CHENNAI: There is something about the shared joy of watching or playing sports. It's very communal aspect at the recreational level on a dodgy college playground or the elite level in front of 90,000 fans is unmatched.
I have always noticed sports journalists, people associated with sports even, talk about it as a sort of greater good. Like it came with a vaccine for all kinds of cancer, ending hunger, poverty and domestic abuse. I'm as guilty as the others who do this. While I cannot speak for them, I have felt that balm within handshaking distance.
The 2011 Cricket World Cup was going to be a big professional experience. The newspaper I was working for had formed a dedicated team for live updates (over-by-over) of all matches. A first-of-its-kind back then. So, taking leaves was out of the question. This was a bummer because a few days before the tournament began in Dhaka, I fell during an office table tennis match (don't ask) and broke my metatarsal. Or, to quote my ortho, 'Son, did you take an axe to your bones?'
There are five metatarsal bones in your foot and I had managed the feat of breaking four of them in one go. "Walking with crutches for the next 2-3 months. No standing, get familiar with a bedpan for a few days," informed my ortho. "Just a broken foot? Nothing happened to your fingers, no? You can still type," was a colleague's perspective I didn't know I needed. Anyway, this story isn't about me.
After finishing live updates for Pakistan v. Canada on the night of March 3, I was dropped back home by a colleague. It was 2:30 AM when the phone rang.
My mother beat me to it. As she put the landline down 2-3 minutes later, she was shaking. My sister, in the 25th week of her pregnancy, had suffered a haemorrhage (none of us would know this at the time). Carrying twins, her water broke. Wait? What? Was she alive? Lads, what was the blooming hurry to come out? The valaikappu (baby shower or the babies' shower in this case) wasn't even scheduled till later in March.
While I felt as useful as a broken pencil during an exam, my mother and grandmother woke up a neighbour who agreed to drive them to the hospital. In the meantime, the in-laws had woken up her gynaecologist. Her husband knew none of this. He was on a flight from Singapore to Seoul. Her father — my father — also knew none of this. He's usually a good sleeper and found a bad night to sleep peacefully in a hotel in a remote part of Kerala while doing a bank audit.
An emergency C-section was performed at 6.30 AM. Sister was out of danger but the kids? It was time for atheists to become believers and believers to invoke all Gods without discriminating on the lines of faith. They were sent to NICU. Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.
That same afternoon, the TV at home was showing West Indies dismantling Bangladesh for 58. I don't think any of us watched a ball. But all of us found some unwritten comfort that it was on. The sound of bat on ball. The voice of a veteran commentator. An unruly appeal. The noise of the crowd. The scoreboard graphics. A sense of familiarity.
The next few days were an endless blur of making repeat trips to the blood bank and back to the hospital. Meanwhile, cricket was always on. Perhaps, because watching sport has always been a thing in the family; my grandmother's annual ritual included crying with Jana Novotna at Wimbledon. So it didn't feel weird when India v. Ireland was on TV on March 6. When you are navigating through hell without a manual, maybe it's nice to know that there's warm food on the table.
But warm food also goes pretty stale. With the condition of the kids still very grim, my dad's diabetes did a number. His sugar levels spiked, he had a heart episode and I was horrified when I listened to his doctor. "Your grandsons are in hospital, your daughter is in his hospital, your son can't walk... I should admit you but I don't want to. Just promise me you won't drive."
Around that time, Ross Taylor hit one of the great all-time World Cup knocks against Pakistan, The only thing as violent as Taylor that day was my dad's random sugar as it threatened to touch 400. The BP monitor came a close second as it registered a reading over 190/120. His ECG report had a lot of 'abnormal' and 'irregular' printed on it. There was a mention of tachycardia in there somewhere (you can argue that most Indian cricket fans would have had similar readings throughout that month).
At the sister's hospital, both babies were reported to be mischievous, removing the 1000 tubes their bodies were connected to. "Mischievous? Hang on, they take after their uncle? Nice."
What wasn't nice was both of them had pretty serious sleep apnea. A common problem among preemies (premature babies), it's when they don't breathe for some time. All sorts of blood particles were going in. Machines were keeping them alive. They still needed a couple of miracles to survive. Honestly, they could have had one less problem.
