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The morning is going to herald a new dawn for the nation. An absorbing last Test has soaked all his energy, but Sachin Tendulkar, the Sydney star, has still enough left in him to go through the day’s news. India today is talking
about the Australian, Steve Waugh. The times of India have changed, a
change inspired by our new outlook.
His mind wanders out from its crease: He has been an observer for far too long in this series. Now, he must take an independent decision: is it time for him to retire? Then he thinks of Mumbai. It must be midday there. How he would like to end his Test career with a big score in front of his home crowd—"Sachin Tendulkar, the best player of the world," they’d say—much like the farewell Steve got at Sydney. The reflection of the sun in the mirror distracts him from such negative thinking. Perhaps he should change his opinion of himself and consult someone who knows better; but who? Steve. Yes, he might help. He always likes to help, as his off-the-field record would suggest. The cricketer arrives at the door of his great, great rival, thinking how he might express himself. Steve’s brother, Mark, opens the door. "Hi, Sachin." "Hi, Mark, is Steve in?" "No, he got out yesterday." "Alright then..." "Ah, c’mon, it was a joke. He’s in, but he has just retired." "Retired! So early!" "Why? Isn’t it quite late?" "But the sun has only just arrived over Australia." "It’s sunny by night in this country. We select our own weather." "Oh! Strange selection! Actually, I came here to discuss something important about my career." "Don’t say another thing. Here, take my mobile phone and give him a call; that’ll wake him up." "Sachin, is that you!
You sound upset, mate. Thinking of retiring?" "How do you
know, Steve?" "It’s written all over your voice. I assume
that you are getting some bad press." "You presume correctly,
I give them my best-ever performance, but the newspapers don’t have
space for that. The only thing they are writing about is you. You must
be over the moon." "You know, you’re just right and it’s
all because of a newspaper. Once when I got bad press, I folded the
paper 30 times and it became 54 km thick. A few more folds and I was
over the moon." "Now, you are kidding." "I am not; I’m
so out of this world, but I tell you, no matter how far you go, you can’t
avoid the press. Bend it your way and it’ll get you to the moon."
(Was Steve serious? Just how far can you fold a newspaper? Write at The
Tribune or adityarishi99@yahoo.co.in) |
