Hundredth hundred, did you say?
Why our latest national obsession is a fake, hybrid milestone that will tell us nothing about Sachin that we don’t already know
It was a cool March afternoon in Bangalore. Inzamam-ul-Haq, captain spiritual, with a deadpan face that concealed a devilish mind and incredible comic timing, was addressing a roomful of eager cricket reporters at the Chinnaswamy stadium.
Question: (with much head-shaking, much sanctimony) Inzy bhai, Anil Kumble took his 450th Test wicket in this series. Do you think that makes him a truly great bowler?
Answer: (a pause, a tiny yawn; all very deliberate) I thought he was great even when he’d taken 449.
Inzamam’s sublime attempt at providing some perspective has clearly been wasted on cricket’s hunger for individual milestones. The craving is never more apparent than when we’re dealing with Sachin Tendulkar, who has spent the last 22 years breaking records with such regularity that it should’ve started to bore us by now. But instead of accepting that he will continue to cross milestones as long as he plays, we choose to obsess about each one.
Things have now reached a point where we’ve started doing inane additions to make up landmarks of our own. The latest craze, 100 internationals centuries, is one such ridiculous example. First, it tells us nothing that we don’t already know: that Sachin is consistent, and that he’s been playing for a really long time. Second, this needless mixing of two different kinds of cricket should have been a part of a drunken pub conversation, which should’ve gone something like this:
“You know Sachin has now hit 99 hundreds, if you add his Test and ODI tons.”
“But why would you add them?”
“No, just saying, if you added them.”
“Don’t be silly. Next you’ll add his Test and ODI wickets and say he’s one short of 200 international wickets (which, incidentally, is true).”
“Wouldn’t that be cool. Then Sachin would be the only player in the world ever with 100 international hundreds and 200 international wickets.”
“Shut up.”
Sport is supposed to be less about numbers and more about moments in which those numbers are born. That’s why a 136 in Chennai is more than Test century No 18, or a 241 in Sydney, played entirely on the on-side, more than No 32. The 35th Test century in 2005, for which we had to wait almost a year, was important because, with it, Sachin broke a barrier, and ended a long wait. One hoped it would give him the freedom to play without the burden of milestones hanging around his neck.
His most meaningful statistic since then was the one-day double-century because it showed two things: one, that it was possible to breach the magic number in limited-overs cricket, and two, that he could be better than he ever was even in his 21st year in international cricket.
Last week, in Delhi, Tendulkar crossed 15,000 runs in Test cricket (which got the odd mention in the papers) and struck a priceless fourthinnings 76 that ensured India would complete a record Kotla chase to win the first Test against West Indies. We didn’t care about either.
For the last nine months, it’s been hundredth international hundred or nothing. Newspapers have prepared tribute packages, TV channels have recorded shows they’re desperately waiting to air, soft-drink companies have manufactured special cola cans. Every match has been built up as a made-to-order occasion: He’ll get it in the World Cup semi-final against Pakistan; even better, in the final at Wankhede, hitting a match-winning six into the Sachin Tendulkar stand; at Lord’s, the home of cricket; at Leeds, when the chips are down; surely at The Oval, now that he’s into the nineties; in Delhi, during a heroic chase; at the Eden Gardens, the real home of cricket; he’s saving it for a Test in Bombay, in front of his home crowd.
Never mind that the record he’s chasing is a contrived hybrid, a marketing gimmick, there has been so much pressure that it has started affecting him as well. Once Sachin gets “it”, the 101st international century will seem so dour, so useless in comparison. What will we obsess about then?
“Why, the 200th international wicket,” suggests our imaginary friend from the pub.
“Shut up.”
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