It was one of those pleasant, leisurely evenings. Not having much to do, or watch on TV, I played the DVD of Pirates of the Carribean: Curse of the Black Pearl on my laptop. I have this habit of watching some of my favorite movies repeatedly. Actually, watching is not the right word. Hearing would be. What I do is, continue browsing, as the movie is being played. This is one of the clearest symptoms of the disease called "compulsive multi-tasking" that I suffer from. Other manifestations include online chatting and talking on the phone at the same time, with browsing mixing in with either or sometimes both. Another is watching TV and browsing at the same time. Now that I look at it, "compulsive browsing" would be a more accurate medical term for my disease. Anyway, in spite of having seen the movie several times previously, the mood today was just right for me to enjoy the very many witty repartees of Captain Jack Sparrow.
Over the years, I've heard first hand tales that movies inspire viewers who are strongly influenced by it, to perform certain deeds or accomplish difficult tasks. Movies have left strong impressions on me. But I don't recall myself putting any of those to good use. So, I've always been cynical of the idea. Not anymore.
While reveling in listening to the movie, I was inclined to send across the following exchange to a friend of mine.
Will: You cheated. In a fair fight, I'd kill you!
Jack: That's not much incentive for me to fight fair, then, is it?!
(Jack swings the mast overboard, which takes Will with it. Following which he hands out some of the truest philosophy in the simplest of words)
Jack: As long as you are hanging in there, listen! The only rules that really matter are these: what a man can do, and what a man can't do.
Sometime later, with the movie still on, I was involved in a chat on gmail with another friend of mine. The discussion was fairly serious. Fairly 'immigration'al, actually. Further, we got around to discussing about his workplace and a recent feedback he received from his manager. The exchange went thus...
Bicker: They also said that my "thought patterns" for problem solving were impressive. I don't know where that came from.
Me: "Thought patterns" usually originate in the brain. So, in your case, I don't know either!
It just rolled off the fingers. I didn't blink, neither did I need to think. He never knew what hit him. Not until it slid down his head, to his back, all the way down and bit him in the butt. What was he thinking, handing me a bait like that?! In the mood I was in, the Spanish armada couldn't have stopped me. Now, I presume that my induction into wit's Hall of Fame is just a matter of time.
One could say, that I struck gold today. Though, Bicker would say that I was probably struck by gold today. Either way, it was fun.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Saturday, October 13, 2007
A tale of two journeys
During my last visit to India, I experienced the pleasure and pain, of traveling from Chennai to Bangalore and back by train, during an extended weekend trip. Due to last minute planning, my reservation landed me a seat in the non A/C section of the Lal Bagh Express, with the word express being a clear misnomer. As it turned out, the train's departure time was about five hours after that of my H1-B visa appointment at the American Embassy in Chennai. Expectedly, I wasn't feeling particularly cheerful that morning, but by the time I was ready to embark on this journey, I was in fairly high spirits. Events panned out well at the Embassy.
Arriving well ahead of time at the station, and recalling horror stories from the past about being hounded out of a seat by ticketless travelers, I took mine and did not budge even when I felt the temptation to pick up a Dairy Milk from one of the platform vendors. Thankfully, there was no trouble with the seating, and I did have the pleasure of a window seat, albeit, not with the wind in my face. As the seats got taken, the chatter level increased beyond my comfort zone. Worse, since it wasn't in English or Tamil, it was pure, unadulterated noise to me. Thankfully, I was well prepared for such a scenario. With an iPod in my pocket and Richie Benaud's "My Spin on Cricket" in hand, I was all ready to shut out the surroundings.
Surprisingly, the headphones did not come on, and only 20 or so pages of the book were turned. Instead, my ears got used to the cacophony soon enough, and my eyes just feasted on the sights that I hadn't seen in ages. There were school grounds with multiple cricket matches going on, there were gangs hanging out with no purpose whatsoever, but most of all, there were vast expanses of cultivated and uncultivated land. To be perfectly honest, I can't claim that they were beautiful in an aesthetic sense, but they kept me engaged until it went dark, and I could see no more.
During this journey, every 15 minutes or so, a destitute would come by, stand/sit beside each seat and ask for money. Their mannerisms have changed over the years. Nowadays, they are a insistent lot, asking strongly, or at times, even demanding money. Since there were a couple of passengers sitting to my left, thus, separating me from the aisle, I was shielded from most of the pestering. But every single time a vagabond came by, I felt a pang of irritation, pity and guilt, all rolled into one. Thankfully and unfortunately, each of those emotions were fleeting and I got back to staring outside by the time they passed my row of seats.
Through the course of this journey, there were, say, twenty of them that passed by. I did not give away money to any of them. I did consider it at times, but ended up not doing so. It was a combination of factors that led me to do so. First, I was inherently uncomfortable taking out my wallet, which had a load of cash, in the crowded train, and second, I am not quite sure about giving away money to the destitute. However, I also believe that, since I don't do much about easing their situation through any constructive means, giving alms would be the only way to personally extend some help to them. So, essentially it was all about the first point.
Sitting across me was a lady, a pretty loud mouthed one at that. Needless to say, she made quite a negative first impression on me, and it was not just based on how loud she was. She entered the train at Chennai, and had a couple of guys traveling with her. She was middle aged, and the guys appeared to be at least 5 years younger than her. Further, while she was clearly not South Indian, the guys certainly were. Without getting into further details, let me state upfront that I got the distinct impression that she was a "madam". Whether it was stupid of me to have thought so, or smart of me to have deciphered that, I don't know. I still don't. But that was and is my hunch. Hence, the negative first impression.
Turned out, that out of all the people that were within my view, she was the only one who gave away money to every single destitute that walked by. She was seated directly across me, and thus cushioned from the aisle by 2 passengers, just as I was, but every single time, a destitute passed by, she took out her purse, reached into it, and gave out some money.
Towards the end, we did exchange a couple of banal comments, including something as enlightening as how cold it got as it got darker and as we neared Bangalore. Further, along with about half the crowd in our coach, both of us were getting down at the station prior to the junction. Whitefield, I think, it was. Needless to say, she left a lasting impression on me. A gray one, at that. Just the way I like it.
Bangalore was loads of fun. After a 4 day blur of sister, friends, movie, gourmet food and loads of pretty faces, it was time for the return journey. In case it wasn't clear, the journey to Bangalore had given me a high. So, I looked forward to the return leg of it. I had a book. I had the iPod. But I didn't expect to use much of either. I knew I had a window seat, and I hoped that I would be facing the wind this time. In all this positivity, and due to the lazy bum suggestions of a lazy bum friend of mine, I chose the lazy bum option of waking up 15 minutes later than what would be required if I intended to catch the train at the junction itself. Instead, I got onto the train at its first stop.
The enthusiasm drained, the second I got in. A quick scan showed that all window seats were taken. To my utter dismay, I noticed that my seat was taken up by a lady, who was accompanied by a couple of other ladies in that row. Against all hope, I proceeded to show her my ticket, informing her that she was in my seat. Waving her hand in disdain, she pointed me to the seat that had been assigned to her. It was an aisle seat, right next to the entrance/exit row of the coach. I don't think I had a choice. I took one last look at the lady in my seat and indeed, she had the wind in her face!
