There are few things as liberating for a cricket fanatic as sitting in the middle of a packed stadium at a World Cup final and absorbing the proceedings with utter nonchalance. Ah, the freedom in just being amidst anxious faces, sipping on fine bourbon and soaking in the frenzy of a madding audience!
Or, if you are looking to catch a bluff, the mere reconciliation of being at a sporting event where you do not know who to cheer for but also know that the ticket is too expensive to let go.
My purchase of premium tickets to the ICC Men’s T20 World Cup final was made a year ago, resulting from a combination of FOMO and an exaggerated confidence in Team India’s ability to not go down with a 10-wicket loss for the second year in a row.
“But what if India doesn’t make it to the final?” my wife had asked at the time, being the more conscientious spender of the household. “We’ll root (no pun intended) for the best team,” I had replied. After all, as Ravi Shastri so often quips: “At the end of the day, cricket will be the winner.”
The internet and defeated fans never forget
Team India were beaten comprehensively by England in the semi-finals ICC
Forgive me Lord, for I knew not what I had said. And I knew not that in a space of less than three weeks, the very arena that had witnessed a dramatic Indian victory over their neighbouring rivals would now be waiting to welcome nearly 80,000 beaming Pakistani faces who were having the last laugh. At least until the night ended.
The anticlimax at the Melbourne Cricket Ground (MCG), one must admit, was too much for an Indian fan to bear. Scanning through the social media pages of Indians in Melbourne, Australian-Indians and Gabrus in Melbourne before the final and what have you — the sad-face memes complemented by desperate pitches to sell tickets, sometimes substituted by cryptic philosophical posts about misplaced expectations and heartache, all pointing to a gloomy Sunday that would be spent moping over what might have been.
In order to understand the context of this overreaction, one only needs to go a few weeks back in time when the stadium had thundered with chants of “Chak De! India” and an unrestrained beating of dhols. Placards had been put up offering 11 discounted flight tickets from Melbourne to Islamabad. Premature, even if entertaining. Because within days that followed, one upset too many took the cricketing world by storm. Alas! The internet and defeated fans never forget. Counter-posters that would be now brandished from the same stands on the Big Sunday were getting ready.
The Great Indian Optimism, however, never disappoints
On the morning of November 12, my Lahore-based hairdresser asked me with a cheeky grin if I was interested in attending the game the following evening. “Why would you like to know?” “Because I’m being offered plenty of seats,” she said, before adding: “I’d hate for them to be passed up.”
I told her I had my own passes that I was struggling to let go of, thank you for asking. In true spirit of great middle-class upbringing, I made the long train trip to the stadium because, yes, being a misfit at a party is at any rate more acceptable than draining my hard-earned money on a wasted pass. How bad could it be, after all? Even Sting’s Englishman in New York did at least walk down Fifth Avenue, did he not? And so, I rocked up at the scene, acutely conscious that a lone ranger at a party with no recognisable faces must know the exit route of the venue before entering it.
The Great Indian Optimism, however, never disappoints. Braving the embarrassment of their team’s defeat in the semi-finals were other fellow Indians who had painstakingly brought with them Tricolour drapes and flags and face paints. With a tenth of the numbers and a hundredth of the enthusiasm we had last seen here, they staggered around the steps, sauntered along the stands and at other times listlessly sat in their seats, as though attending a fire-evacuation drill.
Three hours felt like a lifetime
The author was one of the few Indians in a sea of green at the MCG Nishant Kaushik
Uncharacteristic of a dramatic T20 as this finale was, we had a few opportunities to chat up in the corridors whenever we needed a breath of fresh air or had an urge to not be recognised as the odd bunch in a sea of green. The gameplan was simple: the Indian flag would be brandished at the fall of every wicket and every time the ball sailed over the ropes, agnostic of whichever team the situation favoured. But every time the overhead billboard would light up with an advertisement of Virat Kohli endorsing the ICC T20 crictos, we would slink in our seats and cry softly.
It is mind-boggling how slowly time passes when you are at a place with little motive. Three hours felt like a lifetime, and a good part of this time was spent counting on my fingers the total number of English fans in my stand. I counted eight, and I am not certain if all of them were English supporters. But one thing I am certain of is that the winning runs invited an applause only marginally stronger than what would occur upon the cutting of a cake at a child’s birthday party, bringing an anticlimactic curtain on what had promised to be a cracker of a tournament.
Nishant Kaushik is the author of eight novels. His latest, Bhadresh Mhatre’s Slam Book, released in September 2022. He lives in Melbourne with his wife and two sons
