The Chesistance Was Real

On childhood cricket classes and a misfit cricketer

I remember the first time I was taught cricket. Well, not the day or place, but the way. Someone from my family got me a full cricket kit bag. Two white pads that were so clean I was scared to use them, a counterfeit SG bat, a counterfeit Duke's red ball, a pair of batting gloves, a set of plastic wickets that were new but looked pale, and some wristbands of various colours. The pads were too big for me but I couldn't wait to put them on and prance around the house as if Sachin Tendulkar would come out of the black Videocon television and ask me to join him at the crease. My hands were all over the place with the gloves and the bat. I wasn't used to holding a bat much, never mind with batting gloves. If you've seen or worn a pair, you'd know how chaotic they are. Lumpy, asymmetric, and generally uncomfortable.

Excited about the new gear, I was keen to learn the ropes of the game. The first shot I was taught was the forward defence. Various people from the family - all cricket nerds - taught me about the straight bat and high elbow. It didn't matter if Sanath Jayasuriya was on the TV playing some ultra-violent form of baseball clothed in cricket gear, I was told that the forward defence and a straight bat were the first fundamentals of batting. Any batting. And so I went along. In primary school matches that lasted only five overs, in gully cricket where the whole point was to score quick runs, or while shadow batting inside the house. Straight bat; high elbow. I saw Tendulkar make merry with that technique. Shots that looked defensive went for boundaries. Fun.

Cricket, back then, was also played in whites. Even a lot of ODI cricket. The sport had begun its courtship with floodlights and technicolour production, but the purity of its original colour palette was still prevalent. My first full kit - sweater and all, mind you - was all white. 

Alongside the flamboyance of Sachin and Azharuddin, India had two new, young stars. One of them was from my hometown, so there was a lot of hype amongst the relatives and news channels. He was left-handed and apparently very good. Two centuries in his first two Test matches. Damn. The other guy missed out on a debut century only by a whisker but the commentators were enamoured by him. Every sentence they uttered had the word technique or some derivative of it. He, too, seemed to have graduated from the same batting school that I was entering. Straight bat, high elbow, forward defence. For hours.

It's been a long time since the summer of 1996. Cricket is unrecognisable now from what it was then. A quick aside - I don't think that's a bad thing and everything evolves with time; this isn't a my-generation-was-best-bro piece. Anyway, coming back, things were different. Test cricket was the pinnacle of all formats, to the extent that players were known as test cricketers for X country. Those who didn't play too much Test cricket but played a lot of limited-overs cricket - think Ajay Jadeja, Michael Bevan etc - were somehow thought of as a little inferior. As an impressionable kid, I grew up with the conditioning that technical purity, patience, and endurance took you far, even more than flamboyance and athleticism at times. The lesson about balancing the spectacular with the productive would sink in much, much later in life but the importance of good fundamentals was discernible.

When I look at Cheteshwar Pujara bat, I am often reminded of the summer of 1996. How well he would have fit into that team embarking on a mega away season. England, South Africa, and West Indies within a year. Barring Tendulkar and Dravid, India barely had dependable Test batters for all conditions. Some days, Sidhu would play well; Ganguly was here and there; Azhar was on the wane. What India would've given to have someone of Pujara's tenacity and grit in that lineup when everyone between Dillon and Donald was scything through them. India desperately needed someone who could just bat time.

Pujara started out as a capable stroke-maker with an inclination towards defence. He would start slow, but press the accelerator once he got set. But as he went into the winter of his career, he slowed down, as if it was a role specifically given to him. Forget the big runs, just bat time. There were others, with a greater range of attacking shots, who could build on the foundation he laid. It was sometimes surreal to watch him in the last few years. A complete misfit, at odds with batting's patterns and trends, but unflustered and unfettered. Just hanging out at the pitch for hours. India's two biggest Test series wins in the last decade - both in Australia - don't happen without Pujara's obdurate defiance. 30 for 3 at Eden Gardens against an average Sri Lanka team? Yo Puji, hold the fort. When shit hit the fan, when the bluster of Kohli and Sharma and Shastri was occasionally burst with a pinprick, everyone looked for that average Joe from Rajkot.

There was a price to pay for that style. When the runs dried up, his tendency to take time at the crease - an otherwise valuable asset in Test cricket - held the team back. Unlike every other batter in the team, a quick 70 to find his way back was rarely on the cards. So a drop was always lurking around. In 2018, for the first Test in England, after a long, barren patch. In 2022, after a South Africa tour where he was visibly off the pace. And one couldn't always blame the team management. Runs, ideally, should be the first line of credit for a batter. The versatile Kohli or Sharma could depend on more aggressive formats to find their way back into form. Pujara was a specialist. Longform run-making was his only way back. And he found it, repeatedly. Sometimes in the dry heat of Rajkot, sometimes in the moist air of Sussex. Runs by the gallons. So much so that more flamboyant batters had to make way because the sturdy piece of furniture was back in the room. Every time, more polished than before.

After another barren patch, Pujara has been dropped from the Test team. Once again, it had been coming. The World Test Championship final in London was his chance to book tickets for India's next season, but he couldn't quite stick around long enough. As a new season begins, the Indian selectors have realised the importance to refresh an ageing side. Pujara is 35. After the Test series in West Indies this July, India's next assignment comes at the end of this year in South Africa. Unfortunately, it isn't one of his favourite hunting patches either. Reports suggest that the need for transition has been communicated to him. When the t-word enters the conversation, it is a tougher way back than just a loss of form. Four years back, if Pujara got dropped for this form, he'd be six good months away from getting picked again. Not anymore.

It is in faint lettering, but there is something on the wall.

There is a common refrain used amongst elite athletes. You would have heard it too. "It isn't about how many blows you take, but how quickly you can get back up." I wonder if the ability to get up diminishes after a while. As the body starts groaning, as the eyes take a few extra milliseconds to process the information in front of them, as the extension of muscles that had been fluid till so recently becomes slightly rickety, does it affect the mental tenacity to take every blow as a prologue to a special comeback?

The day after getting dropped, Pujara registered himself for the Duleep Trophy, India’s zonal competition in First Class cricket. We rarely get to know the person under the helmet, but if there was one thing everyone could bet their bottom dollar on, it was that Pujara wasn’t throwing in the towel just yet.

Writing an obituary for Pujara would be jumping the gun, so I am not quite keen to do that. But this departure has a timbre of finality, without a doubt. 

Cricketers from Pujara's generation may be the last to harbour hopes of playing 100 Test matches. But Pujara is definitely amongst the last batters of his kind to play 100 Tests. Batters who can progress an inning at a decent pace are the present and the future of the game. Even if not always quick, teams prefer those who have the range to maximise on bad bowling. Pujara is not quite all that. He could play the occasional blinder, but it didn't come naturally. Even his most ardent fans would admit that his attacking technique has a lower ceiling than most batters within or in the periphery of the national team setup. 

It is quite insane that he had a career this stellar. It has been a remarkable stint. Prolonged through sheer sweat and grit. There are many ways to remember Pujara fondly. If this is indeed the last of Pujara in Indian whites, my lasting memory will be from Brisbane 2021. Writhing in pain, eyes closed, asking for a pack of pickle juice but refusing to leave the ground. Next ball, defended back to the bowler. Repeat.

Young cricketers from the next generation will not be growing up with posters of Cheteshwar Pujara on their walls, but coaches will do well to impart some of his best qualities to them. Straight bat, high elbow, forward defence.

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