Now, let me tell you what I quickly realized about these three seaters this time around. Something that I did not realize during my journey to Bangalore. Well, they aren't three seaters. Not when the three are me, bigger and biggest. Before actually sitting, I was thankful that I wasn't in the middle seat, but as soon as some of my butt hit wood and the rest, air, I realized the perils of the aisle seat, the one I always prefer on an aircraft. Thus, in order to ensure that I remained in my seat, I had to position one of my legs in the aisle. My shoulder too was extending beyond the seat. Leaning back offered no comfort, so, I bent forward and tried to read "Three Men in a Boat".
Note the usage of the word "tried" in the previous sentence. Because, it is only possible to try to read, when every minute, there is someone passing by either carrying food, looking for alms or just walking up and down for the kicks of it. Each one of these people, brushed past my leg and then did the same to my shoulder. I couldn't blame them for it. I was taking up about one third of the aisle.
Right across the aisle was a seat that was vacated during the course of the journey. I longingly glanced at it, since it seemed to offer a lot more room than what was available in my current location. But before I could make a decision, a lady took it up. She had male company. Seemed like husband and wife. Now, with the lady taking up the seat, and the couple keen to make conversation, she turned towards the aisle. The man took up a position where, his butt was resting on the back rest of my row of seats. This would have been fine, except that, if you remember, my shoulder wasn't contained within the seat. Thus, his butt was resting mostly on the back rest of the seat, and slightly on my shoulder. Also, with him taking up more space from the aisle, the traffic distinctly slowed down around me, and the 'brushing past' became a distinct 'scraping past' situation. For the next 3 hours or so.
To compound my troubles further, we were entering the outskirts of Chennai, bang around noon time. The pleasant breeze of a 7am Bangalore morning and the harsh blare of a noon time Chennai gust, offer the kind of contrasting experiences that a man should never be made to face within a five hour period. Except that, thousands of men, women and children do so on a fairly regular basis. And most of them aren't even on vacation. Getting back to my story, as you might have come to expect, the fan above me did not work. To be honest, most of the fans did not work. Only some did, but none of the some was above me. At this point, music could not help me. The humorous literature of Jerome K. Jerome could not heal me. I was plain and simple miserable. I couldn't wait to get out.
The one saving grace of the journey was that, I did not have to go to the Chennai Central station. I could cut short the journey by about thirty minutes, by getting off at Perumbur, from where, my place is a quick auto ride away. As we passed a Perumbur-X station, I felt a relief that the bad times were about to end. We then passed a Perumbur-Y station. I was not familiar with the location of these stations. All I knew was the exact name of the station where the train would stop and I could get off at. It turned out that my destination was less than a kilometer from Perumbur-Y station. We arrived there an hour later.
By the time the train passed Perumbur-Y station, the speed had dwindled to a crawl. Soon enough, it came to a complete stop. I could see a road right past the tracks. I should have gotten the hell out of there right then, but I did not. I don't know why. For the first 15 minutes, I stayed fairly optimistic. Well, as optimistic as a person could be after enduring 4 odd hours of the aforementioned. I tried to focus on the book, but I could not. I was dripping with sweat. And there were too many people around me, everyone getting restless.
Reading this post, if at all anyone is, could have killed off some. So, I am not about to kill the rest by explaining how I felt and what I did for the next thirty minutes. The train did not budge. I did. I got off my seat, walked up and down a bit, one eye on the luggage at all time. I also looked out the door, hoping to figure out something. I could not. Anyway, about 45 minutes after the train stopped, it started again. It crawled. 2 minutes later, it stopped at the station where I had planned to disembark.
I felt that this was as good a time as any to kill myself. Or at least test if a Shriya would come by to save me, if I tried to kill myself on the track. Like a lot of unexplainable things during these two journeys, I did not do that either. Instead, I got off the train and crossed over to the same road that I had been staring at for the past 1 hour. Autos were readily available. 10 mins later, I was home. In absolute contrast to everything else that had happened earlier, my parents were home, food was ready and best of all, the A/C was working. I chatted, I ate and then I continued reading.
Would I take the train next time if I could help it? Yes. I think I am sure about that.
Arriving well ahead of time at the station, and recalling horror stories from the past about being hounded out of a seat by ticketless travelers, I took mine and did not budge even when I felt the temptation to pick up a Dairy Milk from one of the platform vendors. Thankfully, there was no trouble with the seating, and I did have the pleasure of a window seat, albeit, not with the wind in my face. As the seats got taken, the chatter level increased beyond my comfort zone. Worse, since it wasn't in English or Tamil, it was pure, unadulterated noise to me. Thankfully, I was well prepared for such a scenario. With an iPod in my pocket and Richie Benaud's "My Spin on Cricket" in hand, I was all ready to shut out the surroundings.
Surprisingly, the headphones did not come on, and only 20 or so pages of the book were turned. Instead, my ears got used to the cacophony soon enough, and my eyes just feasted on the sights that I hadn't seen in ages. There were school grounds with multiple cricket matches going on, there were gangs hanging out with no purpose whatsoever, but most of all, there were vast expanses of cultivated and uncultivated land. To be perfectly honest, I can't claim that they were beautiful in an aesthetic sense, but they kept me engaged until it went dark, and I could see no more.
During this journey, every 15 minutes or so, a destitute would come by, stand/sit beside each seat and ask for money. Their mannerisms have changed over the years. Nowadays, they are a insistent lot, asking strongly, or at times, even demanding money. Since there were a couple of passengers sitting to my left, thus, separating me from the aisle, I was shielded from most of the pestering. But every single time a vagabond came by, I felt a pang of irritation, pity and guilt, all rolled into one. Thankfully and unfortunately, each of those emotions were fleeting and I got back to staring outside by the time they passed my row of seats.
Through the course of this journey, there were, say, twenty of them that passed by. I did not give away money to any of them. I did consider it at times, but ended up not doing so. It was a combination of factors that led me to do so. First, I was inherently uncomfortable taking out my wallet, which had a load of cash, in the crowded train, and second, I am not quite sure about giving away money to the destitute. However, I also believe that, since I don't do much about easing their situation through any constructive means, giving alms would be the only way to personally extend some help to them. So, essentially it was all about the first point.
Sitting across me was a lady, a pretty loud mouthed one at that. Needless to say, she made quite a negative first impression on me, and it was not just based on how loud she was. She entered the train at Chennai, and had a couple of guys traveling with her. She was middle aged, and the guys appeared to be at least 5 years younger than her. Further, while she was clearly not South Indian, the guys certainly were. Without getting into further details, let me state upfront that I got the distinct impression that she was a "madam". Whether it was stupid of me to have thought so, or smart of me to have deciphered that, I don't know. I still don't. But that was and is my hunch. Hence, the negative first impression.
Turned out, that out of all the people that were within my view, she was the only one who gave away money to every single destitute that walked by. She was seated directly across me, and thus cushioned from the aisle by 2 passengers, just as I was, but every single time, a destitute passed by, she took out her purse, reached into it, and gave out some money.
