Box Boy

        We were an assorted bunch of junior college friends who liked to play cricket. But we never made it into any proper cricket team and so had no access to any sponsored equipment or practice ground. “Proper grounds were allotted only to ‘proper’ teams”.

        Being barely a dozen, we’d pool our own frugal resources to get the stuff that we couldn’t get from even rummaging through the scrapped items thrown outside the college Games Room – the college’s sports equipment issuing store.

        We managed to find barely padded, limp batting pads, two bats, and a terribly out of shape ball, its seams split in places where its innards threatened to spill out. There were three plastic groin guards, a.k.a abdominal guards a.k.a the box, and six weathered stumps – three for each end of the playing pitch. We couldn’t find bails. So we improvised with twigs. The least crooked ones we could find were laid precariously on the stumps. Even then the wind would often cause a twig to fall off the stumps during play, leading to long arguments on whether the batsman was ‘out’.

        A shabby open ground outside an engineering college was the only place we could play at, as it was free and unused on weekdays. 

       So we’d haul our ‘equipment’ to the ground on our bicycles, anchor the stumps, and carefully balance the twigs (bails) on the stumps which we believed had a 22-yard stretch between them. The only end that could be batted at was just a short, bald patch of earth, hardly flat enough to bowl a ball on. This end then served as the permanent batting end, and the other would be the permanent bowling end. After each over it was the batsmen who changed ends – the most telling giveaway that this was the lowest level of cricket being played on an actual playing ground.

      Of the two bats, only one was actually usable as a playing bat. The other one had been reduced to being just a piece of gnawed wood. It had obviously served its duty in past days, starting off as a proud and cherished favourite of many a good batsman, eventually suffering wear and tear and decline in prestige and thus receiving glaring fractures as a result of also being used for hammering things into the earth and hitting stones off the playing pitch. It was just for its correct bat-length that it still found a place in a team’s kit, and was used as the non-striker’s running stick.

      The three groin guards we had were used by the wicket keeper and the two batsmen. Every time a batsman got out he’d pull out his guard from inside his trousers and, along with the bat, hand it over to the incoming batsman. The guard’s straps had long ago fallen off, and it was just placed inside the trouser and held in place by just the embrace of the surrounding fabric. Privacy was abundant on that ground. There were never any spectators to worry about while pulling out or placing in the guard. (Some stray dogs did sleep around the ground, but stopped coming after two days when they realized that this bunch of encroachers had been sent from hell to destroy their peace and comfort.

       Sometimes an incoming new batsman would grumble at having to take the outgoing batsman’s just-extricated, discernibly-warm, and sometimes wet-with-groin-sweat guard. The sportier guys joked about it, tending towards the lewd. Normally no batsman batted long enough to wet the guard with his groin-sweat, though once a batter had got struck hard by the ball on his elbow and couldn’t help leaking some pee onto his guard, before ‘retiring hurt’. The incoming batsman was appalled at this, and insisted that the ‘guilty’ batsman go and wash the groin guard before he agreed to touch it. Considerable time was lost doing this, and we even lost a fielder, for the ‘retired hurt’ batsman sat the rest of the game out as a ‘spectator’. Within minutes he started passing mocking comments on every ball and our inelegant fielding attempts. Yet he claimed he was still too ‘hurt’ to return to play as a fielder.

       During one of our games, one player who was fielding near the boundary suddenly demanded, “I want a groin guard.” Now this chap was a ‘ghadda’. A ‘ghadda’ is someone who’s such a poor fielder that he has to be ‘hidden’ as a fielder at a safe, distant spot near the boundary where the ball is least likely to be hit. Roughly translated, ghadda would mean ‘a hole’. A ball hit towards them simply travels ‘through’ them, like through a hole. Our ghadda whined that the ground was very bumpy and the ball seemed to bounce and dance with a life of its own, with very great chances of it mortally hurting him. Which, he added, even his family had ‘warned’ him about. (Aha! – so this was it. He was an only child in his family, and had the huge responsibility of ‘taking forward the family lineage’.) He refused to field without a guard.

       We had only three guards and all were in use. There was none left to give him. We tried to cajole him but he was adamant. He walked out, choosing to sacrifice the joy of playing rather than risk being the last man standing in his bloodline.

       “Arre bondhu, what do you need a box for? While fielding? Are you mad?” That was one of the sportier ones’ incredulous reaction.

       Which was followed by a long “BOXX BOYYY!” hoot from another as he continued walking away.

