Gentle readers,
I wish to share a
Note from my childhood:
Growing up in Ahmedabad,
A business-friendly city in Gujarat,
India, I switched on the television:
You approached the wicket as
Smooth as a gazelle in Africa,
You were floating, you were gliding,
Nobody could hear you,
Whispering Death, as you ruined the
Lives of the best batsmen of your era,
Mercilessly. I saw stumps flying, as
You kicked the air in frustration: a
Bad umpiring decision? You were the
Best in class, a single malt, faster than
Greased lightning, and posed an existential
Threat to opponents all over
The world. A poet once wrote
That a thing of beauty is a joy
Forever and you were a wild
Flower blooming alone in the
Garden of Eden. You are decades
Older now, my black, soul brother
And retired from active duty but,
My friend, you see, memory never
Ages: I turn the pages of time and I
See a wild cat, a fast bowler in his
Prime: the speed, accuracy, consistency
And reflexes of a natural athlete. After
All, you were a sprinter, a panther on
The prowl, hunting for blood, sweat
And tears: poetry in motion and a
Rolls-Royce among pace bowlers.
You saw the fear of extinction in the
Eyes of opponents, you smelled
The fear of destruction in the sweat
On their brow from a mile away:
A Caribbean islander from Jamaica,
You played in the heart and soul of
Lords, the mecca of world cricket.
And now, of course, a phoenix rises
From the ashes and dust of history
And we bow in silence to celebrate
You, Mikey. History sighs and
A poet remembers his childhood
Hero with tears of joy in his eyes.