The Legend of Pradeep Mathew (51 page)

My wife asks me why I love sport more than her. More than I do my son and our life together. I tell her then that she is talking nonsense. But perhaps she isn’t.

Some people gaze at setting suns, sitting mountains, teenage virgins and their wiggling thighs. I see beauty in free kicks, late cuts, slam dunks, tries from halfway and balls that turn from off to leg.

When the English toured in 1993, their supporters arrived in droves and formed a jolly beer-swilling troupe called the Barmy Army. A T-shirt of theirs read as follows: ‘One day you will meet a goal that you’ll want to marry and have kids with.’

Anyone who saw Diego Maradona in 1986 will agree that the T-shirt speaks the truth. To be in the right place at the right time and to watch a gifted athlete in full cry is one of life’s true pleasures.

In sport, has-beens can step onto a plate and smash a last ball into oblivion. A village can travel to Manchester for a cup tie and topple a giant. Villains, can heroes become.

In 1996, subcontinental flair overcame western precision and the world’s nobodies thrashed the world’s bullies. Sixty years earlier a black man ridiculed the Nazi race theory with five gold medals in Berlin before Mein Führer’s furious eyes.

In real life, justice is rarely poetic and too often invisible. Good sits in a corner, collects a cheque and pays a mortgage. Evil builds empires.

Sport gives us organisms that attack in formation. Like India’s spin quartet and the three Ws from the Caribbean. Teams that become superhuman before your very eyes. Like Dalglish’s Liverpool, Fitzpatrick’s All Blacks and Ranatunga’s Lankans.

In real life, if you find yourself chasing 30 runs off 20 balls, you will fall short, even with all your wickets in hand. Real life is lived at 2 runs an over, with a dodgy LBW every decade.

In real life, as Sri Lankan cricket grows sweeter, your wife will grow sourer. The All Blacks may underachieve for two more decades, but your son will disappoint you more. I hope you read this, Garfield. I hope you forgive.

The answer to my wife’s question is of course a no. I would go down in a hail of bullets for her and for Garfield many times over. And while Aravinda de Silva has delighted me on many an occasion, I wouldn’t even take a blister for him.

But the truth, Sheila, is bigger than both of us, whether it be written on the subway walls or on the belly of a lager lout’s T-shirt. In thirty years, the world will not care about how I lived. But in hundred years, Bulgarians will still talk of Letchkov and how he expelled the mighty Germans from the 1994 World Cup with a simple header.

Sport can unite worlds, tear down walls and transcend race, the past, and all probability. Unlike life, sport matters.

I asked the nurse to bring me water seventeen minutes ago, but my parched gullet is yet to receive relief. My doctor does the rounds at 8.30, which is still a few hours away. I do not get visitors till well after 10, but today appears to be one of my less unlucky days.

‘I thought I recognised your name on the patient board. What is the matter?’

Sari, handbag, circular glasses, circular figure. I had seen her somewhere before.

‘Mrs Kolombage. I used to work at ITL with that Rakwana.’

‘Hello. How?’

‘You here for sugar?’

‘Kidney failure.’

‘My husband has diabetes. Have to come early or can’t catch doctor. Can I get you anything?’

I ask for water and for the curtains to stay drawn.

She chatters about her husband and how she no longer works. Are all women doomed, once the children have left home, to begin prepping their husbands for the grave? Mrs Kolombage makes tea and natters on about Rakwana leaving the media to become a poet.

‘You should see the money he made from ITL and SwarnaVision. I only did the books, so I know. If I collected that, even I would retire and write poetry.’

Her skin is the colour of un-drunk coffee and it is darkest around the circles of her eyes. The way she chatters and giggles at her own jokes reminds me of Sheila. I think of things undone and of things that cannot be undone, and in front of this stranger tears begin rolling down my cheeks.

‘Mr W.G.? It’s OK.’ She pats down my uncombed hair.

‘Your husband must be waiting.’

‘No, he’ll be taking tests till noon. It’s OK, Mr W.G.’

No stranger has addressed me by my distinguished initials till today.

‘Thank you. You are very kind. I’m just a silly old man.’

‘But look at how you have used your talent. That documentary was all your doing. All of us could see. Cassim, that girl Danila. All said the script was magic. That Rakwana only messed it up.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Kolombage. Your husband must be wondering …’

She starts quoting from the Bible and for some reason it does not irritate me.

‘Don’t be upset, Mr W.G. You have led a great life.’

‘All I have done is make enemies.’

‘All great men make enemies. I see your greatness and so does God.’

‘I don’t believe in God.’

‘Doesn’t matter. God will believe in you.’

Right then, I believe that if I repent, I will be able to write my book. What a mutt.

Papa, I know I’m just meant to transcribe Uncle Wije’s words and not supposed to offer my opinion, but this is classic bargaining behaviour. We studied it in my counselling course, the stages of grief. I can’t remember the others, but bargaining was definitely one.

Mrs Kolombage leaves, promising to check in on me. She tells me I must forgive myself. I nod and thank her and wonder why I cannot cry in front of my own wife.

By noon I start shivering and my drip comes out. Blood pours out of me like a million tiny cricket balls. The orderlies wash it away and cover me in blankets. I ask the nurses to keep the radio and TV switched off, and I focus on the revolving fan and dream of Badulla and Bolgoda. I tell myself I do not want to die.

