Last week on February 16, in an event that went unnoticed by the Indian media, one of the most talented tennis players ever-John Patrick McEnroe turned 50. It was a bit difficult to believe that the enfant terrible had turned 50.
During his heyday McEnroe, was famed for his clashes with authority and once described the Wimbledon umpire\referee as “the pits of the world”. The man who used the racquet to play a rare soliloquy confounded everyone by chucking the same racquet in rage on the court. If he was poetry in motion, his language on court at times could have had nothing in common with verse.
Yet it was this rare combination of genius and a combustible temper that appealed to the teenager in me. While my friends hated McEnroe for this trait I idolized him precisely for this. Many is the argument that I have had with people about McEnroe with me often being his sole supporter. The other trait I liked about McEnroe was his ability to announce his intention to do something and then precisely execute it. After he lost the epic 1980 Wimbledon final to Bjorn Borg he said “ No man can keep winning forever. Not even Borg can do that. When that happens I intend to be there at the other side of the net.” Sure enough in the 1981 Wimbledon final he beat Borg 4-6, 7-6, 7-6 & 6-4. Another example is his comment after the 1984 US open semi final when he was told that Ivan Lendl was to be his opponent. “Tomorrow, I am going to come out as fast as I can. I am going to get it over as quickly as I can and I know that I am the favourite.” Sure enough next day he despatched Lendl 6-3, 6-4, & 6-1.
McEnroe’s career was topsy turvy. He won seven grand slam titles between 1979 & 1984 and then none till his retirement in 1993. On his retirement an Indian newspaper summed up his legacy saying that he was a “flawed genius”. It is hard to disagree with that view. The Bach with the racquet could metamorphose into a Mr Hyde on court. McEnroe may have been my teenage idol but despite all his talent and achievements he would be the wrong kind of idol for anyone as far as behaviour went.
The 50 year old McEnroe has today metamorphosed into an exceptional and incisive tennis commentator post retirement. He has also handled his affairs much better than his most famous rival Borg who has been saddled with financial and personal problems. His place in the history of the game as one of its greatest artistes is assured. More importantly, the left handed genius from New York has really grown up. 50 years is just a signpost in that metamorphosis.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The road from Chennai
As I tried opening my bag at my cousin sister Chitra’s house in Chennai during my recent trip, I saw a distinct smile. I refused to acknowledge the smile for what it was and quietly went about putting my clothes in. About an hour later, when it was time for me to leave for the airport, I saw that the smile had widened into a grin. A huge grin at that. I could no more deceive myself but acknowledge it for what it was- my bag was sporting a huge tear. It was time now for panic stations as we had very little time to leave for the airport. My brother-in-law Sivakumar helpfully fished out a suitcase while my nephew Golu helped me pack at the speed of lightning. Soon we were on the car being driven by my brother-in-law to Trishulam, Chennai’s international airport.
On the way I saw posters of a prominent Tamil Nadu politician being splashed all over. “This guy looks really ugly,” I remarked. “Still he manages to have many affairs and many handsome men get left behind,” Chitra remarked. “You mean handsome men like me,” I asked as the car resonated with laughter.
Soon it was the midnight flight and I was back in Mumbai in the wee hours. My trip to Chennai however held happy memories. Apart from being able to visit my old school, I was also able to connect with my cousin brother Babu after a quite sometime.
I spent three happy years in a Chennai hostel when my parents were largely abroad. It was the time when adolescence and its related pursuits set in. It also held memories of my reading South India’s premier daily The Hindu—at my hostel. It was really more of a fight to get to the paper as about 30 hostelites jostled for it. It was also the period when I read Charles Dickens unabridged edition of David Copperfield—over 900 pages plus. My reading the Hindu and its associated magazine-The Sportstar also helped me embark on the path of becoming a journalist which in turn qualified for the job of a communications professional. Those three years marked more than just a shift from childhood to adolescence.
On the way I saw posters of a prominent Tamil Nadu politician being splashed all over. “This guy looks really ugly,” I remarked. “Still he manages to have many affairs and many handsome men get left behind,” Chitra remarked. “You mean handsome men like me,” I asked as the car resonated with laughter.
Soon it was the midnight flight and I was back in Mumbai in the wee hours. My trip to Chennai however held happy memories. Apart from being able to visit my old school, I was also able to connect with my cousin brother Babu after a quite sometime.
