The Legend of Pradeep Mathew (6 page)

Graham applauds and the game begins. The names come thick and fast.

Ray ‘The Goat’ Manigault, described by Jordan and Magic as the greatest street basketball player there ever was, succumbed to crack addiction and failed to make the NBA.

Laxman Sivaramakrishnan, India’s leg-spinning boy wonder, with three gods in his surname, exploded on the international stage with 6-wicket hauls in his first three innings and then lost form permanently. Bob Massie and Narendra Hirwani took 16 wickets on debut and faded into obscurity.

Everyone tells the story of the fiery pace bowler from Jaffna who bowled at 110 mph during an SSC trial, returned to the war zone to gather his belongings and was never heard of again.

‘Wasting talent is a crime,’ says Graham.

‘A sin,’ concurs Ari.

I think of Pradeep Mathew, the great unsung bowler. I think of Sri Lanka, the great underachieving nation. I think of W. G. Karunasena, the great unfulfilled writer. I think of all these ghosts and I can’t help but agree.

We shake hands as Graham leads us to the lift. All that is left of the party are empty bottles, fallen ashtrays and broken furniture.

‘You know, WeeJay, when I asked you to come at 10, I meant tomorrow morning,’ smiles Graham.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I never drink with the press or let them see me drunk.’ ‘But you said come at 10…’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Graham lifts his hand. ‘Was a pleasure meeting you both. Can I trust you not to write about my personal life?’

‘Definitely.’

Ari looks smitten and does not let go of Graham’s hand. I wonder if I should leave them alone for a goodnight kiss.

‘We didn’t get to talk business. Will you be at home tomorrow?’

Ari and I say yes at the same time.

‘Where do you live?’

This time I let Ari say it by himself. ‘17/5 de Saram Road, Mount Lavinia.’

‘Shall we say 10?’ says Graham to the closing lift doors.

While drinking and talking cricket till 2 a.m. may offer the illusion of friendship, I was not expecting to hear from Graham Snow ever again. Many people have promised the world over bottles and delivered little more than nothing. I am one of them, and they are one of you.

The next morning I’m arguing with the urchins playing cricket on my road. It is the second ball to hit my windows and I’m in the process of confiscating it.

‘Let them play,’ calls out Ari from the next-door balcony. ‘We must nurture cricket at street level.’

When Graham Snow’s 4WD pulls up, the urchins gaze in awe. Graham rolls down the window. He is wearing a suit and a frown.

‘Sorry, chaps,’ he mutters. ‘Just got called to the airport, problem with NSPN, need to be in Mumbai.’

He hands me a huge purple file. It is filled with legal documents with Snow’s signature. Ari has run down in his sarong and shouts for the whole neighbourhood to hear. ‘Ah. My good friend. Mr Graham Snow. How? How?’

‘Hello, Aree. Gotta rush. No time to explain. You’re the blokes I’ve been looking for. I’m recommending you for the Graham Snow Commonwealth Cricket Grant.’

The urchins have stopped their game. Housewives are peeping from balconies. A crow drops a watery turd on my gate.

‘Go to the Sri Lanka Cricket Board and speak to Danila Guneratne. She’ll give you the details. Tell her I have picked you and Aree for the grant.’

‘How much is the grant?’ asks Ari.

Graham’s driver revs his engine. ‘Gotta go. See ya. My card’s there.’

‘How much is the grant?’

‘Speak to Danila. Good luck.’

His jeep speeds off, leaving me and Ari with a purple file and a requisition for…

‘Seven lakhs!’ gasps Ari.

The number is scrawled in a fancy font on a certificate that carries the Queen’s seal.

The urchins resist the urge to chase after the jeep, and, sensing gossip, walk towards us. I throw them their ball and pull Ari to the veranda. ‘It says here we have to make five half-hour documentaries.’

‘So? Let’s do it. I saw this video camera for sale in the
Observer….’

‘But what do you know about making documentary films?’

‘How many documentaries I have seen. How hard can it be?’

