The Legend of Pradeep Mathew (17 page)

The next day, Pradeep announced that he was planning on trying out for the national team and may even drop out of uni. He spent his tuition on the airfare back to Sri Lanka and joined the team as a net bowler for the Sharjah tour.

‘At the time I thought the bugger was mad. But in the end he managed to get into the team. At least for a few games.’

‘What happened with the girl?’

‘High Commissioner got transferred back to Colombo. Pradeep followed her. I saw her a few years later, she had put on a bit. Said she was studying in Australia.’

‘Did he have an affair with the girl?’

‘Are you mad? She told me the loser sent her love poems and screwed things up.’

‘What happened?’

‘Who knows? She was too hi-fi for him. Never heard from Pradeep after that. Actually, do you have his email?’

I am once again in the red trishaw, but this time I am the driver. In the back seat is Pradeep Mathew, circa 1987, with shaggy hair and headband and a girl. He is writing on one of Ari’s pink notebooks. Now and again he attempts to touch her breast and she slaps his hand. I am spying in the rear-view mirror. Mathew catches me and glares. ‘Uncle. How many fingers do I have? How many sixers will I hit?’ We crash into a coconut tree. Each coconut that falls has the number 6 on it.

I wake up fumbling for a pen. Sheila curses me with an f-word. ‘What the f … fruit are you doing, Gamini?’

I find a pen that doesn’t work. I end up carving three words on Sabi Amirthalingam’s envelope before succumbing to a coughing fit.

Sheila sits up in bed. ‘No excuses. Tomorrow we are taking you to a blooming doctor.’

Ari retires from teaching and wastes his pension on his 1979 Ford Capri. He puts in leather seats, fixes the radio and the air conditioning, but is still unable to make it move.

‘No, Wije. I need to work on this more. We’ll have to go with Jabir.’

It is then that I tell him about my red trishaw dreams.

He looks at me with suspicion. ‘Is that why we are going on this goose chase?’

‘It makes sense. He wasn’t close to his family. No real friends. Someone must have helped him in those early days with the Sri Lankan team. Charith told me at Nawasiri …’

‘Nawasiri Hospital? What were you doing there?’

‘Charith told me Mathew never listened to the Skipper or the coach. That he had his own personal coach …’

Are you sure he said six fingers? Or did you dream that also?’

‘No. No. Charith said.’

‘If I dreamed of coconuts with the number of the beast on them, I would go straight to confession.’

‘You think it’s OK to go in Jabir’s three-wheeler? We won’t crash like in the dream?’

‘It is always the opposite of dreams that comes true.’

Ari begins as he begins everything in his life. With a list. He types at a snail’s pace, making no mistakes.

‘Exciting,’ he says. ‘Like searching for the one-armed bandit. More Hadley Chase than Conan Doyle.’ I add two more to the list:

Ari pulls out a magnifying glass. I give him a look. ‘I broke three specs this year. Manouri won’t let me buy another pair.’

Ari scrutinises my scribbling through the glass, like Sherlock in a sarong, one eye thrice the size of the other. He frowns. ‘That fool Gokulanath?’

‘Worth a shot, no? Do you remember how many fingers he had?’

‘I remember how many brains he didn’t,’ says Ari.

First stop is Rosmead Place, where we are met by two Great Danes and a suspicious servant.

‘Heel, boys,’ grunts a giant of a man with a walking stick and a grey twirled-up moustache. ‘These are my guests.’

We enter through a lush indoor garden. The walls are lined with pictures of Sir Nihal’s family. And pictures of Sir Nihal posing with cricketers in various countries. He then brings out his books and brings our attention to his feats playing for Royal in the 1960s. And representing Ceylon in athletics. He then talks about his distinguished career at Lanka Insurance.

Ari cannot take any more. ‘Mr Nihal, we are not writing about you.’

‘Oh. Really?’

‘No, Nihal Sir,’ I say. ‘We are writing about a boy you coached. Pradeep Mathew.’

The fossil smoothes down his moustache. ‘Never heard of the fellow.’

‘He trained with the Royal squad in 1983. When you were coaching.’

‘Never heard of the chap,’ he says, rising. ‘You were the fellows calling around last year about the 1983 Royal–Thomian?’

Ari swallows hard. ‘No, Mr Nihal. What happened in ’83? Did you get bowled out for 9 runs again?’

‘I’m sorry I don’t know this Mathew and I am very busy.’ Sir Nihal rises and gives us a look that says that in two minutes he will release the hounds.

