Happy birthday, Captain
I smiled with his victories. I cried with his failures. I stood taller when he waved his shirt from the Lord's balcony. I burned with anger during the Greg Chappell episode. I felt the pain of his exclusion from the Indian team. And I rejoiced in his majestic comeback.
By Arkadyuti Roy (Guest Writer)
I had just been promoted to Class Five. Having moved from the quiet suburban town of Ashoknagar to the concrete landscape of Kolkata, I had only begun to discover the many shades of life. Everything felt bigger—the enormous classrooms, the polished manners of my classmates, the atmosphere around College Street with its schools, colleges, universities, dreams, and struggles. The footpaths were lined with pickles and lemonade stalls, while book covers featured heroes like Rambo and Bruce Lee. Cricket filled the school playground, and "book cricket" ruled the classrooms.
Just when I had begun to see life in a new light, a rainbow entered that light. It carried with it a promise, an endless desire to reach the sky, and an unwavering dedication that made the impossible seem attainable.
Slowly, that rainbow pushed Rambo off the book covers. It covered He-Man's place on my notebooks. Even the peeling walls of my room seemed to whisper, "I am your Maradona. I am your Sampras. I am your Bruce Lee." That rainbow had a name—Sourav Ganguly.
What began as admiration soon became an obsession. During one half-yearly examination, I skipped the test and stood outside an electronics shop, glued to the television, watching his majestic off-side drives. Nothing else mattered.
Whenever I walked out to bat on Hare School's ground, I wondered if my stance looked like my hero's. In Classes Seven and Eight, I even earned scoldings from teachers for fielding with my collar turned up. But I didn't care. We both batted left-handed and bowled right-handed. If people wanted to laugh at my attempts to imitate his style, so be it. I only wanted my hero to remain a part of my life—my movements, my thoughts, my identity.
Then came Taunton, England, in 1999. His unforgettable innings opened a window in my mind that could never be closed again. I knew I had to see him in person someday. I had to get his autograph.
Around that time, the "Big Fun" chewing gum craze had taken over the market. Every one-rupee pack came with a free cricket card. I collected them by the bundle. My hero smiled from countless poses, neatly preserved with rubber bands. His picture adorned my bat sticker, my school bag, my pencil box—on top, inside, everywhere.
The year 2000 arrived. My secondary school examinations were approaching, and Sourav Ganguly became the captain of India. By then, playing cricket had gradually drifted away from my own life, but my devotion to Sourav only grew stronger.
For the first time, I watched him at Eden Gardens. Even from the stands, it felt magical. I screamed "Dada! Dada!" until my voice cracked and my mother scolded me. But even that scolding felt like a badge of honour. It was the kind of joy one feels after touching the stars.
College and university followed. Life took many unexpected turns before one cherished dream returned as a warm ray of sunshine—I became a sports journalist.
By then, the hero of my childhood was nearing the twilight of his cricketing career. The man I had once dreamed of seeing from a distance now stood before me for an interview. My voice trembled. I forgot my questions. I surrendered completely to emotion, abandoning every lesson of professionalism I had ever learned.
As a journalist, I have interviewed some of the greatest names in world sport—Lionel Messi, Dunga, Ruud Gullit, Wasim Akram, Ricky Ponting, MS Dhoni, Anil Kumble, VVS Laxman, Yuvraj Singh, Mohammad Azharuddin, Sunil Gavaskar, and Dilip Vengsarkar. Never—not once—did I experience that overwhelming nervousness with anyone else.
Because Sourav Ganguly was never just another cricketer to me.
I smiled with his victories. I cried with his failures. I stood taller when he waved his shirt from the Lord's balcony. I burned with anger during the Greg Chappell episode. I felt the pain of his exclusion from the Indian team. And I rejoiced in his majestic comeback.
Standing before him, unable to remember my questions, I kept asking myself whether such unprofessionalism was acceptable. My head knew the answer. But my heart belonged to Sourav.
And in that battle, I will always let my heart win.
May that simple, innocent love of a Class Five boy never fade. May the majestic sticker of Sourav Ganguly always remain pasted over Bruce Lee on the walls of my childhood memories.
Happy Birthday, Sourav Ganguly.