Harder than we thought. It was three years before those documentaries aired. By that time, kingdoms had been won and lost. The bubble of Sri Lankan cricket had ballooned and burst. And sadly, so had W.G. Karunasena.

91 per cent of all dismissals are caused by bowlers hitting wickets, fielders taking catches, batsmen obstructing stumps and runners falling short of their ground. Bowled, caught, LBW and run-out are to cricket what cancer, heart disease, stroke and road accidents are to life.

But there are more unusual ways of surrendering your wicket. You can be out for handling the ball, hitting the ball twice, obstructing the field, not coming out on time, or falling on your wicket. All of these occurred in the 1994 Sri Lanka vs Zimbabwe series. You-know-who featured prominently.

At the first meeting, everyone is late. Ari and I are the first to arrive at 00.15 Sri Lankan Time. That is, fifteen minutes after the scheduled start. By 01.23 SLT, everyone is gathered around a table in an air-conditioned room.

Representing the SLBCC are Miss Yasmin Alles, giggly and girly, looking just out of school uniform; and Ms Danila Guneratne, older, fair and flawless, could have been a model, probably was. Representing Independent Television Limited, ITL, are programming director Dr Rakwana Somawardena, sports editor Mr Abdul Cassim and Mrs Kolombage, stenographer. Representing us is just us. We are wearing ties. I have even combed my hair and polished my shoes.

‘What experience do you have, Mr Karunasena, in creating television?’ Rakwana, specs on nose, scrutinising our proposal, his eye darting towards Miss Alles leaning over her notebook.

I feel like asking this bearded bureaucrat in national dress the very same question.

Ari speaks. ‘I lectured in filmmaking in the UK, I have studied it and taught it for over thirty years.’ Ari always smiles, but he only shows his teeth when he is lying. In truth, he attended a workshop in filmmaking at the British Council in ’79 and has been master-in-charge of the Science College AV Club since the late 1980s.

‘You have showreel?’ Danila sounds like a vatti amma selling veggies on the street, even though she looks like a Parisian model. Fair skin, dark eyes, a beauty spot below her nose, a smile that could stop traffic and a voice like a car crash.

Fluorescent light falls from tubes on the ceiling and bounces off Ari’s exposed teeth. ‘My showreel is on Kodachrome Color Reversal film stock. It has deteriorated over the years. It is currently being restored in Singapore.’

‘Graham Snow recommends you highly. We like your articles, but we’ll need a script to approve budget.’

‘Script is essential,’ says Cassim, more for his boss to hear than for us.

‘Must have script,’ nods Mrs Kolombage.

‘Directing documentary is no joke,’ says Rakwana to us.

‘Not a joke,’ nods Mrs Kolombage, closing her notebook.

A week later, we bounce back, but this time with some secret weapons. We unveil our first.

‘Danila, meet Brian Gomez, sports presenter for…’

‘We know Brian,’ smiles Danila.

‘Aren’t you contracted to RupaVision?’ asks Cassim.

‘No, my dear,’ grins Brian. ‘I’m a free agent. Doing some NSPN work. Behind the scenes. Presented a few shows for Sirasa. Now I’m at your service.’

Brian’s off-screen persona is much more charismatic than what we see on television. Though he is prone to bouts of toe-curling corniness.

‘Dhani, how to say no to Wije and Ari? These men are encyclopaedias of cricket.’

I interrupt. ‘I will script, Ari will produce, Brian will direct and present.’

‘Sha. Brian, you can direct?’ Today is a casual Friday and she is wearing a shawl and beads.

‘Why not? Why not?’ smiles Brian.

Brian picks up a transparency that I helped type and places it on the projector. The square of blinding light on the opposite wall fills up with text. ‘This is our list.’

‘Pradeep Mathew?’ says Danila. ‘Was he that good?’

I spy Mr Cassim stealing glances at her low neckline. The mousey girl takes notes. Brian jumps in, as rehearsed.

‘Dhani, let us go through the concept and then we will debate content.’

God bless him. While Ari and I can bullshit with the best, it helps to know the lingo.