When we get to Thurstan, we notice immediately. Lucky Nanayakkara uses all five fingers on his left hand to hold the saucer and all five fingers on his right to hold the cup.

‘I don’t mean to boast, but I taught him to bowl the flipper.’ Today, Lucky Sir’s voice is ebony with an extra coat of varnish on it. He is not puffing his pipe.

‘Really?’ I ask.

‘His fingers were supple. I taught him Clarrie Grimmet’s technique.’

Grimmet, who made his debut at thirty-three, was perhaps the greatest right-arm leg-spinner of all time. Ari is rummaging through his school satchel.

‘I only advised him to play for Royal.’

‘You didn’t tell me that when we last spoke.’

‘You didn’t ask,’ says the gentle lover of cricket.

We are at the same pavilion, overlooking the same ground. The same band of cub scouts go marching in the distance, singing an African song in a Swedish accent.

‘Were you in touch with him when he played for Lanka?’ asks Ari.

‘Many coaches tried to ruin him. ICC sent guys like Terry Mallet, so-called spin coaches. How many of our local actions did they ruin? Pradeep would visit me and ask “Lucky Uncle, why am I not being selected?” I only designed his action and helped him develop new variations.’

‘Which variations?’

‘The flipper. The googly. The double bounce.’

‘The double bounce?’ I ask.

‘The greatest ball ever invented. I only taught the fellow.’

Ari stops rummaging and leans forward. ‘What about the leaper, the floater, the darter and the lissa?’

Lucky folds his arms. ‘Of course. I only taught him.’

Ari puts his hand back in the satchel and fishes out a junior cricket ball. ‘Show us.’

He lobs the ball to Lucky Sir. Lucky Sir catches it in his left hand and spills his tea with his right.

‘Bloody ace conner,’ says Ari. ‘I knew he was a bullshitter soon as I saw. Wije, you are too gullible.’

Lucius’s spinning grips were out of a coaching manual long out of print. They were nothing like how Mathew bowled.

‘OK. OK. You only put him on the list, no?’

‘Based on what you said.’

‘Uncles are doing what?’ asks Jabir as he lets rip on Parliament Road. We drive past the parliament grounds, where cricket games overlap like stories.

‘A cricket book,’ I say.

‘One fellow I know who might help you.’

‘Who? Who?’

‘At Tyronne Cooray. Uncle Neiris.’

‘Mad Neiris?’ says Ari. ‘That dwarf? No thank you.’

‘You know him?’ asks Jabir.

‘I get betting tips from his woman. He’s fully mad,’ says Ari. ‘What, Jabir? No wonder you are sending your children to Royal.’

Jabir laughs hard as we are pulled over at a checkpoint. I am still not sure if he laughs because he is good-natured or because he is slow. A kid with a T-56 six sizes too big for him asks us where we are going.

‘Pelawatte,’ we say in unison.

The GenCY also sits in a room of photographs. But none of them feature him.

‘Your family?’ asks Ari.

‘Ah?’ says the frail man, settling back into a haansi putuwa.

‘Your family?’

‘Whose … family?’

‘The photographs.’

‘I don’t … take photographs.’

Then he stares into space.

‘You coached Pradeep Mathew?’

‘Who?’

‘Pradeep Mathew?’

‘I think … I don’t.’

A woman whom we recognise from the pictures, now with a big bum and her hair in a bun, enters the sitting room.

‘Sorry for keeping you waiting. Thaathi is not very well. I don’t know how much help he will be.’

I consult my notebook and sit up straight like the professional that I am. ‘He coached the national side in ’87 and then again in ’93?’

‘That’s right.’ She lowers her voice. ‘He was diagnosed last year.’

I look at Ari. He holds up five fingers and shakes his head.

The daughter turns to the GenCY. ‘Thaathi, did you know of a Mathew Pradeep?’

‘Pradeep Mathew.’

‘There was a fellow … called Iverson … in my team …’

Ari gathers his notebooks. ‘Thank you, miss. We won’t trouble your father …’

I remain seated. I saw this skeleton, now covered in wisps of white, score as flawless a 50 as I’ve seen against Bradman’s Invincibles. He was invited to play a game for the MCC, but turned them down for unfathomable reasons.

‘Iverson didn’t listen to me … He had his own coach.’

‘Come, Wije.’ Both Ari and the daughter are standing.

‘Who was Iverson’s coach?’ I ask.