As I had rejoined work, I was actively watching the World Cup. I mean, I kind of had to because of the whole live updates thing. After losing to Ireland, England was determined to be worse so ended up losing to Bangladesh. I remember a phone call to Dad explaining Shafiul Islam's unbeaten knock to take them home.
A day later, South Africa beat India. It was the first time all of us had watched bits. Till the end of the powerplay. The next wicket. The next dropped catch. The next boundary. Six more balls. That night, the Indian cricketing community went in search of the 'match ka mujrim'. To be fair, MS Dhoni helped them as he blamed the batters.
A few days later, we just decided to blame fate. One of the twins had passed away. "Sepsis," informed the doctor. Sepsis v. preemie? It's like going to a full-fledged war with a couple of pitchforks and prayers. A 10-day-old boy had no chance. "You always pick death if the alternative is a lifetime of suffering," suggested my grandmother. Words that made a lot of sense even back then. As they handed over that lifeless, nameless, palm-sized human being back to the family, Dad's sugar had taken off. "No choice but to start you on insulin," his doctor told him.
It was the longest day. Followed by the longest night. But there was no time to grieve, not when there was another fellow to save. He was still inside the incubator but the tubes connecting him to the machines outside were dwindling. Progress? Optimism? Hospitals can be weird places, right? Men and women of science turn to God for salvation. Men and women of God turn to science for salvation. Something similar happened between my very God-fearing family and the doctors treating the twin.
Twenty days and still inside the incubator, the doctors attending to the other twin started calling him a fighter. He was yet to be named. He was still called "Baby of Savitha" at the NICU.
At the World Cup, India was showing progress thanks to a fighter in their ranks. Up against Australia in the quarterfinals, Yuvraj Singh, who hid his battle with cancer, took India home. All of us were half dead inside but it still felt nice to have multiple people gathered around a TV and absent-mindedly watch it. Like zombies gathered around a wake to silently watch on as Australia failed to reach their first World Cup last-four match since 1992.
There was a possibility that 'Baby of Savitha', having shown rapid progress, would be shifted to a general room in the first week of April. We heard this information around the time India was scheduled to play Pakistan in the semifinal. After doing the hospital round that afternoon, the roads were empty. All of Chennai had already checked into the cricket. At our house, people settled in to watch the first innings.
mother who had lost one kid was trying her damnedest to forget her situation. The father who had lost one kid was trying his damnedest to forget his situation. In the evening, there was another hospital call. By the time the family regathered post-dinner, India was in their first World Cup final since 2003.
With 'Baby of Savitha' set to be shifted to a general room, it was time for the father and mother to move to the hospital which they did a few days after the final. After India's win, the father wondered aloud if 'watching an Indian win was the primary reason for them to be born so early?' It was the first time anybody in the family had smiled since the night of March 3. Fireworks lit up the night sky in almost all Indian cities. In Chennai, people were revelling. Strangers were hugging, high-fiving and dancing with each other. So much happiness because 15 cricketers they had never met — and would probably never meet — had won a World Cup. Inside the car and coming back from work on the morning of April 3, it finally hit me. I may yet have a live nephew.
A few nights later, 'Baby of Savitha' moved to a ward before coming home in the first week of May, a month after the World Cup win. I'm not even sure India winning the World Cup positively moved the family in any way (we have never really been the jingoist sort). But what the 2011 edition did was something greater — joined at the hip. West Indies v. Bangladesh? Birthday. Tendulkar's 99th? Heartbreak lane. India v. Pakistan? Optimism. April 2? Relief.
Like music, sport helps people heal. It brings families closer. In that sense, it acts as the perfect escape from reality. You may be going through a break-up. You may be grieving the loss of a friend. While there is no tonic and you will have to ultimately go back to facing your issues, sport offers a satisfaction guarantee; for some time, it allows you to forget your problems. Sure, alcohol does the same but sport only damages your heart while keeping your liver untouched.
It acts as a balm, dopamine for a battered mind. To borrow the words of a Guardian writer, 'People who like sport remember their lives better than those who don't.'
