Sehwag! You sly bastard!

For years, I have prayed that India wins the toss.
Because then, Sehwag strolls in.
Not that one doesn’t like to see Zaheer homing in.
(Surely if there's a certain Smith at the other end.)
But one just likes some adrenaline first up.

But have I prayed with respect?
Or has it been just for the entertainment?

I confess, I’ve been a little condescending.
About Sehwag, that’s right.
You haven’t?
Good for you, then.

We built a few pedestals.
For Sachin, the genius. For Rahul, the academician.
For VVS, le artist. For Ganguly the roaring cub.
Sehwag?

Well, Sehwag is just a marauding Jat.
He’s a basher. He rushes in where….
You don’t expect finesse here.
You don’t expect him to be responsible.
Or change his game.

You just hand him the bat.
And ask him to go out there and swing.
Wham! Bam! Thank you Mendis.

Winning games, playing out time, winning series….
That’s what Sachin is for.
That’s what Rahul is for.
That’s what VVS does.

Sehwag? He just makes you groan.
Because you can’t believe
the off-cutter that just got onto an express train
and booked its tickets to long-off boundary.
His Ridiculous Highness, you say.
With admiration, of course.

And he’s played along.
That sly bastard.
With the ‘ball dekho, balla ghumao’ logic.
With the ‘I sing bhajans when I bat’ story.
With the absolute disregard he displays
for personal triumphs.
Missing a triple hundred going for a hoick,
he shrugs; ‘another day, another chance’.

He plays along.
And he plays us all, all the time.

He’s left his shoulders free.
Free from the burden our pedestals bring.
He keeps them free, to swing his thwacking wand.
Which time and again, in the half hour,
swings a game India’s way.
He’s never there, when the gods we appointed
talk at the post-match ceremony.
At best you see him, in the corner,
hanging over Gambhir’s shoulder,
cracking what one supposes would be a colourful joke.

You wouldn’t expect him to wax eloquent, would you?
Or expect an erudite assessment of the day’s game?
He’s the basher. He’s comedy.

In the first Test, India succumbed.
Sehwag scores a useless century.
And India is handed an innings defeat.
And in their dreams, Indian champions
see Steyn twist his ankle playing soccer,
and stain their pants.

And come the second day, second Test,
Sehwag strides out, purposefully.
And before lunch, Steyn wants to twist his
ankle playing soccer.

How many times has he turned the game around?
By taking off at a 4.5+ run-rate?
By so intimidating strike bowlers,
by so demoralising them,
that by the time the remnants of the Fab Four
come in, the bowlers just want to go home.

And I do feel, that every single time,
if it’s not this basher showing the way up the order,
we wouldn’t have been so successful in the recent past.

There was a time when Sachin’s wicket
was celebrated by the opposing team.
Have you seen how they celebrate Sehwag’s wicket?
The word, I think, is orgasmic.

And at team meetings before an India series,
I have a feeling I know who coach and bowlers
are sketching plans to counter.

You know what I think?
I think he doesn’t give a damn for what we think.
He loves the game. He reads the game.
And then he goes out and does what needs to be done.

And I have a strange feeling.
That once he retires, we'll never hear from him.
No commentary, no books, no BCCI politics, no match refereeing.
One day, he’ll hang up his boots.
And go do what he next wants to.

That will be a sad day.
Because you Sehwag, are a class all by yourself.
You, are a Fab One.