The Legend of Pradeep Mathew (27 page)

In 1988 Charith was selected for the A-team to play West Indies U-19. Pradeep Mathew, out of favour again after the ’87 World Cup, was demoted to that team. Charith describes a carrom flick from Mathew that bowled a young batsman called Lara. ‘I saw from first slip, the ball danced into the wicket.’

It was while seated in the pavilion, waiting for batting turns that never came, that the two tail-enders bonded.

‘What are you writing?’ asked Charith.

‘Poem to my girl,’ said the left-arm spinner.

‘Where is she?’

‘Australia.’

Solid performances in the ’88 Asia Cup saw Mathew selected for the ’89 tour to Australia. Along with him was the young medium pacer from Galle who had bowled economically against India.

‘It’s my luck that got me this. Labrooy was injured. The Ratnayakes were out of form. And de Mel was fighting with the Captain. So they took me just in case.’

I have watched Charith bowl for NCC on many occasions. While on a good day Charith could hold his line steady, his pace was unlikely to keep international batsmen awake at night. In fact, it was more likely to put them to sleep.

It was here that Charith learned the full extent of Mathew’s obsession. Three phone calls a night to a number in Perth. ‘Fellow was plucking flowers and feeding them down the phone.’

Charith and Pradeep spent their tour bowling to the seniors in the nets and sitting in their room talking about money they needed and women they did not have. ‘I worked at Mercantile Credit, he was at Sampath National Bank. Some of the reserves had sponsors or club support. All we had was the money we made on tour and that was nothing.’

Charith describes Pradeep as having long fingers and being unusually supple. Some mornings, Mathew would be stretching, other times he would be reading his English books, some days he would be in the toilet vomiting.

‘He told me his mother wanted him to give up cricket and look after his father. He was determined to become the first regular Tamil player in the national side. ‘Ado, Silva. As a Tamil I have to be ten times better than the Sinhala spinners. Now I am only eight times better.” Sometimes fellow had swollen head.’

Mathew admitted to being in love with this girl for over five years and was a prodigious letter writer. Uvais Amalean, former Bloomfield wicketkeeper, remembers him scribbling on a foolscap notebook throughout the season. ‘I can’t remember. Stupid stuff. Some girl’s name written like a poem.’

Amalean only speaks with me on one occasion, at the VIP lounge, during the Singer–Akai Nidahas Trophy. ‘He was a solid servant for Bloomfield,’ says Amalean. ‘When he left, not even a farewell.’

Both Amalean and Charith remember the book of poems incident. It began as a dressing room prank, but spilled over to the post-match socials. No one knows how Ravi de Mel got hold of Shirali’s scrapbook. Except me. I speak with Ravi a few chapters into the future and he gives me, among other things, photocopies of the cyclostyled sheets he pasted on Pradeep’s locker. He even lets me take one.

No doubt, in the quest for the hand of his intended, Pradeep had turned to the courtly wisdom of an
MD Gunasena Thesaurus.
Shirali had probably circulated these impassioned paeans as she had shared one of them with Harini Diyabalanage.

Mathew arrived in the dressing room to laughter and jeers. He threw a punch at the burly Ravi de Mel and was dispatched in a headlock. The GenCY broke up a very one-sided fight. ‘You are gentlemen first, cricketers second.’ Both Charith and Amalean agree that de Mel was a bastard. That the matter should have ended there.

But it didn’t. As is confirmed by the bench warmer, the wicketkeeper in waiting and the bullyboy bowler, these poems were quoted extensively at the 1989 United Sri Lanka Association, USLA, Christmas celebrations in Perth.

Roshani Junkeer, member of the Perth Kandyan Dancing Troupe: ‘Aiyo, Shiraligirl, look at the cheeks. Rosy with radiant. Hehe.’

Larry Donald, admirer of Shirali, friend of the West Australian Sri Lankan Community: ‘Incredible feminine, you are womanhood, get us a drink, will ya.’

Both comments were within earshot of the reserves table where Pradeep was sitting. Mathew is reported to have glared. Shirali is reported to have looked ‘full upset’.