‘We will give each cricketer a persona,’ says Ari, ‘and do ten-minute segments on each, using themes and music appropriate to…’

‘Warrior and Fighter are the same thing,’ says Cassim with relish.

‘Not necessarily…’ I begin.

‘This is mainly the concept.’ Ari has had many battles on semantics with me and knows that things can get violent. ‘We will tweak where necessary.’

‘I’m not sure my boss Mr Jayantha Punchipala will be happy about including Pradeep Mathew,’ says Danila. ‘Otherwise, very nice concept.’

And then just before Christmas, in Jonny Gilhooley’s room, watching Sri Lanka beat the West Indies at Adelaide in the first match of the legendary 1995/96 World Series, we receive a phone call.

Graham Snow is commentating with, who else, Bill Lawry. ‘This Shree Lankan batting line-up has developed over the years. Flair at the top. Maturity in the middle. Discipline at the bottom.’

‘Heard that? Heard that?’ exclaims Ari. ‘I only said that! Fellow is quoting me.’

‘For the first time they are real contenders for the World Cup,’ continues Snow as if the words are his own. ‘And real contenders here.’

‘How’s your documentary, lads?’ asks Jonny.

The years have been good to our friend. We no longer camp out at the High Commission. By the mid-1990s, he had built a villa by Bolgoda Lake and moved his TV room there. We make the trip whenever an important match is on. Though less often than we used to.

I shake my head and wave my hand. It is not a topic I wish to discuss while watching Sri Lanka beating West Indies, a feat unthinkable a mere ten years earlier.

And then I hear a series of Morse code-like squeaks and I feel the drinks table vibrate. Ari has purchased a cellulite phone, a brick-like contraption that sucks batteries and weighs a ton.

‘Ari, it’s the mothership,’ says Jonny.

Ari picks up the block and walks towards the veranda by the lake. He returns moments later, wiggling his hips like a hula girl and waving his arms. ‘Bring out the Chivas, Jonny boy. They approved original concept. MD wants to meet us.’

And then captain Ranatunga late-cuts a 4 as Sri Lanka inch closer to the improbable. And I’m thinking that if there is a God, he too may be watching the cricket with his feet up and a big smile on his face.

Aravinda, Sanath, Gamini, Sidath, Satha, Duleep, Mathew, Arjuna, Murali, Rumesh.

Consensus reached between me and Ari and Brian Gomez on 9 December 1995. This is a list of bitter compromise. One player is there because he is fourteenth on all our lists. Two of my top five are not even present. But it has taken much statistical analysis, pleading of cases and arrack to arrive at this final decision. And as this is the Gibraltar on which our documentary is to be built, we all agree to stand by it and desist from criticism.

I will say three last words on the subject and then be forever silent. Guru? No? Why?

I cannot face a window when I write. I cannot begin the writing of anything on a Friday. I cannot write without liquid passing my lips. I have learned over the years that it pays to nurture your idiosyncrasies. Even a hack must respect his muse.

I begin my assignment on Monday, 4 January 1996. I am asked to stay at home and manufacture scripts that are everything to everybody. Ari and Brian will haggle, renegotiate, coordinate, source and organise. I am grateful to be excused from the tedium of production meetings.

Before we are given the equipment and the budget, we are given the deadline. We must be ready to shoot straight after the World Cup. ‘In case we get to the semis,’ suggests Rakwana.

‘In case we whack the Cup,’ says Brian.

I spend the first two weeks drinking stout and going through my library. Throughout my life, even when times were tough, I never stopped buying books. Or, come to think of it, booze. My library is dusty and well stocked. My liver is well worn. I skim through my cricket collection and delve into my favourite wastes of time. Byron, F. Scott and the Bible.

To me, the Bible is perhaps the greatest book ever written. Not as a step-by-step guide to life or as a travel brochure for the afterlife. In that respect, it is positively dangerous. But as a tightly written work of fiction, it is magnificent.

There is a knock on my door and then a turning of the handle. I see the unruly hair before I see the ungrateful lad.