I spent three happy years in a Chennai hostel when my parents were largely abroad. It was the time when adolescence and its related pursuits set in. It also held memories of my reading South India’s premier daily The Hindu—at my hostel. It was really more of a fight to get to the paper as about 30 hostelites jostled for it. It was also the period when I read Charles Dickens unabridged edition of David Copperfield—over 900 pages plus. My reading the Hindu and its associated magazine-The Sportstar also helped me embark on the path of becoming a journalist which in turn qualified for the job of a communications professional. Those three years marked more than just a shift from childhood to adolescence.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
School, Nostalgia and Big street
“Hey, let us get out and take a look at our school,” I told my cousin Babu. He agreed reluctantly but quickly introduced himself as an ex-student to the person closing the school gate who then opened the door and graciously let us in.
As we entered the gate that Saturday, the air was thick with memories of a happy three years that I spent in the school and its associated hostel when my parents were abroad. I was there in the Chennai school -the Hindu Senior Secondary School from Class VIII to Class X.
A quick glance at a board revealed that my English teacher Prem Dulari had been the principal of the school for 24 years. I glanced at another board and saw the list of toppers in the 10th standard and the 12th. Standard board examinations. I remembered the debating contests that I had won, the music competition where an unforgiving audience had made me vacate the stage, the teachers and the school romances.
Soon it was time to catch- up with an office staff-- Ms Anuradha who to my considerable discomfort remembered Babu and not me. I learnt from another member of the staff that the hostel had been closed down and now housed classrooms.
I was saddened by this but then everything changes with time. When I said my goodbye and moved out-I saw one enduring remnant of the hostel- the metal statue of Saraswati-the goddess of learning atop the building which had housed the hostel. There were other changes as well with a couple of shops that I had known including the appropriately named Fancy Mahal having disappeared. Nor was the bakery in front of the hostel where I had gorged on cakes present any longer. Clearly, the times had changed.
So had my perception despite the nostalgia and the sepia toned memories. I realized that the road in which the school was situated was nothing more than a narrow line. Ironically, it was known as Big Street when a more appropriate name would have been Small Street. It was me-- the school boy who had grown into middle age and fatherhood. My son Sandi has now begun school and life has in many ways come a full circle.
Big Street has been replaced in my life with ambitions big and small. A corner of Chennai has however forever become a part of my consciousness. As the poet Wordsworth wrote in his poem ‘The Solitary Reaper’—“ The music in my heart I bore long after it was heard no more.” It was wholly appropriate that I had learnt this poem at the Hindu Senior Secondary School-Chennai.
As we entered the gate that Saturday, the air was thick with memories of a happy three years that I spent in the school and its associated hostel when my parents were abroad. I was there in the Chennai school -the Hindu Senior Secondary School from Class VIII to Class X.
A quick glance at a board revealed that my English teacher Prem Dulari had been the principal of the school for 24 years. I glanced at another board and saw the list of toppers in the 10th standard and the 12th. Standard board examinations. I remembered the debating contests that I had won, the music competition where an unforgiving audience had made me vacate the stage, the teachers and the school romances.
Soon it was time to catch- up with an office staff-- Ms Anuradha who to my considerable discomfort remembered Babu and not me. I learnt from another member of the staff that the hostel had been closed down and now housed classrooms.
I was saddened by this but then everything changes with time. When I said my goodbye and moved out-I saw one enduring remnant of the hostel- the metal statue of Saraswati-the goddess of learning atop the building which had housed the hostel. There were other changes as well with a couple of shops that I had known including the appropriately named Fancy Mahal having disappeared. Nor was the bakery in front of the hostel where I had gorged on cakes present any longer. Clearly, the times had changed.
So had my perception despite the nostalgia and the sepia toned memories. I realized that the road in which the school was situated was nothing more than a narrow line. Ironically, it was known as Big Street when a more appropriate name would have been Small Street. It was me-- the school boy who had grown into middle age and fatherhood. My son Sandi has now begun school and life has in many ways come a full circle.
Big Street has been replaced in my life with ambitions big and small. A corner of Chennai has however forever become a part of my consciousness. As the poet Wordsworth wrote in his poem ‘The Solitary Reaper’—“ The music in my heart I bore long after it was heard no more.” It was wholly appropriate that I had learnt this poem at the Hindu Senior Secondary School-Chennai.
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