Sachin Tendulkar

Sachin Tendulkar is raging against the dying of the light. His magic is sporadic, his body tense in search of it. Where once his bat appeared an extension of his hands and arms, it is now a disparate force that requires control and thought. In short, Tendulkar now sees batting through a mortal eye. No longer is it his art, more now it is his work.

To the heartbreak of his legion, age has brought a more cautious approach. Injury played its part — both a shoulder and an elbow have been under the surgeon’s knife — along with the unremitting public eye that shares his every breath. Probably, the man is worn out but the cricketer within cannot resist the game that defines him and the rewards which follow.

Sport is cruel and it is temporary. For musicians or writers, say, the brilliance of youth may evolve into a mastery granted by experience. For sportsmen, the freedom of youth gives way to the fear of failure. Without doubt, Tendulkar received a rum deal from the umpire on Sunday but why did he treat Paul Collingwood’s gentle dobber as if it were the devil itself; why offer pad, not bat, to that of all balls?

Because he is older and knows more, because success can no longer be taken as the rule, because a Test match hundred is the stuff of dreams rather than expectation. This is not Tendulkar’s fault, it is how it is. The gradual process of the end is well on its way and nothing can be done to stop it.

Tendulkar has been my favourite batsman of the age. There is something irresistible about his David slaying Goliath after Goliath, none more so than in battles against Australia and Pakistan. He thrashed Shoaib Akhtar and friends to each corner of Centurion Park during the 2003 World Cup in South Africa, rather as he had done Glenn McGrath and company at the 1996 World Cup in Mumbai.

These were innings of such intensity and of such utter certainty that the finest, fastest and smartest bowlers of the day were left at his feet, panting their submission.

Of 37 in all, there have been breakneck Test hundreds and bloody-minded Test hundreds, none more so than the double century he recorded in Sydney three years ago without a single cover drive. So painful was the elbow and so elusive was his touch that he limited scoring to the leg-side of the field only. Through gritted teeth, Australians were as one in their admiration.

It seems unbelievable that 12 years earlier he made a hundred in the Sydney Test when Shane Warne made his own debut with figures of one for 150. In fact, Tendulkar was two years down the road by then, having defied Imran Khan, Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis, who felled him in Karachi as a 16-year-old boy.

Now, 11,000 Test match runs on, we must take what we get with glee and not a grumble. On Saturday evening we saw a cut and a cover drive to raise the hairs from our necks. Sunday, we had some mid-wicket deflections manoeuvred by those powerful wrists, sweep shots at various angles to outwit the field placements and, in particular, an exquisite stroke over extra cover to remind us of the genius. We need reminding — time will not wait, not even for Sachin Tendulkar.

There are runs left in this mesmerising cricketer but they will not come with the free spirit that captured our hearts all those years ago. They will come from the mind that allowed it to flourish. This is no bad thing, it’s just not quite the same.