Heroes — Sunil Gavaskar
Saving email drafts, mimicry and memories of perfection
I’d been warned about him long before our paths crossed. He was apparently arrogant, obsessed with money and not a nice man to know. I listened to most of these cautionary tales and ignored them. They weren’t the sort of things you wanted to hear about a childhood hero.
And Sunil Manohar Gavaskar was certainly an idol. I doubt I’d be sitting here writing this if it wasn’t for him. The first cricket book I ever read was Sunny Days, his account of his early years in cricket. The book that first made me want to write on sport was the illustrated biography that Dom Moraes, celebrated poet, penned in 1987, the year Gavaskar retired from international cricket.
My mother’s uncle gifted that to me while the 1987 World Cup was on, and I would spend ages just staring at the cover photograph — the poise, the balance, the focus in his eyes. The book itself was more love letter than warts-and-all biography, perfectly suited for a 13-year-old boy.
I first bumped into him half a world away from home, in the press box at the Gabba in Brisbane. I’d walked in suitably early, thrilled to bits at covering my first Test overseas, and found him sitting in front of the media computer. After doing a fair impression of a pillar of salt for a few seconds, I found my composure and mumbled: ‘Good morning, Mr Gavaskar.’
“Good morning, and you can call me Sunny” came the reply. I was too much in awe to even consider continuing the conversation.
Most stadiums didn’t offer free WiFi then, and buying an Internet-access package abroad tended to be hideously expensive. Most of us ended up using our laptops as word processors, before saving the copy on to some storage device so we could email it from the machine set aside for media use. It was a complicated process and involved a fair bit of standing in line awaiting your turn.
Gavaskar was doing a column for an Indian newspaper during the series, and he would be diligently typing away at the machine when not doing his commentary stints. As the first couple of days went by — the match, a draw, was affected by tropical storms — I noticed his mood getting worse and worse.
Towards the end of the second day, he exploded. “I don’t believe this,” he said almost punching the table. “Everything I typed is gone. Again!”
I gathered some courage and walked over. That was when I saw that he was typing his column directly into his email. Back then, Hotmail didn’t auto-save drafts, and whatever he had typed would disappear once someone else logged him out to access their account.
In as respectful a voice as I could summon up, I told him that he could save the draft each time he had to leave the machine. I then showed him how. We left it at that. But on the final day of the game, he came over to me and thanked me. “I don’t have to type it again and again now!”
His struggles with technology are not what I remember about Gavaskar from that tour though. He has a wicked sense of humour. During rain delays and other breaks in play, he would hold court and regale a group of us with the most hilarious anecdotes. The raconteur was also an exceptional mimic, and I recall one story about Javed Miandad asking Dilip Doshi what his room number was giving me stitches.
I came back to India after the Test series, but Gavaskar stayed on in Australia for commentary on the one-day tri-series which would see Rohan, his son, make his India debut. After Rohan made his first (and only) half-century in Adelaide, I sent him a congratulatory email. He replied almost immediately, and the sense of pride as a father was unmistakable.
The most candid chat we had was a few months later, with India playing in Pakistan. Gavaskar was doing studio work in London, and after the treasure trove of anecdotes I’d listened to in Australia, I had written to him asking why he didn’t write a follow-up to Sunny Days.
“It would destroy a lot of myths about a lot of people, so best to let sleeping dogs lie,” he told me. “I do think it affects my son’s chances. Poor chap. He had no choice where he was born.”
He was also forthcoming about his ‘negative’ columns, which had rubbed a few players the wrong way. “I am one of those oldies who likes to see his unfulfilled dreams being fulfilled by the new generation,” he said. “That’s why sometimes my disappointment gets the better of good sense, especially when I find that the effort level is not commensurate with the skills that these guys have. Maybe I should learn to write with the head rather than the heart.”
I’m glad he didn’t though. His critics may view him as an old fart, but few know and understand the value of an India cap like he does. There has been sporadic contact over the years, and he’s always been honest about his opinions. On occasion, he politely declined to comment, because he knew what the ramifications would be.
A few years ago, I was trying to coordinate an interview with Rohan’s help, and I messaged the number he had given me for his father. A couple of days later, I got a reply. “Sorry, wrong number,” it said. As I scratched my head, the phone pinged again. “Did u fall for it?” it said. “Should have been a leg-spinner. Would have got many batsmen stumped.”
A couple of months later, in Cape Town, Michael Holding invited us both for dinner with him and his wife. Dreamland. Not one, but two childhood heroes. The jokes and banter were endless, but there was no mistaking the camaraderie and mutual respect between two of the game’s greats.
He’s 70 now, and has been commentating for nearly twice as long as he was a player. Many are bored of him, others can’t stand him. Whenever I watch cricket though, that voice perks me up. It’s a direct line to childhood and stories heard from my grandfather. It also summons up the photograph on the book jacket. Perfection. Frozen in time. Always a hero.
The Interview Series — Sachin Tendukar