Towards the end, we did exchange a couple of banal comments, including something as enlightening as how cold it got as it got darker and as we neared Bangalore. Further, along with about half the crowd in our coach, both of us were getting down at the station prior to the junction. Whitefield, I think, it was. Needless to say, she left a lasting impression on me. A gray one, at that. Just the way I like it.
Bangalore was loads of fun. After a 4 day blur of sister, friends, movie, gourmet food and loads of pretty faces, it was time for the return journey. In case it wasn't clear, the journey to Bangalore had given me a high. So, I looked forward to the return leg of it. I had a book. I had the iPod. But I didn't expect to use much of either. I knew I had a window seat, and I hoped that I would be facing the wind this time. In all this positivity, and due to the lazy bum suggestions of a lazy bum friend of mine, I chose the lazy bum option of waking up 15 minutes later than what would be required if I intended to catch the train at the junction itself. Instead, I got onto the train at its first stop.
The enthusiasm drained, the second I got in. A quick scan showed that all window seats were taken. To my utter dismay, I noticed that my seat was taken up by a lady, who was accompanied by a couple of other ladies in that row. Against all hope, I proceeded to show her my ticket, informing her that she was in my seat. Waving her hand in disdain, she pointed me to the seat that had been assigned to her. It was an aisle seat, right next to the entrance/exit row of the coach. I don't think I had a choice. I took one last look at the lady in my seat and indeed, she had the wind in her face!
Now, let me tell you what I quickly realized about these three seaters this time around. Something that I did not realize during my journey to Bangalore. Well, they aren't three seaters. Not when the three are me, bigger and biggest. Before actually sitting, I was thankful that I wasn't in the middle seat, but as soon as some of my butt hit wood and the rest, air, I realized the perils of the aisle seat, the one I always prefer on an aircraft. Thus, in order to ensure that I remained in my seat, I had to position one of my legs in the aisle. My shoulder too was extending beyond the seat. Leaning back offered no comfort, so, I bent forward and tried to read "Three Men in a Boat".
Note the usage of the word "tried" in the previous sentence. Because, it is only possible to try to read, when every minute, there is someone passing by either carrying food, looking for alms or just walking up and down for the kicks of it. Each one of these people, brushed past my leg and then did the same to my shoulder. I couldn't blame them for it. I was taking up about one third of the aisle.
Right across the aisle was a seat that was vacated during the course of the journey. I longingly glanced at it, since it seemed to offer a lot more room than what was available in my current location. But before I could make a decision, a lady took it up. She had male company. Seemed like husband and wife. Now, with the lady taking up the seat, and the couple keen to make conversation, she turned towards the aisle. The man took up a position where, his butt was resting on the back rest of my row of seats. This would have been fine, except that, if you remember, my shoulder wasn't contained within the seat. Thus, his butt was resting mostly on the back rest of the seat, and slightly on my shoulder. Also, with him taking up more space from the aisle, the traffic distinctly slowed down around me, and the 'brushing past' became a distinct 'scraping past' situation. For the next 3 hours or so.
To compound my troubles further, we were entering the outskirts of Chennai, bang around noon time. The pleasant breeze of a 7am Bangalore morning and the harsh blare of a noon time Chennai gust, offer the kind of contrasting experiences that a man should never be made to face within a five hour period. Except that, thousands of men, women and children do so on a fairly regular basis. And most of them aren't even on vacation. Getting back to my story, as you might have come to expect, the fan above me did not work. To be honest, most of the fans did not work. Only some did, but none of the some was above me. At this point, music could not help me. The humorous literature of Jerome K. Jerome could not heal me. I was plain and simple miserable. I couldn't wait to get out.
The one saving grace of the journey was that, I did not have to go to the Chennai Central station. I could cut short the journey by about thirty minutes, by getting off at Perumbur, from where, my place is a quick auto ride away. As we passed a Perumbur-X station, I felt a relief that the bad times were about to end. We then passed a Perumbur-Y station. I was not familiar with the location of these stations. All I knew was the exact name of the station where the train would stop and I could get off at. It turned out that my destination was less than a kilometer from Perumbur-Y station. We arrived there an hour later.
By the time the train passed Perumbur-Y station, the speed had dwindled to a crawl. Soon enough, it came to a complete stop. I could see a road right past the tracks. I should have gotten the hell out of there right then, but I did not. I don't know why. For the first 15 minutes, I stayed fairly optimistic. Well, as optimistic as a person could be after enduring 4 odd hours of the aforementioned. I tried to focus on the book, but I could not. I was dripping with sweat. And there were too many people around me, everyone getting restless.
Reading this post, if at all anyone is, could have killed off some. So, I am not about to kill the rest by explaining how I felt and what I did for the next thirty minutes. The train did not budge. I did. I got off my seat, walked up and down a bit, one eye on the luggage at all time. I also looked out the door, hoping to figure out something. I could not. Anyway, about 45 minutes after the train stopped, it started again. It crawled. 2 minutes later, it stopped at the station where I had planned to disembark.
I felt that this was as good a time as any to kill myself. Or at least test if a Shriya would come by to save me, if I tried to kill myself on the track. Like a lot of unexplainable things during these two journeys, I did not do that either. Instead, I got off the train and crossed over to the same road that I had been staring at for the past 1 hour. Autos were readily available. 10 mins later, I was home. In absolute contrast to everything else that had happened earlier, my parents were home, food was ready and best of all, the A/C was working. I chatted, I ate and then I continued reading.
Would I take the train next time if I could help it? Yes. I think I am sure about that.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
ronaldo, rooney, action!
Manchester United played some of the most attractive football and scored quite a few breathtaking goals over the 2006-07 season, but none more than this piece of action stands out for me. It does not have delicate touches, nor does it have a needle threading pass. It has good teamwork, terrific opportunism and clinical finishing, but what elevates it to Manchester United memorabilia, is its pace. The kind that draws gasps. The kind that makes the Premiership the most watched football league on the plant. Every single time I watch it, my pulse goes racing. For the past six months, one of my dependable sources for a 'high'...
The other standout feature of this clip is the commentary on the action. This is running commentary at its very best. In fact, it defines it. When Rooney lays off the ball to Ronaldo, the crowd starts buzzing. The commentator raises the decibel level to capture attention, just in case someone was in the midst of a slumber. As the ball travels downfield, there is time to describe Ronaldo's pace and the positions taken by his teammates, Rooney and Giggs. Clearly, along with the rest of the crowd, he too is expecting a goal to culminate this move. The excitement in the tone is apparent. Rooney receiving the ball at his feet meant that only the formality of finishing remained. This was the perfect moment for posturing. Rooney didn't have the time, but the commentator certainly did. So, he emphasizes "Wayne Rooney for Manchester United" knowing fully well that such acts gets him extra points from the Red Devils' faithful. By the time he finishes that, Rooney has already clipped the ball over the rushing goalkeeper and the ball is crossing over the goal line. With his voice at its absolute crescendo, he gushes "What a goal, Ohhhhh, What a goal!!!". Perfect timing!
