Most
parents warn you about being committing too much heart to things. The
exuberance of adolescence rarely gives way to sagely restraint, but
that is the fine tightrope to adulthood that parents guide you on
quite like how China's young gymnasts are trained.
Mine,
though, had a slightly different take on that. One evening in
Roorkee, Ma was examining the lack of inflection in my voice. “You
just spoke for thirty seconds about a quiz and your voice was so low.
What happened to your passion? Don't you scream and fight at those
anymore?” While I brushed off those suggestions quickly, it did
worry me. While dermatologists may say it's that worrying that's got
me the garden of greys on my scalp now, I'd like to think it was the
lack of passion that was the catalyst.
Passion
defines most childhoods; gives rise to meaningful memories, and
consequently, direction on the paths we all must take. Logically,
too, if restraint is the sign of maturity, passion is the mark of a
child, who lest we forget the cliche, is the father of man. No one
said maturity was. I guess that's the path my parents were putting me
on.
***
After
the dust and dirt of the Chatrier and Lenglen, the most heartening
fact of the tennis calendar – more for the fans than for the
players – was that it was only three weeks till the Championships
began in Wimbledon. The sports buffs that my big brother and I were,
we tuned in religiously for years. The late 90s saw Pete Sampras set
fire to the grass with those booming serves and blazing forehands,
but he preferred to walk the walk, rather than talk the talk. Andre
Agassi, too, had grown in maturity (at the cost of his once-bountiful
mane) and did the same. Tim Henman was as British as one could get in
London, and Pat Rafter's Australian was left Down Under, as the only
tenacity he showed was in those fearless charges to the net. It was
left to the occasional showmanship of Goran Ivanisevic, earning him
much love at SW19, but one highlights reel, watched with devout
diligence before the Championships one year, gave us a sense of
shock at the order of change in players' nature on court. Jim
Courier's anger, so cold and acidic one wondered if it was almost
planned, wasn't spared even with the umpires. A few years before
that, while Bjorn Borg coolly flashed the lines and ticked the
corners of the court, John McEnroe would come down raining
thunderously at the net and the linesmen with equal vigour. You
cannot be serious became a
catchphrase uttered with great vengeance and furious anger
by us even at gully cricket
games. The gentlemanship on show by the masters
of the 90s, and the dominance in the 2000s by the implacable,
impeccable Roger Federer, made one wonder if a visible, voluble
expression of passion for the game was dying. There were few
arguments with linespeople, forget other players. Amity had gotten
the better of enmity, but did it come at the expense of a lesser love
for winning? Well, that was proven wrong by Herr Federer's breakdown
after losing to Nadal in 2008 by his tears, but where was the anger?
Was it a generational change that I was supposed to conform to?
***
18
years ago, a man who was to be named Crystal Palace's Player of the
Year a few months later, was snapping at Manchester United's
talisman, Eric Cantona's heels relentlessly, quite literally. The
little kicks (not quite different from these) went unnoticed by the
referee, but were not forgotten by Le Roi. As champions and the most
hated team in the land, United weren't going to be given any mercy or
consideration by opposition players, fans or even referees, and as
the attack on his feet to stifle his genius continued, the captain of
the team could take no more.After yet another foul on him, though
spotted by the linesman, was not given by the referee, he replied
with a petulant kick back. This was
noticed by the officials, and a swift red card was handed out. The
Frenchman was seething with anger, as those policing the sport
he loved with an intensity
matched only by his manager, were doing no justice to their cause. He
left straightaway though, knowing he'd broken the laws of that very
sport, but even as he trudged off, the night wasn't to end there. On
his way back, a man with a history of violence, lawlessness and
reckless behaviour, steamed down to the hoardings below from his
eleventh row seat, and threw some of his choicest expletives at the
departing Frenchman – the much-maligned English xenophobia shining
through his ill-judged outburst. Cantona could take no more. His
sport, his art was being bullied out of the stadium – he couldn't
let his dignity and self-respect take the same treatment. The
passionate child in him couldn't let that happen.
He
launched into a kung-fu kick that got him a eight-month ban, and
United never recovered from the shock of his loss, drawing that
particular match, and losing the League title a few months later from
an imminently winning position.
I
wasn't there at Selhurst Park that night, nor did I watch that match
live on TV. But reading just an account of that in a BBC report many
years later, put that surge through my body that only a true passion
can give. Did his passion lead to his downfall or did it create a man
unstoppable? Well, although we'd like to think it's the former, the
man himself has a slightly different opinion.
***
Thank
you, Eric Cantona, for lighting up our lives through the art of your
football, but more importantly, for re-emphasising what it means to
be a man.
