt “Hain?!”.
Ah, the stress. I needed to eat.
Barely had I laden my carton and ventured back up did I hear the dreaded sound of heart beats over the speakers. TV umpire review. Gulp. Not Sachin for a duck, noo.
I was glad it was Sehwag instead. He would get his time in the future.
Legend has it that Tendulkar has scored a century every time I’ve watched him live at the stadium. The previous occasion was in 2004. It was about time to watch another.
And so I settled in. Confident front foot defence. Check. Backfoot punch through the covers. Check. Scorching cut past point and third man. Check. And the shot of them all, the glorious straight drive. Check.
Even as I imagined the TV commentators go, “Whaddaplayyaa!” with that last stroke, the unthinkable occurred.
Sachin edged to the keeper. Gone.
There would be no divinely ordained century. No standing ovation as he walked back to the pavilion. And at 31/2, horror of horrors, the possibility of finishing without a World Cup medal.
A small part of me died.
I felt anger and grief. Why must the world be so unfair?
We watched the next few overs in silence. The going was slow. A guy in the row ahead buried his head in his girlfriend’s shoulder, unable to bear the thought that was playing on all our minds.
She ruffled his hair. It will be alright, she gestured, putting up a brave face.
And it was. Ball-by-ball. Over-by-over.
Kohli went, and Dhoni entered, and Gambhir stayed. We were a distance away from the dream, but never too far either.
We danced again, if only to banish doubt, and as the music got better, the chase began to strike the right notes.
It was 200-3, and Dhoni pelted a tired Murali to the cover fence. As the ball slapped against the rope, we knew a significant battle had been won. Now time was the only enemy.
As India raced towards the target, our heartbeat tried hard to keep pace. The tsunami we’d waited for all our lives was going to hit us.
We fidgeted after every ball, legs shivering from the excitement. A trio of senior citizens in their 60s jumped up after every boundary, playing umpire by slowly waving their hands to signal a four and jumping right back in their seats in glee, loving the experience of being surrounded by the all-pervasive energy around them.
When the moment arrived, we knew it had to be special.
Sehwag had begun this tournament with a four. Dhoni would finish it with a six.
Pandemonium.
What I heard, from myself and those around me, was the frenzied bellowing of a group that knew they had just shared something special.
We were delirious. We had lost it. And when Sachin lifted the cup and was carried around the stadium, we cried.
The dream had come true. Life had come full circle. We could have died in peace right then.
But an appointment still needed to be kept.
So after a half an hour walk dotted with impromptu chants and breaking into a dance on the streets, I jogged the last thirty metres to the Ambassador Hotel.
And at the same spot exactly twelve hours after we’d received the call that would change our lives forever, me and Neeraj embraced and jumped around with a roar of sheer happiness.
Another cricketer might come along tomorrow and amaze our progeny, but we will not envy them.
One Tendulkar in a lifetime is enough.
And twenty years later, when the question is asked, “Where were you when India and Sachin lifted the World Cup?” we will think back to the adventure of April the 2nd, smile, and repeat those three words in our head.
We were there.