Goal: 9/10
Commentary: 10/10
Friday, October 05, 2007
Imola '94 to Japan '07
Formula 1 is an indulgence. Let there be no doubts about that. An incredibly expensive, expansive one at that. In some ways, F1 is as much a sport as a Rajnikanth starrer is a movie. Only if one is willing to and able to see past this indulgence, can one truly enjoy the spectacle that it is. I don't with the latter, but most certainly do with the former.
I don't remember how or when I started watching tennis or cricket or football, but I remember the precise incident that kick started my affair with F1. When cable television entered my household in 1992, F1 was a reason to not turn to Star Sports (Prime Sports back then) for about 2 hours on what seemed like every Sunday. It continued that way, and could very possibly have stayed that way, but then, May 1st 1994 happened! Of course, I was completely unaware of the catastrophe when it took place, but when I turned to the sports page of The Hindu on May 2nd 1994, the headline read "Ayrton Senna pronounced clinically dead". I didn't have a clue as to who Ayrton Senna was, but the fact that he bumped cricket or tennis off the headline spot, intrigued me. I read the article, and following that, a couple of weeks later, watched the Monaco Grand Prix. I continue to watch F1 till this day.
It always helps to have a favorite. Without one, it is easier to be unbiased, but harder to be passionate, particularly when the spectacle is an indulgence. Michael Schumacher isn't palatable to everyone's taste. His ruthless attitude to winning alienated some, specifically, Brits and those that are the epitome of morals. Being neither, his unparalleled skill on track was fairly easy to admire.
In this technology driven sport, a lot of the manual skill involved tends to get masked and even overridden at times. Rain however, is known to be the great leveler, creating chaos, the results of which are nothing short of spectacular. It is on those occasions that the driver can significantly influence the laptimes that he is doing. Instead of driving at the absolute, but known limit of the machinery at their disposal, they are forced to determine the limits, that change at every corner on every lap due to the varying quantities of water present on the track. The result of finding the limits as well as making a mistake while trying to do so offer some of the most revered moments of F1. To churn out the most lopsided of victories under these conditions is the surest sign of genius in this sport.
Schumacher's victory in the 1995 Belgian Grand Prix from a starting position of 16, at the rain soaked Spa Francorchamps circuit was an early favorite of mine. Until of course, his victory at the 1996 Spanish Grand Prix, his first in Scarlet overalls. Some background information is needed at this juncture. Spain was the 7th race of 1996, and by the time the circus arrived in town, Schumacher was more than 20 points behind runaway leader Damon Hill and his rookie teammate, Jacques Villeneuve, of the all conquering Williams-Renault outfit. At the end of a dry hour of qualifying, Hill and Villeneuve were 1 and 2, with Schumacher almost a second behind Hill. The race was driven in soaking wet conditions though, and Schumacher's fastest lap was 2.2 seconds faster than the rest of the field. The rest can be read here
During this post Schumacher era, I watch F1 as an intrigued observer, with only traces of Ferrari favoritism remaining, but with Alonso being Schumacher's rival and Hamilton being, well, the Brit media's darling, I have been backing Kimi for the title all season. That hasn't prevented me from enjoying the several highpoints of this season, Hamilton overtaking Kimi at Monza and the repetitive Alonso - Heidfeld battles, to name just a couple.
However, all that has been pretty much washed away from memory by the deluge at the Japanese Grand Prix. The race being started behind the safety car was a huge letdown, and the mood turned gloomier when the talk centered around the race being stopped without any racing laps. Thankfully, Charlie Whiting, the race director, took the call to make the drivers race at about 180mph while they could not see the car that was 50m ahead of them. Besides, the 22 on track, I don't think too many people complained about the decision.
The racing was on and the action was non-stop. There were way too many subplots for a single race, happening all over the track. I kept a keen eye on Kimi's and Massa's progress through the field and also the Alonso-Hamilton gap and their pitstop timings, but Webber and Vettel's rise to the top took me completely by surprise. Trouble with F1 is, it is hard to track back the action and figure out the route taken to the top. There is just no time, and probably no cameras either. Alonso's crash spontaneously elicited some drunken revelry, but with the sobering reminder that that made Hamilton a shoo-in for the title this year. After it was clear that all pitstops were done, the focus turned to the track. Kimi was the only one that could do something about Hamilton's drive to glory and I for one, egged him on.
The Japanese Grand Prix was shifted to Fuji this year from the beloved Suzuka track. It had a lot to live up to. The 130R corner at Suzuka was a part of F1 folklore. Schumacher's lightning quick reflexes that got him through unscathed, 2 laps from the end of the race in 2000, with that year's championship on the line and Mika Hakkinen only a couple of seconds behind him on track is my fondest memory of it, with Alonso's move on Schumy during the ill fated 2005 season, being the worst one. However, both moments, and a few other ones, evoke the feeling of awe. Turn 4 at Fuji was called the 100R, the only challenging high speed corner at Fuji.
Back on track, Kimi had been following DC for a couple of laps without getting anywhere close enough to overtake. On Lap 57 though, he took a remarkably wide line through the 100R and just drove past DC without even having to outbrake him. In the past, Kimi's attitude has been questioned, but his guts haven't ever. This was why. In the prevailing blinding conditions, to take the speed that he did through that corner needed courage of the highest order. It was a Kimi special that took care of DC that day, and I made sure that my neighbors knew about it.
As the laps wound down, I was moaning and groaning about the television coverage and abnormal number of breaks for commercials. Meanwhile, Kimi had closed up on Heikki and tried a similar move a couple of times. Unfortunately for him, Heikki was driving the wheels off the Renault and was in no mood to surrender second place. After missing most of the action through the last lap, the television cameras caught the end of their joust, where it seemed like Kimi got past Heikki, but was taken at the end of the next corner. Seeing those two cross the line, I got my breath back. For a second, that is.
The cameras picked up a Ferrari and a BMW in the middle of a mighty battle for insignificant points. The action probably lasted for about 5 corners. Less than 30 seconds. It is a lifetime, "I watched it live!" moment. F1 cars are fragile and every single fragile component matters to the speed of the car. The drivers take great care in ensuring that they do not damage any of it, but during this battle, Massa and Kubica experienced a brain fade that pitched them right in the middle of a bumper car battle. No one could blame them for that though. Afterall, this was happening precisely two hours after the lights went out to start the race. They touched each other more than a couple of times. They overtook each other about 3 times, and this was before the finale.
At the last corner, Kubica pushed Massa off the track. Crucially, while doing so, he placed his wheels on the grass, which meant that he had to lift off slightly to regain track. Meanwhile, Massa, instead of lifting off, moved to the runway tarmac, kept the throttle down, rejoined the track and outdragged Kubica to the finish line. In the years to come, it will be the flagship battle of this decade, sitting pretty alongside the 1979 French classic between Arnoux and Villeneuve.