I believed once that I could stave off death by writing. But if I am to accept my place in an indifferent universe, I cannot complain when it treats me indifferently. For me to embrace God after all these years would be hypocrisy of US foreign policy proportions. I can only lie here and hope.

It appears that the bargaining stage has given way to depression. The goal of the therapist should be to lead patient towards acceptance. This should be our goal.

I could call up Garfield and tell him that I like his song. That I am proud that he is a great musician and has bedded more women than me.

I propose that this crude comment be deleted from final draft.

I dreamed two days ago that I was at the SSC and Sir Garfield Sobers led me onto the pitch during an interval and told me the meaning of life.

I remember that it was one sentence that made complete sense in the way things rarely do. I woke up, rang for the nurse and called for a piece of paper and a pen, only to watch it fade from my thoughts.

When the paper arrived at 0.27 SLT, I snatched it and wrote six words on it. Could have. Should have. Did not.

I have two bits of good news: (a) I am going to live. (b) I have an ending for my story. Yesyesyes. That is indeed correct.

Last night something happened. They told me what it was, but I couldn’t understand then, so I don’t remember it now. At the time Cassius Clay and Joe Frazier were giving me body shots. Ali delivering one-twos to my left side, Smokin’ Joe tenderising my right, just in front of where sweet Aruni is now sitting. These were not quick jabs, but thunderous blows that rattled my ribcage and contorted my spine. ‘What’s my name, fool?’ Ali kept asking. Joe of course just kept silent.

When the doctors came, the boxers vanished. There was much movement and plenty of shouting as I lay writhing while my bruises turned purple. When I awoke there were more tubes pumping life into me, but this time the room was sprinkled with fairy dust. The light was a 4.30 p.m. Attidiya glow and in the background I heard The Meat Loaf doing anything for love. And I felt happy, because for once I knew things would turn out OK.

Then in he walked. His hair had grown long enough to tie in a ponytail. He had a red cricket ball in his hand that he couldn’t stop playing with. In his arms was a child. It was none other than Pradeep Mathew himself. Yes. You heard me correctly.

‘I got you this from Lord’s. It’s signed by Richie Benaud.’

‘Thank you, son. You don’t know how long I’ve been looking for you.’

‘I tried to come earlier.’

‘I have written about you. Everyone will know how great you are. You and me will finish this together.’

‘I don’t know how long we’ll be staying. I’d like you to meet my son.’

‘Hello, little fellow. Will you be a great man like your father?’

‘My son has a present for you.’

Pradeep Mathew’s son gave me a picture of a cricketer that he had obviously drawn. To most it would appear as a mess of lines and splotches. But me, I could clearly see a left-handed batsman taking guard.

‘I see the boy is talented like his father.’

‘I’m glad you wrote what you did.’

‘You inspired me to write. The world does not appreciate what an artist you are. Come back to us. You have so much to offer.’

‘I will have to think about that. Listen. His mother is waiting. I’ll bring her this evening. Now you must get some rest.’

‘Shirali? I would love to meet her. I have heard so much.’

Now it seems I have something to live for – something that doesn’t come in packs of twelve and isn’t measured by the finger-width. Sweet Aruni is trying to interrupt me and I tell her to hold her horses. I can feel nausea as one would see a tidal wave approaching, gathering strength from the horizon. One more paragraph before it hits. Please.

Mark my words, as a writer and a lover of sports. This story shall be finished. It is indeed possible to score a late goal in extra time, to land a knockout at the end of the 12th, to hit a 6 off the final ball. And I, W.G. Karunasena, husband of Sheila, father of Garfield, champion of Pradeep Sivanathan Mathew, am, without doubt, the man to do it.

Dear Mrs Karunasena,

I received your late husband’s manuscript and read it with interest. I too was a great admirer of Pradeep Matthews. You may recall, I directed an award-winning documentary on said bowler. Your husband had a hand in the script.

While there are some interesting points raised in your husband’s memoir I feel the style is too rambling, the thesis unclear and the language falls into the informal and the vulgar. I suggest I rewrite this in the form of ethnic prose-poetry, perhaps with some line sketches adorning the page. Through art we will capture the essence of an artisan in a way that anecdote can only hope to.

To undertake this, I will require a 50 per cent advance on my author’s fee, plus an agreed-upon royalty on book sales. You may contact my lawyer [email protected] to discuss the business side of this artistic endeavour.

To conclude the tale of Pradeep Mathew, one must

My good friend W.G., would always say

The night was dark

I’m sorry, Wije, I cannot do this. I wish I could, but I cannot write like you. I don’t even know what to say.

It is the year of the space odyssey. I’m sad to say it, old chap, but I was right about many things. Australia took the Cup, even though Paki was the form team. Like I told you, the vintage of ’96 has soured. Ranatunga retired and one by one Roshan, Kalu, Pramodya, Hashan all vanished. We now have a decent team, but these days everyone expects them to win all the time. I have a feeling it will never be like ’96 ever again.

Didn’t I tell you US was due for another Pearl Harbor? Last month some Arabs flew a plane into New York’s World Trade Center, thousands killed. They suspect a man with three names. World is now fully in shock even though for us Lankans this is nothing new. US is declaring war on terror. Our Tigers, cunning buggers, are now OK to ceasefire. The sons of the soil are saying the ceasefire allows Tigers to rearm. Some fools are saying to ask America to help get rid of them. I hope I am dead and with you and Jonny long before that ever happens.