Lance Klusener. Caught Sathish. Bowled Vignesh.
To me, this scorecard entry was even more painful than my stomach flu that had forced me to stay home on a weekday and watch the bastardised version of the oneday game. While the game was thoroughly entertaining, what I was upset about was my realisation, that even gods of my past have feet of clay. Lance Klusener, to me and many admirers of South African cricketer, was the god of slog cricket. Zulu, or the African warrior, as he was nicknamed demolished every reputed bowler of that era, particulary during the World Cup.
That World Cup final, which South Africa should have won, was singularly shouldered by the mighty Zulu. With His jayasuriya like forearms, broad shoulders, jaw dropping strokeplay, Zulu was invincible. Despite his swashbuckling style, Zulu, off the field, was an enigma. One hardly got to know of his personality otherwise. But that didnt matter. Zulu was good at what he did. A nimble footed fielder and runner between the wickets and he killed and ravaged bowlers in style.
But today, Lance Klusener was not the Zulu I knew. He looked emaciated. Old. Tired. His bat pathetically swishing across the offstump to miss pedestrian deliveries off an unknown bowler. Then came an apology of a lofted cover drive straight to the point. I wonder if either the fielder or the bowler, or even the pretty looking model turned commentator knew about the Zulu of yore. Did they even bother about the history of this man. Coming to think of it, do history matter anymore? ....more on this