I don't remember how or when I started watching tennis or cricket or football, but I remember the precise incident that kick started my affair with F1. When cable television entered my household in 1992, F1 was a reason to not turn to Star Sports (Prime Sports back then) for about 2 hours on what seemed like every Sunday. It continued that way, and could very possibly have stayed that way, but then, May 1st 1994 happened! Of course, I was completely unaware of the catastrophe when it took place, but when I turned to the sports page of The Hindu on May 2nd 1994, the headline read "Ayrton Senna pronounced clinically dead". I didn't have a clue as to who Ayrton Senna was, but the fact that he bumped cricket or tennis off the headline spot, intrigued me. I read the article, and following that, a couple of weeks later, watched the Monaco Grand Prix. I continue to watch F1 till this day.
It always helps to have a favorite. Without one, it is easier to be unbiased, but harder to be passionate, particularly when the spectacle is an indulgence. Michael Schumacher isn't palatable to everyone's taste. His ruthless attitude to winning alienated some, specifically, Brits and those that are the epitome of morals. Being neither, his unparalleled skill on track was fairly easy to admire.
In this technology driven sport, a lot of the manual skill involved tends to get masked and even overridden at times. Rain however, is known to be the great leveler, creating chaos, the results of which are nothing short of spectacular. It is on those occasions that the driver can significantly influence the laptimes that he is doing. Instead of driving at the absolute, but known limit of the machinery at their disposal, they are forced to determine the limits, that change at every corner on every lap due to the varying quantities of water present on the track. The result of finding the limits as well as making a mistake while trying to do so offer some of the most revered moments of F1. To churn out the most lopsided of victories under these conditions is the surest sign of genius in this sport.
Schumacher's victory in the 1995 Belgian Grand Prix from a starting position of 16, at the rain soaked Spa Francorchamps circuit was an early favorite of mine. Until of course, his victory at the 1996 Spanish Grand Prix, his first in Scarlet overalls. Some background information is needed at this juncture. Spain was the 7th race of 1996, and by the time the circus arrived in town, Schumacher was more than 20 points behind runaway leader Damon Hill and his rookie teammate, Jacques Villeneuve, of the all conquering Williams-Renault outfit. At the end of a dry hour of qualifying, Hill and Villeneuve were 1 and 2, with Schumacher almost a second behind Hill. The race was driven in soaking wet conditions though, and Schumacher's fastest lap was 2.2 seconds faster than the rest of the field. The rest can be read here
During this post Schumacher era, I watch F1 as an intrigued observer, with only traces of Ferrari favoritism remaining, but with Alonso being Schumacher's rival and Hamilton being, well, the Brit media's darling, I have been backing Kimi for the title all season. That hasn't prevented me from enjoying the several highpoints of this season, Hamilton overtaking Kimi at Monza and the repetitive Alonso - Heidfeld battles, to name just a couple.
However, all that has been pretty much washed away from memory by the deluge at the Japanese Grand Prix. The race being started behind the safety car was a huge letdown, and the mood turned gloomier when the talk centered around the race being stopped without any racing laps. Thankfully, Charlie Whiting, the race director, took the call to make the drivers race at about 180mph while they could not see the car that was 50m ahead of them. Besides, the 22 on track, I don't think too many people complained about the decision.
The racing was on and the action was non-stop. There were way too many subplots for a single race, happening all over the track. I kept a keen eye on Kimi's and Massa's progress through the field and also the Alonso-Hamilton gap and their pitstop timings, but Webber and Vettel's rise to the top took me completely by surprise. Trouble with F1 is, it is hard to track back the action and figure out the route taken to the top. There is just no time, and probably no cameras either. Alonso's crash spontaneously elicited some drunken revelry, but with the sobering reminder that that made Hamilton a shoo-in for the title this year. After it was clear that all pitstops were done, the focus turned to the track. Kimi was the only one that could do something about Hamilton's drive to glory and I for one, egged him on.
The Japanese Grand Prix was shifted to Fuji this year from the beloved Suzuka track. It had a lot to live up to. The 130R corner at Suzuka was a part of F1 folklore. Schumacher's lightning quick reflexes that got him through unscathed, 2 laps from the end of the race in 2000, with that year's championship on the line and Mika Hakkinen only a couple of seconds behind him on track is my fondest memory of it, with Alonso's move on Schumy during the ill fated 2005 season, being the worst one. However, both moments, and a few other ones, evoke the feeling of awe. Turn 4 at Fuji was called the 100R, the only challenging high speed corner at Fuji.
Back on track, Kimi had been following DC for a couple of laps without getting anywhere close enough to overtake. On Lap 57 though, he took a remarkably wide line through the 100R and just drove past DC without even having to outbrake him. In the past, Kimi's attitude has been questioned, but his guts haven't ever. This was why. In the prevailing blinding conditions, to take the speed that he did through that corner needed courage of the highest order. It was a Kimi special that took care of DC that day, and I made sure that my neighbors knew about it.
As the laps wound down, I was moaning and groaning about the television coverage and abnormal number of breaks for commercials. Meanwhile, Kimi had closed up on Heikki and tried a similar move a couple of times. Unfortunately for him, Heikki was driving the wheels off the Renault and was in no mood to surrender second place. After missing most of the action through the last lap, the television cameras caught the end of their joust, where it seemed like Kimi got past Heikki, but was taken at the end of the next corner. Seeing those two cross the line, I got my breath back. For a second, that is.
The cameras picked up a Ferrari and a BMW in the middle of a mighty battle for insignificant points. The action probably lasted for about 5 corners. Less than 30 seconds. It is a lifetime, "I watched it live!" moment. F1 cars are fragile and every single fragile component matters to the speed of the car. The drivers take great care in ensuring that they do not damage any of it, but during this battle, Massa and Kubica experienced a brain fade that pitched them right in the middle of a bumper car battle. No one could blame them for that though. Afterall, this was happening precisely two hours after the lights went out to start the race. They touched each other more than a couple of times. They overtook each other about 3 times, and this was before the finale.
At the last corner, Kubica pushed Massa off the track. Crucially, while doing so, he placed his wheels on the grass, which meant that he had to lift off slightly to regain track. Meanwhile, Massa, instead of lifting off, moved to the runway tarmac, kept the throttle down, rejoined the track and outdragged Kubica to the finish line. In the years to come, it will be the flagship battle of this decade, sitting pretty alongside the 1979 French classic between Arnoux and Villeneuve.
Friday, September 21, 2007
numbers and stories
The 'made for excitement' nature of American sports is fairly easy to spot. That is not the focus of this post, though. Instead, as I catch up with the American Football (AF), basketball and even baseball at times, a couple of distinctive features of the media coverage of these sports is apparent.
AF is a sport where individual or even team stats don't necessarily add up to a team score. Unlike cricket, where every single run counts, here, every yard does not, simply because, consistently gaining yards and giving it up close to the end zone does not get you any points. In this aspect, it is very similar to football, where a team might dominate possession, have 25 shots on target and lose to a team that had 2 shots on goal. In spite of this reality, stats like yards gained and the success/failure ratio of throws are the ones that get beaten to death during the dissection of play. Qualitative analysis is conspicuous by its absence. Instead, all the judgments stem from numbers.
I guess that someone sitting high up felt that a similar numbers based approach to football would be the way to take it to the masses in America. Last year, while watching the Champions League on ESPN, I noticed that towards the end of the game, some numbers about the metres covered by a player during the game was printed out on the screen. It was quite amusing to hear the commentator try and put a spin on it, but thankfully, the idea hasn't caught on. It would be a strange experience to listen to experts talking about how Manchester United beat Liverpool since their players managed to cover a total of twenty thousand metres during the game while their counterparts managed only seventeen thousand!
