Then, a victim of his own aggression, Sehwag is out. He slams the bat down. Gambhir, the hotel girl's idol, comes in. As he gets comfortable batting, Sachin slows down more, protecting himself. When he sees a pitch to drive, he steps into it. His first four of the day. The speakers play Bon Jovi's "It's My Life." Sachin hits another one, then gets conservative, taking no risks. He's trying to bat 35 or 40 overs, to anchor his team, to give openings to the other batsmen by consuming the attention of the bowlers. The crowd senses something special and chants, "Sachin! Sachin! Sachin!"
A feeling arises, a rare one, that you are part of a group watching something special. The power of sport is that, on occasion, it redeems the messes we create around it. Cricket can be stronger than the forces changing it. Victories are fleeting, but the poems are what matters. I don't know if cricket is about to be ruined, or if Sachin is no longer needed, if he's retiring or if he'll defy expectations and play 10 more years. These are things we can guess about but never know.
I do know this: I am a fan. I am sunburned but do not care. I lose track of time. That's not a narrative flourish. Hours seem like moments. Rapture comes to the people here. I see Sachin constructing a score, and I understand the planning, and the years of experience, that lead a man to this field on this day, and to the artistry he now holds as part of himself, like a chamber of his heart. We are congregants in a church. We are watching the son of a poet.
