Jhakas | Sanjay Jha
It was close to midnight when Breaking News flashed ominously on TV screens. There is something eerily dark about the media obsession of flashing Breaking News intermittently. It usually carries with itself some dreary, dismal, despondent news,a giant tsunami, an attempted assassination, a terrible carnage, a boat mishap, and occasionally a boy fallen in a black hole, an over-the-hill-actor boring us with his baritone balderdash and even a wardrobe malfunction. But this was different. This was about a former cricketer. A soft-spoken gentleman. An articulate Englishman living in picturesque Cape Town, South Africa coaching the difficult Pakistan team in far-away West Indies during the high-profile World Cup where they had just lost to under-rated Ireland. It was about Bob Woolmer.
There is something strangely poignant about the death of a sportsman. I have this peculiar theory I am quite stubbornly obsessed about; that all sportsmen are essentially good people. You maybe the hottest MBA earning a ridiculously obscene salary in a investment bank on Wall Street or Nariman Point ( usually over-rated, anyway), a multi-millionaire with stock options in Google, or a lucky inheritor of good fortunes. But a sportsperson is special. Because they epitomize everything that brings out the best in us as a human; hard work, the struggle for perfection, spirit, guts, struggle, triumph, tears, team play, bonding, coping with failure, living every moment, fearless to the core. Continue reading below
And above all , inspiring people, and a nation. Lifting moods. Raising sentiments. Sometimes heart-breaking. Close finishes. That sudden collapse. An unfortunate injury. Dumped. Love of spectators. Boos from angry fans. In a great way, sports is life’s greatest leveler. And sportsmen are well-rounded people. They know the vicissitudes of life. Of fluctuating pendulums. Of fame and glory that is there one moment, and gone the next. Of retirement at an age when the rest of the world is at it’s prime.
Of the final farewells. The great Michael Jordan made an aborted comeback with the Washington Wizards. Andre Agassi lost to a rank outsider in his final match at the US Open. Hansie Cronje suddenly vanished into oblivion. Zindedine Zidane in his moment of crowning glory, lost his head. And Michael Schumacher’s car malfunctioned in his last great race. Sir Don Bradman got out for a duck in his last ever innings. That’s what sports teaches you. Accept things the way they are, and move on.
Over the coming few weeks there will be the typical media over-kill on speculation on the reasons behind Woolmer’s sad demise. Stress, suicide, depression , drugs and abject failure are already doing the rounds. The media is such that they do not leave even the dead alone. If you don’t believe me, read the latest mysterious expose on the conspiracy theory behind Marilyn Monroe’s death. Then you have Anne Nicole Smith. Bob Woolmer will be subjected to the same insane scrutiny. That’s life !
But my heart right now is with the family of Bob and the beleaguered Pakistan team. After my home country India, they remain my perennial favorites. Lonely and bereft, they will go through the motions of a match against Zimbabwe, with sadness in their hearts, their minds an ocean in tempest and tumultion. The coach is gone, the captain has announced his retirement, the World Cup campaign is over and there are dark days ahead where many will be mercilessly axed. I hope and wish that the people of Pakistan treat their homecoming with understanding and sympathy, and not with hate and anger.
And as for the rest of us let us pray that the soul of a fine sportsman who loved cricket so much he continued to be involved with it years later at the age of 58, rests in peace. The least he deserves is a dignified silence.
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