You give me these three things and I will not trouble anyone for the Rest of my life! ;) Anyway, getting on with what I want to put up today cutting out the nonsense.

Picked this one up from here. We (the original author of this write-up and I) are from the same school. The Get-together of which I missed and wrote about that here. Anyway, let's get to this one now.

I was in 7th Standard when I was selected to my high school’s Cricket team. Naturally enough, it was the happiest day of my life. A moment of quintessential bombaat to be sure.

The news of my selection was delivered by my school’s PT master—and I know I can’t (shouldn’t, rather) use his real name so I’ll just call him UR.

UR, up to that point, wasn’t exactly my favourite person in the world. He verbally abused us every chance he got especially during Saturday mid-morning drills. To
wit:

* “Lo kothi, ninnanna yaaro yelnay claas-ige paas maadidhu? Leftoo andre yedagaalu kanole, idiot!”

* Or the ever popular rhetorical question: “Nimmappa amma yaak school-ige kalustharo ninna? Sumne manelidhu katte kaayakke laayak neenu.”

This was pretty standard stuff as I’m sure you’ll agree.

Anyway, the first day of cricket Practice was a Wednesday. We got done with classes at 3:30 pm. My classmate (who was also selected) and I pedaled over to the cricket ground a short distance away.

The rest of the team, i.e. the chaps from 9th and 10th standards, showed up a half-hour late. We were told to help carry the mat onto the field. In short, we were cricket coolies.

The stumps were pitched. The practice batting and bowling orders were announced. We were not present in either one. So I assumed I was part of the unannounced fielding order and stood at point because no one was standing there. I was asked, sorry, told, to go and do byes keeping.

It dawned on me that the seniors of this team had had no creative input in UR’s decision to select us lowly 7th standard guys. And they didn’t think much of the
idea.

My classmate and I (he was doing byes keeping on the leg side) exchanged looks. The looks said, “I hope no one from our class stops by to watch cricket practice today.”

After all our seniors had batted, bowled and humiliated us it was almost time to wrap up. And that’s when UR showed up. “Yenappa, yellaroo battingoo bowlingoo maadidhraa?” The captain (bastard!) said “Yes sir. Yellardoo practice aaithoo.”

And then UR did something he wasn’t supposed to. He looked at me and my classmate and asked, “Yenraiyaa, yengithu practicoo ivathu?”

I blurted out, “Namige batting siglillaa sir.”

And right there, at that moment, my chances of ever playing for the school team while I was still in 7th standard thudded softly into the grass.

UR took charge. “Neenu pad maadkolaiya. Naan practice kodistheeni. Lo baddimaklaa”—this to the rest of the team—“banro svalpa bowlingoo fieldingoo maadrappa ivribbarge!”

So, having only played tennis ball cricket up to that point, I put on pads for the first time in my life. They were too big for me. When I walked, the top of the pads slammed into my stomach.

The old style belt and buckle pinched my ankes, calves and at the back of the knees. Still in the process of padding up, I picked up this plastic cup that I knew, in theory, to be the (then euphemistically called) abdomen guard. It had no straps
whatsoever. So I did a little bit of 3D mental manipulation to figure out how I
was supposed to rig this contraption so it would protect my, you know,
abdomen.

Out of my own sense of modesty I’ll omit the rest of the details. Suffice it to say however, that after I’d put on the abdomen guard, the only way I could walk was with my Legs Spread Wide – like a Dasara Kesari pailvaan approaching his next victim at the beginning of his kusthi match.

I walked up to the stumps. Legs spread wide (for aforementioned reasons), I took my stance. UR had ambled up to point to get a closer look at his two new junior players.

My other classmate, in the process of padding up behind slips, was holding an
abdomen guard with the same quizzical expression on his face that I had a few minutes ago.

One of my seniors ambled up and bowled one short on the off. All I saw was a whistling flash of red. Mustering all the strength I could—“MADAGOO!” yelled UR from point—I heaved the bat and swung.

Missed completely. Got turned around because of the momentum of the bat. Ended up, facing square leg (and what seemed like) a lifetime of embarrassment.

UR delivered the coup de grace, “Neen hodioyoshtralli, naan canteeng hogi cawpee kudkond bandhbidbodhu kanaiya.”

And that was when, for the rest of my life, I fell in love with cricket. Thumba
thanksoo, UR.

The UR he is talking about is Uncle Ranga, our PE (Physical Education)
instructor. And yeah, we used to call our teachers as uncles and aunties
then. He used to be our cricket coach and I have played under him both as player and captain of our school team. And he's the best you can have. And when Mr. Alfred Satish Jones says thanks he echoes the voice of every single student who has passed out of CFTRI school under UR! You
are Uncle Ranga, You really are THE BEST!