This Great Scorer in my kinda IPL: His spirit was unbeatable

Love of game

By Rajbir Deswal

With the ongoing IPL hungama,I have more reasons to adore my uncle-- Satbir Mama--, a die-hard cricket fan, in the aindees land of Rohtak in Haryana, close to Virender Sehwag's Najafgarh.Almost bordering on obsession, his love for the game has been a topic of discussion in our family for several decades. He is a walking encyclopedia on cricketers ranging from Don Bradman to Parthiv Patel—scandals and performances included. Since the days of Anju Mahendroon through Neena Gupta, till Sangeeta Bijlani and Nagma, he knows everything. The “finer nuances” of match fixing and the salts’ range of booster drugs are all on his fingertips. They come to him as naturally as an outside edge to the slip. Whenever we needed adjudication on a bet or any aspect of cricket, Satbir Mama pronounces the judgement. It is usually indisputable. No appeal is made against it since his word is accepted as final. Because we all knew that he hadn’t quite wasted those 48 cricketing seasons, excluding those three years of gaining conscious memory. Satbir Mama used to occasionally run away from home to play or watch cricket even at the age of ten. When an adolescent, we saw him curled in his quilt, tuned to commentary on his radio, of a country match in England, at 2 am. I wonder where he got information about those matches. He never surprised us with hur-rays or oh-nos. But he did have the sagacious contentedness of a mighty seer just out of a meditation session. He looked so relaxed after the conclusion of a match as if the US President himself saw no further ambition than being elected for the most powerful office on earth. He shared his happiness with a simple smile. He took no sides. He didn’t predict victory or defeat. He only loved the sport. Much before the advent of TV, listening to commentary on his radio, Satbir Mama could declare the fate of a ball the moment it was released from the bowler’s hand. He had a mental picture of the field and could say with conviction whether a shot headed in a particular direction would reach the boundary or whether it would be caught, for he knew if a fielder had been posted there or not. We were then amazed at his clairvoyance and would jocularly comment on his enviable knowledge of cricket. He could, we said often in a lighter vein, tell which cricketer’s expectant wife would bear a boy or a girl. To make me witness his own performance, Satbir Mama once invited me to a friendly cricketer, we had our reservations about him, but for his encouragement I went to the Vaish College grounds. I had a good look at the entire field but couldn’t spot him. He was neither batting nor fielding, not even umpiring. “What the hell as he invited me for?” I asked myself agitated. Suddenly I heard someone call my name from under the scoreboard. Satbir Mama was there, writing the score. “Hats off to the unbeatable spirit of cricket,” I mumbled to myself.