There seems to be a choke stuck in my throat that is wilfully agonizing my day. For some reason, the choke is not out of despair, it is out of anger and frustration. What place are we sharing if a genius has to prove himself time and again, over and over and over again?
Rahul Dravid is a phenomenon in Indian Cricket. He might not be as flamboyant as Sehwag, might not have been “God” of cricket like Sachin or might not have been as outspoken as Sourav, but that does not make him any less important to the team. I don’t want to speak of the exploits he did with the bat or the courageous displays of grit. I just wish that he would be left alone. Given a chance, I would envelope in a time capsule and push him away, away from all these prying eyes who want to rip him apart. His batting is like that of the brush strokes of Da Vinci and the sonnets of Shakespeare. Why question his commitment? if for one shot of his bat, I have to wait for a thousand strokes, I am prepared to wait, for when the shot unleashes from the bat, it is so artfully played that one is left gaping at the splendour. I cannot quite fathom the criticism he needs to take. Why? Why is it so difficult to accept greatness? Is it because it is available for everyone to see?
I do not want him to play any more cricket, to allow any of these people who cannot understand brilliance, to ever watch him play cricket. It is like leaving a diamond in the muck and expecting a tramp to cherish the rare jewel and not broker it in a pawn shop for a meagre trifle. Gosh! It is heart-breaking to listen to the comments. Deliberate malice just to nudge a reaction out of me seems to be the thing of the day. And to speak of him, to defend him, is a blasphemy, a sacrilege.
Rahul Dravid is a phenomenon in Indian Cricket. He might not be as flamboyant as Sehwag, might not have been “God” of cricket like Sachin or might not have been as outspoken as Sourav, but that does not make him any less important to the team. I don’t want to speak of the exploits he did with the bat or the courageous displays of grit. I just wish that he would be left alone. Given a chance, I would envelope in a time capsule and push him away, away from all these prying eyes who want to rip him apart. His batting is like that of the brush strokes of Da Vinci and the sonnets of Shakespeare. Why question his commitment? if for one shot of his bat, I have to wait for a thousand strokes, I am prepared to wait, for when the shot unleashes from the bat, it is so artfully played that one is left gaping at the splendour. I cannot quite fathom the criticism he needs to take. Why? Why is it so difficult to accept greatness? Is it because it is available for everyone to see?
I do not want him to play any more cricket, to allow any of these people who cannot understand brilliance, to ever watch him play cricket. It is like leaving a diamond in the muck and expecting a tramp to cherish the rare jewel and not broker it in a pawn shop for a meagre trifle. Gosh! It is heart-breaking to listen to the comments. Deliberate malice just to nudge a reaction out of me seems to be the thing of the day. And to speak of him, to defend him, is a blasphemy, a sacrilege.
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