The Interview Series — Steve Waugh
Stalker in the Colombo sun
As the ICC Champions Trophy 2002 entered its final week, there were two items left to be ticked off on the wish list. Shoaib Akhtar had been befriended even before the tournament begun, but despite Pakistan’s early exit, he was proving more elusive to pin down than Muhammad Ali in his dancing-feet prime. Every day, there would be a fresh excuse. I had already promised my editor the story, and panic was beginning to set in.
The second item hadn’t even been mentioned to my seniors. While working for a flush-with-cash — or so we thought, until the dotcom bubble went POP — magazine and website a couple of years earlier, I had approached the editor with the idea of getting Steve Waugh to do a column or an in-depth interview. This was in the wake of the match-fixing scandals that had rocked the game, and I was bluntly told: “Even we can’t afford that.”
I was scheduled to leave Colombo five days after the Champions Trophy final, which meant I could watch the first couple of days of the Pakistan-Australia Test at the P Sara Oval, the first ‘neutral’ five-day contest in nearly a century. The Test was to begin on October 3, which left me three days after the final to try and get hold of Waugh.
We tend to look back at the 1990s now as the Tendulkar-Lara age. Yet, it was Waugh, who averaged 53.1 and scored 18 hundreds in that decade, that played its defining innings — the epic 200 at Sabina Park in 1995 that was instrumental in bringing about cricket’s tectonic shift from the Caribbean to Australia.
Having been dropped from the ODI squad, there was a sense though that his time was nearly up. I knew that if I wanted to get hold of him, that was the time, especially with most journalists heading back home after the final.
The best-laid plans of mice and me. Heavy evening showers meant the Sri Lanka-India final spilled over to two days, and because of the silly rule that mandated a fresh start on the reserve day, there was still no result. That meant that it was October 1 by the time I finally made it to watch the fag end of Australia’s training session.
While renewing acquaintance with the legends of the Australian press pack, I was given what seemed at the time to be a priceless bit of information. Waugh, in keeping with encouraging his teammates to embrace the cultures they came across, apparently liked to head into town with his camera to document the sights not always seen in tourist brochures. A plan germinated in my head.
Soon after lunch, I was in the lobby of the Galadari Hotel, where the team was staying, ready with dictaphone and a notepad full of hastily scribbled questions. Then, the first doubt. Do I call him Mr Waugh? Or the more informal Steve? As I pondered this, the man himself wandered into the lobby, in T-shirt, shorts, baseball cap and backpack. With sunglasses on, he looked like just another tourist on his way to explore the city.
I ran across to put in my request. The journalist accreditation card was around my neck, and I could see a frown forming as I got within range. ‘Would it be possible, Mr Waugh, to…?’ I didn’t finish. “Sorry, mate, haven’t got the time.” Maybe later then? Unlikely, he told me. There was a Test match on the horizon.
I watched him walk out of the hotel. After a gap of about 20 seconds, I trailed behind. Galle Road in the bright afternoon sunshine isn’t the easiest place to surreptitiously follow someone. It’s mostly open and there are few shadows to blend in to. Given that Sri Lanka was still a country at war, I’m sure there was a security man or two following Waugh as well. I didn’t see them. Fortunately, they didn’t see me either.
As time passed, and Waugh turned left in the general direction of the lake and the railway, I began to enjoy the pursuit. In my mind, I was the undercover operative far behind enemy lines in eastern Europe. In reality, I probably looked more like Inspector Clouseau, melting slowly in the tropical heat.
More than two hours had passed by the time he headed back to the hotel. Again, I followed a safe distance behind, speeding up only as he entered the lobby. “Please, Mr Waugh…” I must have looked like something the cat had chewed up and left behind. “You’ve been following me around?” he asked me, looking slightly puzzled. I said nothing, though my face must have given the game away. “Look, I already told you. I really don’t have the time.”
“Just a few questions? I won’t take up more than ten minutes of your time,” I said. I was already opening my bag and pulling out the notepad by the time he said yes. I ended up getting around eight and a half minutes, shooting off questions as though it was the rapid-fire round in a quiz. He answered with the same care and deliberation that characterised his batsmanship. But by the time we got to the impending Ashes series, time was up.
It didn’t really matter though. I knew this wasn’t going to be a multi-page cover story. But there was enough material there for it to be printed. More importantly, for me, I’d managed to talk to one of my cricket heroes. After a period of relative disillusionment with the game, it was that 1994–95 series in the Caribbean that reawakened my cricket obsession. Talking to its chief protagonist was a thank you of sorts.
More than a decade later, when he was in Bangalore for some promotional activity, I interviewed him at length in the atrium of a mall. When it was over, I mentioned Colombo and stalking him in the hot sun. He smiled, and I was certain he had no recollection of it. For me, it remains a career highlight — that afternoon when I tapped into some of Waugh’s patented cussedness to get him to open up.
Originally published at http://dileeppremachandran.wordpress.com on April 17, 2020.