The joy is gone.
No more pumped fists. No more face bursting with pride. No more grimace if there's a misfield. No more diving stops of his own bowling.
No more ugly defensive prods. No more slightly less uglier cover-drives. No more royal slashes through points.
The joy is gone.
No more 'how many wickets did he get?' before 'whats the score?' . No more: please dont give five runs this over, or you'll finish with an economy rate over 2.5. No more: 'three for 83?' and a quick mental calculation of the average (27.66). No more disappointment when the batsman plays a copybook forward defence. No more crazy goosebumps during the over after he gets a wicket.
The joy is gone.
The Kumble before the shoulder injury taught me leg-spin. The Kumble after taught me cricket. The Kumble now taught me to cope with loss.
The joy is gone.
And I was there, at the Kotla, to see it fade away.
No more pumped fists. No more face bursting with pride. No more grimace if there's a misfield. No more diving stops of his own bowling.
No more ugly defensive prods. No more slightly less uglier cover-drives. No more royal slashes through points.
The joy is gone.
No more 'how many wickets did he get?' before 'whats the score?' . No more: please dont give five runs this over, or you'll finish with an economy rate over 2.5. No more: 'three for 83?' and a quick mental calculation of the average (27.66). No more disappointment when the batsman plays a copybook forward defence. No more crazy goosebumps during the over after he gets a wicket.
The joy is gone.
The Kumble before the shoulder injury taught me leg-spin. The Kumble after taught me cricket. The Kumble now taught me to cope with loss.
The joy is gone.
And I was there, at the Kotla, to see it fade away.