‘That chap …’

‘Did he have six fingers?’

‘Wije. Come. Come.’ Ari gives the daughter number 37 in his collection of fake smiles.

‘Six fingers … Yes. He did. Bloomfield chap, I think. Was a scoundrel …’

‘Who?’

The old man looks at me as his daughter wipes a bit of spittle collecting at the corner of his mouth.

‘Who?’ asks the old man.

‘Iverson’s coach.’

‘Who is Iverson?’

‘Pradeep …’

‘Pushpa … who is Pradeep?’

I am shocked to read in the
Sunday Leader
that the body of an S. Gokulanath was found in Soysapura Flats. Baulking at the prospect of being shunted around the Moratuwa Police, we give Jabir a few thousand-rupee notes and send him on his way.

‘I think this six-finger thing is bullshit,’ says Ari.

‘We have two people …’

‘You just have Charith. You can’t put words into the mouth of a senile man.’

‘OK. Fine. Shall we visit Bloomfield? We can chat to teammates, coaches also.’

‘Why are we doing this, Wije?’ asks Ari, cleaning his magnifying glass.

‘Doing what?’

‘The documentary is over. We have given our inputs. Why are we spending money?’

I have thought this over. ‘I want to do a book.’

Ari extends his hand and grins. ‘Praise the Lord. Finally. If you are going to do that, I will support. What about?’

I shake his hand, but stay at arm’s length. Ari has no qualms about hugging other men. Bless the old fool.

‘What else? Pradeep Mathew.’

‘As long as you don’t call it Chinaman. That is a racist term. Would you call a book Nigger?’

‘Joseph Conrad did,’ I say, showing off. ‘So did Agatha Christie.’

Jabir comes in sweating with a copy of the police report. ‘Found your fellow. Need more cash. Had to bribe four fellows.’

The report was eleven pages long; the main points were as follows: Gokulanath had been stabbed. He was unemployed and owed money around the neighbourhood. He lost his job at Royal for misconduct and was separated from his family. His death had been the seventh homicide in that apartment complex for the year.

‘Wije. Do you think we are uncovering something dangerous?’

‘Don’t be a girl, Ari. Soysapura is like that. Jabir, you asked?’

‘Ah. Forgot, no.’ We glare and Jabir can hold a straight face only for a few seconds. ‘Joking, Uncle. Yes, yes, I asked. Both hands had five fingers.’

I have to restrain Ari when we enter Bloomfield.

‘No. No, we can’t. He only is the one who gave us the betting tips.’

‘So who cares?’

‘No. No. It’s not nice.’

The Sri Lanka women’s team is practising at the Bloomfield ground and Ari’s nemesis Newton, with his glove and bat, is teaching them to catch.

‘Can I at least throw buriyani at him?’

Newton misses a ball and Ari applauds. We get 1,000 yard glares from the women and their coach. ‘Maybe he has six fingers.’

‘He doesn’t even have two balls,’ says Ari as we enter the main office of the Bloomfield Cricket Club.

The club secretary is a shuffling young man with the fluffy facial hair of a teenager. He shows us their coaching list. Bloomfield currently have seventeen coaches on their books from U-11 to indoor to women’s teams. The secretary asks if we know that Pradeep Sivanathan Mathew is no longer part of the club.

Ari nods. ‘Yes. Yes. According to my records he played for Bloomfield Cricket Club from ’86 to ’94. 590 first-class wickets. 27 Man-of-the-Match awards. Member of the P. Sara winning team of 1994/95. Best bowling 9 for 17 vs Saracens.’

All this would have been impressive if his notebook were not pink, and if he wasn’t wearing a golf hat and holding a magnifying glass.

‘You know more than us,’ smiles the secretary. ‘How can we help?’

‘Could you get us a list of coaches who Mathew played under? And a few teammates who may remember him?’

I notice a slight grimace on the young man’s face. To him, what we were asking for must have sounded like work. ‘Y’all are writing about Bloomfield?’

Ari tramples my foot under the table. ‘Yes. Yes. Great Bloomfield cricketers.’

‘Like Mahanama, D.S., Kuruppu, Warnapura, Dharmasena,’ I say, prying my foot loose.

‘Why, Sanath?’

‘Of course Sanath. But here, Mr …’

‘Rideegamanagedara.’

‘Of course. We have info on the others. We are looking only for info on Pradeep Mathew.’

‘I will find out and let you know,’ says the man with the long name.