Another case in point was the US Open final featuring Djokovic and Roger Federer, two of the top three that have distanced themselves from the chasing pack. In the current avatar of the sport, devoid of classical serve and volleyers, Federer is the best volleyer we have. I noticed that through the first couple of sets, Federer found himself having to make a boot-strap volley (as the name indicates, a volley that you have to make somewhere close to your shoes. Essentially, volley a dipping ball) twice and Djokovic had to do the same twice. Both of them failed to succeed in their attempts.
Sitting in the commentary box, was the incomparable John McEnroe, possibly the greatest volleyer in the history of tennis. He did not offer a viewpoint on any of these plays. Nothing about technique or insights about what made it hard to make such a volley. However, when Djokovic lost it mentally during the first set tiebreaker, McEnroe's co-commentators readily brought out his infamous temper tantrums through some friendly banter. And McEnroe, old sport that he is, played along and joked about it, while seeming to thoroughly enjoy it .
Considering McEnroe's popularity as a commentator, and how often this side story of his gets brought up, casual viewers of the sport (under which category, I include those that haven't a clue about the history of the sport, however much they might know about Federer) probably consider him to be an ex-player who behaved funny/crazy on court. That would be true, but is Ayrton Senna immortal only because he died on track?! There is a bigger story there. McEnroe has one too, for his virtuoso skills will never ever be seen again on a tennis court, unless they bring back wooden rackets, and of course, clone him. No one did it like Mac.
Futile and meaningless as it might be, if one had to contrast the playing style of Federer and McEnroe, it must be said that Federer hits the ball as hard as anyone in the game. He is as athletic as Nadal and can serve almost as well as the best. Its just that he makes it all look so casual and easy. McEnroe on the other hand made everything look ungainly. His service action was as weird as they come. He did not flex his arms to hit his forehand and backhand and he could not touch his toes. Lets not even talk about his hairstyle. Yet, what came came out of this combination of the bad, the worse and the worst, was the absolute beauty. The uncouth, brazen American, defined feather touch. His rivals, Connors and Bjorn Borg included, hit the ball harder, but none could match his touch and angles. He won 3 Wimbledons and 4 US Opens, you know.
Highlighting that, will inspire the next generation of tennis players. Highlighting his temper, will help improve television ratings for as long as the sport exists.
PS: I hate to be a moaner, and worse, moan about things that I do not understand 100%. However, this is meant to be one of those indulgences that a man's gotta have, like enjoying a big bowl of Chocolate Devotion at Cold Stone while on a diet, simply because India qualified for the semifinals of the Twenty20 World Cup. Maybe, I could work on reducing the frequency of these indiscretions...
- "We can talk numbers all day long"
AF is a sport where individual or even team stats don't necessarily add up to a team score. Unlike cricket, where every single run counts, here, every yard does not, simply because, consistently gaining yards and giving it up close to the end zone does not get you any points. In this aspect, it is very similar to football, where a team might dominate possession, have 25 shots on target and lose to a team that had 2 shots on goal. In spite of this reality, stats like yards gained and the success/failure ratio of throws are the ones that get beaten to death during the dissection of play. Qualitative analysis is conspicuous by its absence. Instead, all the judgments stem from numbers.
I guess that someone sitting high up felt that a similar numbers based approach to football would be the way to take it to the masses in America. Last year, while watching the Champions League on ESPN, I noticed that towards the end of the game, some numbers about the metres covered by a player during the game was printed out on the screen. It was quite amusing to hear the commentator try and put a spin on it, but thankfully, the idea hasn't caught on. It would be a strange experience to listen to experts talking about how Manchester United beat Liverpool since their players managed to cover a total of twenty thousand metres during the game while their counterparts managed only seventeen thousand!
- "Skills are fine, but without a story, it ain't newsworthy"
Another case in point was the US Open final featuring Djokovic and Roger Federer, two of the top three that have distanced themselves from the chasing pack. In the current avatar of the sport, devoid of classical serve and volleyers, Federer is the best volleyer we have. I noticed that through the first couple of sets, Federer found himself having to make a boot-strap volley (as the name indicates, a volley that you have to make somewhere close to your shoes. Essentially, volley a dipping ball) twice and Djokovic had to do the same twice. Both of them failed to succeed in their attempts.
Sitting in the commentary box, was the incomparable John McEnroe, possibly the greatest volleyer in the history of tennis. He did not offer a viewpoint on any of these plays. Nothing about technique or insights about what made it hard to make such a volley. However, when Djokovic lost it mentally during the first set tiebreaker, McEnroe's co-commentators readily brought out his infamous temper tantrums through some friendly banter. And McEnroe, old sport that he is, played along and joked about it, while seeming to thoroughly enjoy it .
Considering McEnroe's popularity as a commentator, and how often this side story of his gets brought up, casual viewers of the sport (under which category, I include those that haven't a clue about the history of the sport, however much they might know about Federer) probably consider him to be an ex-player who behaved funny/crazy on court. That would be true, but is Ayrton Senna immortal only because he died on track?! There is a bigger story there. McEnroe has one too, for his virtuoso skills will never ever be seen again on a tennis court, unless they bring back wooden rackets, and of course, clone him. No one did it like Mac.
Futile and meaningless as it might be, if one had to contrast the playing style of Federer and McEnroe, it must be said that Federer hits the ball as hard as anyone in the game. He is as athletic as Nadal and can serve almost as well as the best. Its just that he makes it all look so casual and easy. McEnroe on the other hand made everything look ungainly. His service action was as weird as they come. He did not flex his arms to hit his forehand and backhand and he could not touch his toes. Lets not even talk about his hairstyle. Yet, what came came out of this combination of the bad, the worse and the worst, was the absolute beauty. The uncouth, brazen American, defined feather touch. His rivals, Connors and Bjorn Borg included, hit the ball harder, but none could match his touch and angles. He won 3 Wimbledons and 4 US Opens, you know.
Highlighting that, will inspire the next generation of tennis players. Highlighting his temper, will help improve television ratings for as long as the sport exists.
PS: I hate to be a moaner, and worse, moan about things that I do not understand 100%. However, this is meant to be one of those indulgences that a man's gotta have, like enjoying a big bowl of Chocolate Devotion at Cold Stone while on a diet, simply because India qualified for the semifinals of the Twenty20 World Cup. Maybe, I could work on reducing the frequency of these indiscretions...
Thursday, September 06, 2007
a new clause to an age old law
"Thou shall reap when you go for it and it falls for you; out it falls, down you go" - Layman wording, but universal truth.
In every aspect of life, conservatism is one option. The benefits of this lifestyle lie above the zero line and waver around it, rarely dipping into the negative or soaring into the rarefied heights of the positive.
Adventurism, on the other hand, cannot be described by mean and standard deviation. A comprehensive understanding of random processes is required to statistically describe it. Of course, one can always learn through experience. The peaks and troughs come about randomly. They take their toll. People drop off the edge. A strong mind is needed to cope with the steady state of turbulence. But as the adage on top suggests, when the stars align, you get to be on top of Everest.