Then Ravi de Mel, wielding a can of VB Bitter, put his arms around batsman Tillakaratne and Pradeep. ‘Love is the magic, no? Intentionz I have.’ Mathew freed himself from the paceman’s elbow, walked up to Shirali and her drunken party, uttered the word thanks and left. A glass of wine was spilt. Opinion is split. 40 per cent of the interviewees claim it was thrown by Mathew at Shirali’s face. 40 per cent claim it was thrown by Shirali down Mathew’s shirt. Only Charith says that it was knocked over by accident as Mathew exited the Perth Town Hall.

Reggie Ranwala toured with the national cricket team as Percy the flag waver’s sidekick. To call Reggie and Percy mascots would be unkind and insulting. To call them groupies would not be entirely inaccurate. The incident he relates about Pradeep Mathew took place in Melbourne, 26 December 1989.

It was the only Boxing Day of the last nineteen years in Melbourne that did not feature a test match. The Melbourne Cricket Ground, MCG, did not think the inexperienced Sri Lankan side of ‘89 was a big enough draw for a five-day fixture. It would be six years before Melbourne cricket granted us the privilege of being sledged and accused of chucking for five whole days.

Mathew was not playing in the Boxing Day one-day game. But fate did a twist and Pradeep found himself on the field, substituting for an injured Ranatunga and on the receiving end of a cover drive from David Boon’s blade.

Mathew, whose fielding has been described as ‘roobish’, ‘lazy’ and ‘vedak nae’ by various sources, reached out into the ether and was amazed to find that (a) the ball was lodged in his outstretched left hand, and (b) he was in midair, parallel to the turf of the MCG, and about to fall on his chin.

Man of the Match was Simon O’Donnell for his match-winning 4 wickets and his 57 not-out. Recipient of the CrocDundee2™ CatchoftheMatch was Pradeep S. Mathew. In the studio were team management and camera crew. Reggie had squeezed in to cheer on Mathew, but had been instructed to keep quiet.

The original
Crocodile Dundee
was funded by its cast and some private investors that included sports baron Kerry Packer, inventor of World Series Cricket and Aussie cricketers Lillee, Marsh and Chappell. It was Australia’s biggest international film and spawned a sequel, which sponsored the award that Pradeep won.

The GenCY, anxious about the standard of English proficiency among squad members, had issued a memo before the tour, stating that in the unlikely event of anyone being selected Man of the Match, their speech should be confined to a selection of stock phrases:

‘Don’t try and be pandithayas and talk big,’ said the GenCY in his clipped accent. ‘These Chappells think we are fools. Don’t embarrass your country. Even seniors, ah? You may think you know your English, but unless you are sure, stick to the script.’

Many feared the West Indian pace attack less than the prospect of speaking to the cameras in English. And so it was that Pradeep found himself on camera with a famous Yorkshireman.

‘Prah-deep Mathew. Winner of CrocDundee2CatchoftheMatch. Let’s ‘ave a look at it, shall we?’

Cue replay.

‘Here we go. Ratnayake overpitching, Boon takes a swing and … out of nowhere, young Mathew diving to his right. I tell you, CrocDandy would’ve been proud of that.’

The crass sponsorship that has crept into the game and is now too large to be pushed back the way it came, frequently gets my goat. But I’m aware of its necessity. I can tolerate booze and cigarette companies putting on a show for us boozers and smokers, but to let a sequel to an Australian-Banda-goes-to-Hollywood film celebrate the art of fielding takes crassness to new lows.

Mathew, who according to Charith Silva and I.E. Kugarajah had seen
Crocodile Dundee 2
on Christmas Day in the company of three Melbourne females, stared at his shoes and muttered, ‘It was a team effort. I’m tried to do my best.’

The Yorkshireman widened his grin. ‘He’s a hard hitter, is David Boon. That must have tickled?’

Mathew looked helplessly at the GenCY beyond the camera. ‘They played better, but we gave a good fight. We have learned a lot on this tour.’

The Yorkshireman’s grin stabilised, but his nose twitched the twitch of a man who wanted to roll his eyes but can’t. ‘If you ask me, you need to learn quickly. Sri Lanka are yet to win a game on tour so far.’

