Comment: The artist not content with the obvious

Each time Sachin Tendulkar scores a century, his first act is to take his helmet off, raise both his hands, tilt his face – glistening with sweat –  heaven-wards, and close his eyes momentarily.  A sense of calm appears to envelop him.  A moment of stillness.

It was the same at Centurion last Sunday. The storm was approaching, South Africa were thundering to a crushing and inevitable victory. Tendulkar was on the cusp of becoming the first man to register 50 Test centuries.

Once he crossed the milestone, in the centre of the maelstrom, he kept it simple, repeating the above ritual. There was no ecstatic war-cry or ridiculous charge to release pent-up frustrations, actions so evident in the current players. What stayed, and always stays, in the mind though was his devotion, his humility to thank those who helped him realise his genius. Tendulkar’s action was touching.  Later, he dedicated the ton to his father, who had passed away mid-way during the 1999 World Cup.

Such acts transfer you to an era when cricket was not business, runs are not scrips on the stock exchange. Cricket, as Tendulkar learned, and has maintained, is an art. For him the challenge has been to refine the art of run-making.  For him the goal has always been to rise above the simple competitiveness of sport, to attain some higher ideal. To push himself and to see beyond the obvious.

In 1989, aged 16, he learnt it was foolish to play without a grill against sheer pace. In 1990, nine Tests old, he learnt to watch the ball to score his first century in Manchester (next morning he sat at the feet of the septuagenarian manager Madhav Mantri  to enquire if he had committed any mistakes). At 18, he charged, deflected and eventually came on top of  the bullying five-man Australian pace attack on a crack-filled WACA (the fastest pitch in the world) to score a memorable century. His tussle with Shane Warne in 1998 at Chepauk was the boxing equivalent of the unforgettable Ali v Foreman ‘Rumble in the Jungle’ fight.

In between, he endured pain, which he admitted will haunt him. At Bridgetown, when India failed to reach 120 for a win. In Chennai, against Pakistan, he fell short of a fighting century and India lost by 12 runs. Tears of pain and agony came rushing down Tendulkar the captain, who decided to take refuge inside the dressing room.

Only once back on the ground would the calmness return. He forgot the pain as he built to face the next challenge. Just as India entered the new millennium with a new energy, robust and positive, so too did Tendulkar. The pressure of being the flag-bearer of India for more than a decade had taken its toll on him so he decided to play it safe. The critics reckoned it as a negative step. Tendulkar did not bother.

Apart from consistency, if anything has remained a constant in Tendulkar’s life it is the hard work.  As Mathew Syed wrote in ‘Bounce – How champions are Made’ on the topic of child prodigy, “They have compressed thousands of hours of practice into the small period between birth and adolescence. That is why they have become world-class”.

The writer is an assistant editor at ESPNcricinfo.

Published in The Express Tribune, December 22^nd, 2010.