This is the way of the world. Adults bow to it. Youths fight it. Eventually, realize it and then pick a side.
With a 1-13 career head to head record, Roddick didn't have much of an option with respect to picking sides. He had to go for it. In his mind, he must have known that he was risking another 6-4 6-0 6-2 scoreline, but prolonged rallying coupled with some lucky breaks could have taken him as far as four sets and no more. He was up against Federer and Federer's opponents don't get gifts. Not whole matches anyway.
Federer knew the law as well as anyone. He must have known that the only way to repel an all out successful attack by Roddick would be to launch the heavy artillery himself. Which he did not do. Instead, he just changed the law. Rather, added an escape clause to the law. One which carries his name henceforth.
Roddick went for it and successfully too. He crushed his groundstrokes and yanked Federer all around the court. He served "from a tree" and didn't give Federer a whiff of a chance. If Roddick can play better, the world is yet to see it. Still, he did not win a single set. Three sets and he was out of his beloved Open. Writing that Roddick was a broken (in spirit) man would be an easy thing to do, but if he means half of what he said in his post match presser (about perspective), he is probably the one that we all need to look up to, more than we look up to Federer.
Federer was up for the match yesterday from the start. It was full throttled action from the time the first ball of the match was struck. Yet, he was not the one pressing the accelerator. He just bid his time. He must have hoped that Roddick would fall off the cliff in the tiebreaker. Roddick did not. So, he hit two crucial passes. Set one in hand. Ditto with the second set. Steve Tignor captures it well here.
Truth is, not even Federer can pull off both sets of such a battle every single time. Trouble for the rest of the world is, he has options for all possibilities, each one of world beating quality. If he had lost the first set, he would have upped his game just a little bit (and by 'up', I mean, gotten more aggressive) and won the second (just like he did against Feliciano Lopez). Under the very unlikely circumstance of him losing two high quality sets, the opponent will have to contend with a fired up aggressive Federer, while at the same time confront the "giant leap for mankind" that one would have to take to close out the match. For any of these conjectures, the odds are long.
Yesterday, Roddick could have won. I would go as far as to say that Roddick would have won. But for that to happen, someone needs to inform Federer that while the backhand slice and topspin are tennis shots, the backhand flick is not. It belongs to the domain of table tennis, tennis' poor cousin. The flick was deployed countless times to salvage a piledriver forehand crushed to Federer's backhand. That, to me, was why Federer won yesterday.
In every aspect of life, conservatism is one option. The benefits of this lifestyle lie above the zero line and waver around it, rarely dipping into the negative or soaring into the rarefied heights of the positive.
Adventurism, on the other hand, cannot be described by mean and standard deviation. A comprehensive understanding of random processes is required to statistically describe it. Of course, one can always learn through experience. The peaks and troughs come about randomly. They take their toll. People drop off the edge. A strong mind is needed to cope with the steady state of turbulence. But as the adage on top suggests, when the stars align, you get to be on top of Everest.
This is the way of the world. Adults bow to it. Youths fight it. Eventually, realize it and then pick a side.
With a 1-13 career head to head record, Roddick didn't have much of an option with respect to picking sides. He had to go for it. In his mind, he must have known that he was risking another 6-4 6-0 6-2 scoreline, but prolonged rallying coupled with some lucky breaks could have taken him as far as four sets and no more. He was up against Federer and Federer's opponents don't get gifts. Not whole matches anyway.
Federer knew the law as well as anyone. He must have known that the only way to repel an all out successful attack by Roddick would be to launch the heavy artillery himself. Which he did not do. Instead, he just changed the law. Rather, added an escape clause to the law. One which carries his name henceforth.
Roddick went for it and successfully too. He crushed his groundstrokes and yanked Federer all around the court. He served "from a tree" and didn't give Federer a whiff of a chance. If Roddick can play better, the world is yet to see it. Still, he did not win a single set. Three sets and he was out of his beloved Open. Writing that Roddick was a broken (in spirit) man would be an easy thing to do, but if he means half of what he said in his post match presser (about perspective), he is probably the one that we all need to look up to, more than we look up to Federer.
Federer was up for the match yesterday from the start. It was full throttled action from the time the first ball of the match was struck. Yet, he was not the one pressing the accelerator. He just bid his time. He must have hoped that Roddick would fall off the cliff in the tiebreaker. Roddick did not. So, he hit two crucial passes. Set one in hand. Ditto with the second set. Steve Tignor captures it well here.
Truth is, not even Federer can pull off both sets of such a battle every single time. Trouble for the rest of the world is, he has options for all possibilities, each one of world beating quality. If he had lost the first set, he would have upped his game just a little bit (and by 'up', I mean, gotten more aggressive) and won the second (just like he did against Feliciano Lopez). Under the very unlikely circumstance of him losing two high quality sets, the opponent will have to contend with a fired up aggressive Federer, while at the same time confront the "giant leap for mankind" that one would have to take to close out the match. For any of these conjectures, the odds are long.
Yesterday, Roddick could have won. I would go as far as to say that Roddick would have won. But for that to happen, someone needs to inform Federer that while the backhand slice and topspin are tennis shots, the backhand flick is not. It belongs to the domain of table tennis, tennis' poor cousin. The flick was deployed countless times to salvage a piledriver forehand crushed to Federer's backhand. That, to me, was why Federer won yesterday.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Pointless
Rivalries light up the sport of tennis like nothing else. Even the most age withered observers face meltdown when talking about or watching the TWO that matter. Unfortunately, in the current state of affairs, a Gasquet - Federer and a Safin - Federer are just matchups and not rivalries. Still, each episode of these affairs, offer the distinct possibility of turning out to be stand alone epics.
Gasquet being drawn to play Federer in the fourth round itself was a double edged sword. On the one hand, a quality battle could appear dull and devoid of drama simply due to a lack of atmosphere, while on the other hand, Gasquet had to fight fewer battles to keep up his appointment for the anointed hour (and Federer too). Thus, when I saw the schedule for the third day, here is what I had to say...
Three days into the Open and I've picked a gripe. Not a brand new one actually. This one has raised quite a few heckles over the years, but this time, it seems completely unnecessary. Hence, the rant.
The US Open has a lot going for it and not much against it. But there is one omnipresent villain who bobs up and down throughout the event every single year and showcases his absolute worst on Super Saturday. Ladies and Gentlemen, without any further ado, I present to you, the incorrigible, Mr.Scheduler.
Thanks to the action packed nature of the day and the hype and significance of the concluding weekend itself, the misfortune of the winner of the second semi-finals often goes unmentioned. Having been at the receiving end of it a few times in my couch career, I nurse the wounds, while waiting for an opportunity to strike back. At the same time, the Eleventh Commandment "Thou shall bow to television ratings" rings loudly in my ears and leaves me reluctantly resigned to fate.
However, this time, three days into it, that is, three days of glorious sunshine and floodlight filled, uninterrupted action packed days into it, Federer is scheduled to play the evening match on day three, while Richard Gasquet is slated to play the second match of day four.