Off camera, the GenCY glared at the SevenSports studio producer. They had both briefed the interviewer to ask simple questions. The studio manager glared at the Yorkshireman and did the throat-cutting gesture with his index finger.

‘We’re looking forward to the next game,’ said Mathew. ‘Hopefully boys will play well.’

The Yorkshireman, a man who used the excuse of northern bluntness to be downright rude, was bored after a day’s worth of ale. He was known for making enemies faster than he made runs.

‘I saw you bowl in the game against Victoria County. You seem to be struggling with the local wickets.’

Mathew began shuffling and thought of Item 7 on the memo: When in doubt, smile and say, ‘That’s right.’ He looked at the GenCY. Then at the Yorkshireman. He smiled. Shuffled and scratched his head. ‘They played better, but we gave good fight. We are getting used to conditions. We’re looking forward to next game.’

The Yorkshireman ran his tongue over his lips, squinted at the morsel before him and decided to take a bite. ‘I saw you play in Colombo against New Zealand who, mind you, aren’t the strongest, and you blokes struggled. Those were home conditions.’

Mathew dispensed with the smile, but kept scratching his head and shuffling. He dropped the unsure accent of a non-native English speaker and switched to his Lankan lilt. ‘New Zealand took twenty years to win first test. Sri Lanka took only three years.’

The Yorkshireman smirks. ‘That may be the case, but …’

Mathew’s voice rose a key. ‘England has played for hundred years … ‘

‘But we’re not talking history, are we, son?’

‘… and they’re still crap.’

The whole studio caught its breath.

‘Is that right? You think you’re better than England, do ya?’

‘I’m better than you ever were.’

The Yorkshireman raised his eyebrows and gave his lopsided smile.

Behind the camera there was frantic signalling. The GenCY whispered, ‘Reggie malli. This is not going live, no?’

Reggie shrugged.

‘You think you’ll play the next game, son? Or will you be carrying drinks again?’

There was silence. The GenCY hissed in the ear of the studio manager who grunted into his mic. Reggie watched Mathew look up at his bully.

‘You think you’ll ever do commentary? Or will you be doing CatchoftheMatch again?’

Obviously the English lessons had sharpened more than Pradeep’s vocabulary.

‘It was true,’ gasps Reggie. ‘That fellow only did CatchoftheMatch. They say because he was always drunk. But I think because no one could understand his accent.’

Mathew stormed out of frame, leaving behind a cheque and a stunned crew. He exited the room and then exited the ground. He had an argument with the GenCY on his way out. He was later seen by Reggie, returning to his hotel with Charith Silva at 2 a.m. the next morning. Not drunk, but with a bandaged hand and a smile on his face. The Yorkshireman was reprimanded and the interview never aired.

The Yorkshireman never got a stint in the commentary box on that tour, but a year later made a name for himself on radio as a straight-talking curmudgeon. Fortune was less generous with young Mathew. He had to wait three years before he could play for Sri Lanka again.

If we were to have a Big Match, an ongoing rivalry, who would it be with? India, Pakistan? No, we get on too well with our neighbours and they have each other to hate. The Kiwis are too nice and the Windies and South Africa are too far away. It’d have to be one of the Ashes teams.

‘Would never happen,’ says Jonny, when I present this theory. ‘Problem is, Sri Lanka hates Australia. But Australia only slightly dislikes Sri Lanka.’

The reason we hate the Aussies is because of their umpires no-balling Murali, their bowlers calling our batsmen black monkeys, and their press calling us cheats. But most of all because they’re tougher, better organised and impossible to beat.

Perhaps if we had won the ’92 test, things might have been different. The ’92 Australia test in Sri Lanka is remembered for magnificent centuries by Gurusinha, Ranatunga and Kaluwitharana, for 3 wickets in 13 balls by a young spinner named Shane, and as a shining example of Sri Lankan incompetence.

Having made Australia follow on, and chasing a target of 180 for an era-defying victory, Lanka slumped from 127–3 to fall short by 16 runs. It was a defeat of great immaturity. Many believe the match was fixed.