You will be missed!

“He was like some tragic figure in Greek mythology whose offenses against the gods had caused them to design for him this exquisite torture: you must desperately need to see what you cannot bear to see.” ― Michael Lewis, Moneyball

Over the years, I've passionately followed numerous sports. In my childhood, it was Football, Tennis & Formula 1. And I had an unequivocal ally in my brother, although our choices on teams & players bordered on extreme ends of the spectrum. It was a never ending saga with Agassi vs Sampras, Sachin vs Ganguly, Brazil vs Argentina and a few others. We even played a few rounds of Ashes every evening in our backyard.

For most part, my extended family doesn't appreciate sport apart from world cups when everyone in India seems to have an opinion anyways. The exception being Venumama.

Venumama was my grandmother's sister's second son (my mom typically explains 6 degrees of separation in one breath). The first time I met him was in Al Ain in 1990. The most significant thing to happen that day was losing my helium filled balloon to the desert sky. I was 6 years old and no one explained the properties of Helium in a Balloon. My first memory of him was the way he snored at night. There ends the diary of a wimpy kid.

The next time that I met him was in the late 90's. I was in my teens and had opinions on sport. Actually about everything. Our embarrassing cricket tours to Australia & overseas in general, Agassi & Steffi Graff. The original Ronaldo (the Brazilian one) and what happened in that night in Paris. 

Over the years, our conversations would always revolve around sport. Not the weather, not about political afflictions, just plain, good old sports. And I was awestruck by Venumama's knowledge on every game. He would tell me about the Indian tours to Windies in the 80s. About Gavaskar, Richards and Vengsarkar. Weaving stories about the glorious spin quartet, Bedi, Prasanna, Chandrashekar and Venkataraghavan. In an instant, we could switch over to tennis and talk about Ivanisevic's booming serve or Krajicek's Wimbledon title in 1996. He could hold his own with accurate stats from every game, tour and championship.

But beyond that, he could appreciate a Sachin Tendulkar straight drive. And that separates the real fan from everyone else. The ability to dissect a single moment from a game and talk about it. To remember it over the years.

I knew little about him apart from what I had heard about his life. About a lot of things that didn't go as per the norm. And maybe I should have asked about what was happening in his life when Kapil Dev was lifting our first World cup in Lord's in 1983. I did not. Perhaps I can imagine a man in worker overalls listening to every word that came out of a handheld radio.

The last few times that I met him, he was fighting a losing battle against cancer. And yet, we would talk about the new look Indian batting line-up with Dhoni & Kohli. Federer vs Nadal. Even through the pain, his eyes would light up as he spoke about the glorious days of Indian cricket. Sachin Tendulkar standing tall on the back foot punching Brett Lee through covers on a cold December morning.

It was amazing to watch India trump Australia over the last 3 tests in their own game. The Indian pace attack battering the batsmen with short pitched bowling, and our batsmen grinding the bowling to the ground in the hot Australian summer. I don't know if he watched any of the games. I don't know much anyways.

“...So please, be tolerant of those who describe a sporting moment as their best ever. We do not lack imagination, nor have we had sad and barren lives; it is just that real life is paler, duller, and contains less potential for unexpected delirium.” - Fever Pitch, Nick Hornby

P.S: This is a tribute to my mother's first cousin, Venumama who died earlier today. Someday I hope to continue the conversation on sport.