Why oh why?
Why would someone do this to anyone?
Would it be so hard to ensure symmetry between and within the two halves of the draw?
Gasquet versus Federer might be equal on talent, but at this point of time, Gasquet needs all the help he can get just to take a set of the mighty Fed, and one less day off is certainly not that.
Today (Day four), first up, I checked the day's schedule, and Gasquet's name has gone missing. Baffling! Until, I note that sickness has caused Richard to forfeit his match against Donald Young. Lucky Federer!
PS: If someone is out there pondering, let me clarify that there is no point to this post really. Yesterday, it had a point, and a valid one at that, but today, it is all gone. However, with six drafts remaining just that since my last post, I just had to put this out there. Until abuse of blog space entails a jail sentence, I survive...
Gasquet being drawn to play Federer in the fourth round itself was a double edged sword. On the one hand, a quality battle could appear dull and devoid of drama simply due to a lack of atmosphere, while on the other hand, Gasquet had to fight fewer battles to keep up his appointment for the anointed hour (and Federer too). Thus, when I saw the schedule for the third day, here is what I had to say...
Three days into the Open and I've picked a gripe. Not a brand new one actually. This one has raised quite a few heckles over the years, but this time, it seems completely unnecessary. Hence, the rant.
The US Open has a lot going for it and not much against it. But there is one omnipresent villain who bobs up and down throughout the event every single year and showcases his absolute worst on Super Saturday. Ladies and Gentlemen, without any further ado, I present to you, the incorrigible, Mr.Scheduler.
Thanks to the action packed nature of the day and the hype and significance of the concluding weekend itself, the misfortune of the winner of the second semi-finals often goes unmentioned. Having been at the receiving end of it a few times in my couch career, I nurse the wounds, while waiting for an opportunity to strike back. At the same time, the Eleventh Commandment "Thou shall bow to television ratings" rings loudly in my ears and leaves me reluctantly resigned to fate.
However, this time, three days into it, that is, three days of glorious sunshine and floodlight filled, uninterrupted action packed days into it, Federer is scheduled to play the evening match on day three, while Richard Gasquet is slated to play the second match of day four.
Why oh why?
Why would someone do this to anyone?
Would it be so hard to ensure symmetry between and within the two halves of the draw?
Gasquet versus Federer might be equal on talent, but at this point of time, Gasquet needs all the help he can get just to take a set of the mighty Fed, and one less day off is certainly not that.
Today (Day four), first up, I checked the day's schedule, and Gasquet's name has gone missing. Baffling! Until, I note that sickness has caused Richard to forfeit his match against Donald Young. Lucky Federer!
PS: If someone is out there pondering, let me clarify that there is no point to this post really. Yesterday, it had a point, and a valid one at that, but today, it is all gone. However, with six drafts remaining just that since my last post, I just had to put this out there. Until abuse of blog space entails a jail sentence, I survive...
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
A distinct lack of pace
The Indian squad set to travel to England has been announced. Looking through our pace bowling resources for this tour, I got nostalgic, but not in a good way. I don't have any complaints against our selectors. In fact, I doff my hat to them. They took some tough decisions and chose from what is available. Its just that the end product reminds me of our 1996 tour to the same country.
Javagal Srinath was the leader of our attack back then. Venkatesh Prasad and Paras Mhambrey were the debutants who were supposed to be backed up by 'lively seam bowling' from a certain Sourav Ganguly. Prasad had a brilliant debut tour and went on to have quite a useful career opening the bowling for our team. However, watching both Mhambrey and Ganguly come off those ridiculously long run-ups to deliver what they actually did wasn't a pleasant experience, unless experiencing an electric shock counts as one.
This time, we have R.P.Singh, Ishant Sharma and Ranadeb Bose to backup Zaheer Khan and Sreesanth. I've seen R.P. in action and categorize him with Gambhir - extremely loose. I haven't seen the other two in action. I have nothing against these three. My frustration stems from the fact that instead of setting upon this challenging venture with a potent, proven lineup, we are doing so with a threadbare one, while praying that neither Zak nor Sree get injured. Other than the fact that they are not yet Akram and McGrath, I have no complaints against our top two. They sure can emulate the exploits of Sri and Prasad from 1996. However, instead of the third seamer slot being fought between Munaf Patel and Aashish Nehra, backed up by all-rounder Irfan Pathan, we have R.P., Ishant and Ranadeb. Considering their inexperience, expecting these newcomers to provide adequate backup for Sree and Zak against this mighty English side seems a tad unfair. Good luck to them.
If I make it sound like I am someone who would find ways to be miserable even after India wins a World Cup (cricket, hockey, kabaddi or whatever else), please be assured that that is not the case. Here's proof.
Post England 1996, till the end of the 90s, we had Srinath and Prasad and then, well, me. Ankola, Mhambrey, David Johnson, Dodda Johnson, Abey Kuruvilla - the list is long of those that tried but fell short of international class. Now, we have a whole bunch sitting at the doctor's desk after having demonstrated class at international level. We still fall short of Pakistani or Australian pace bowling standards, but the evolution from having no pace bowlers to having a whole bunch of injured ones, gladdens my Indian heart.
Javagal Srinath was the leader of our attack back then. Venkatesh Prasad and Paras Mhambrey were the debutants who were supposed to be backed up by 'lively seam bowling' from a certain Sourav Ganguly. Prasad had a brilliant debut tour and went on to have quite a useful career opening the bowling for our team. However, watching both Mhambrey and Ganguly come off those ridiculously long run-ups to deliver what they actually did wasn't a pleasant experience, unless experiencing an electric shock counts as one.
This time, we have R.P.Singh, Ishant Sharma and Ranadeb Bose to backup Zaheer Khan and Sreesanth. I've seen R.P. in action and categorize him with Gambhir - extremely loose. I haven't seen the other two in action. I have nothing against these three. My frustration stems from the fact that instead of setting upon this challenging venture with a potent, proven lineup, we are doing so with a threadbare one, while praying that neither Zak nor Sree get injured. Other than the fact that they are not yet Akram and McGrath, I have no complaints against our top two. They sure can emulate the exploits of Sri and Prasad from 1996. However, instead of the third seamer slot being fought between Munaf Patel and Aashish Nehra, backed up by all-rounder Irfan Pathan, we have R.P., Ishant and Ranadeb. Considering their inexperience, expecting these newcomers to provide adequate backup for Sree and Zak against this mighty English side seems a tad unfair. Good luck to them.
If I make it sound like I am someone who would find ways to be miserable even after India wins a World Cup (cricket, hockey, kabaddi or whatever else), please be assured that that is not the case. Here's proof.
Post England 1996, till the end of the 90s, we had Srinath and Prasad and then, well, me. Ankola, Mhambrey, David Johnson, Dodda Johnson, Abey Kuruvilla - the list is long of those that tried but fell short of international class. Now, we have a whole bunch sitting at the doctor's desk after having demonstrated class at international level. We still fall short of Pakistani or Australian pace bowling standards, but the evolution from having no pace bowlers to having a whole bunch of injured ones, gladdens my Indian heart.
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