       “Come, let’s get on with the game,” I said. “He didn’t even hear this.”

       Our ‘cricket ground’, which had looked funnily small the first time we marched onto it, now looked too large to plug the yawning fielding gaps with just eight fielders remaining. 

       Irritated as we all were at his “stupid obstinacy”, we tried to laugh off his bizarre behaviour. Just imagine, a guy fielding at the boundary wanting to wear a guard. We laughed at our “box boy” for all the years that we were together.

       Over time most of us went our ways and settled here and there. But whenever we had an opportunity to meet up, we’d gather at our favourite coffee shop, recalling several old days’ anecdotes, including our own box boy’s absurd incident and have a good laugh at his expense. 

       But we were devoted cricket lovers too, and would faithfully watch several high stakes matches. Cricket had become the national obsession of this country, and hardly any Indian cricket lover was anything less than totally passionate about the better standard matches. 

       During one such match I saw the batsman Rahul get hit straight on the box. Yup, the present day high quality one with elastic jockey straps an’ all, that he must have worn as a guard. Now, Rahul is a hero. Even his illustrious father-in-law is a film hero. So he’s a doubly scrutinised star celebrity. When he got hit, his initial reaction was to not display any pain ‘for such a little thing’. He kept a straight face for all of two seconds, even taking a couple of steps away from the stumps to recover from the blow. But the pain overwhelmed him in no time and he started jogging around the crease – jumping up, landing down, his face contorting in agony. Then he fell on his back and lay there, gasping and writhing in pain.

       The team physios rushed in at this point, of course. They had a good look at him, and exchanged a few words and hung around till they were allowed to. But everyone knew that Rahul’s knock-in-the-box would repair only in its own time.

        That was the first time I had evidenced that even with the box in place, if you get hit there directly by a fast-paced ball, it can cook your goose. And how! I was reminded of our friend – box boy – who had demanded a guard for his safety. But shucks. He was then fielding on the boundary.

      In comparison, these were the world’s fastest bowlers. The bowlers we played with, even at their fastest, were so slow that a cocky batsman could well experience an odd deflection of ball off his protective gear towards third man or fine leg and be none the worse for it. The ball would then roll slowly, having now lost its momentum, and more often than not stop dead in its tracks before it reached the boundary. Even the fielder chasing the ball would be so slow that the batsmen would have run four runs before he could reach and throw back the ball.

        Real , ‘proper’ bowlers these days – even school level spin bowlers  –  bowl faster than ‘our fast bowlers’ of yore.

      The present season of IPL is now in full song. During the match between Mumbai Indians and Royal Challengers Bengaluru, Trent Boult bowled a fast jaffa to Phil Salt and hit him straight – in the box. Salt, as Rahul had done, initially feigned indifference, but he then walked two steps left, then three steps right, then dropped down on his haunches, leaning on his bat, trying hard to regain his breath and composure. His face looked funny (sorry to say this) as his expressions veered between an embarrassed helplessness to fake smiles, trying to pretend that all was well, even as his face turned a beetroot maroon.

      The team physios rushed onto the field. They looked at each other and exchanged a few words but there was little they could actually do, with 50K+ spectators watching every muscle twitch of their heroes in the middle. I mean, physios usually rush in and spray pain killers on a stricken part, but in this case . . .  well. Salt would have to allow the ‘natural time’ it takes to get one’s wind back.

      So for the second time I’d witnessed the importance of the box in this game – and its limitations.

      (Pheeww!!)

      Closely following this incident there was Siraj fielding at the boundary in another match. The ball came rushing towards him. He had to run some distance to get to the ball. Eventually he put in a last-ditch dive to get his hands on the ball. But his hands overshot it by an inch or so and that caused the ball to roll right under his sliding body, from under his chest, down his abdomen, past the navel and then a little more, before emerging, still as hard as a large steel ball bearing, from between the centre of his legs. If it had been bread batter he’d rolled over, it would have ended up rolled paper-thin. A very anguished Siraj lay on his back on the ground for a minute or two, writhing in pain. Maybe wearing a box while fielding at the boundary could have spared him that one crucial hurt at least. Of course, the team physios rushed to him, had a good look, and exchanged a few words. …   Sound familiar? 

      When Rahul was hit and I saw his reaction, it instantly brought recall of the memory of the precaution our Box Boy was asking for.

      When Phil Salt was hit on the box by a superfast jaffa from Trent Boult, it became quite clear that even with the box in place you can get hit very hard.. 

       Imagine being hit in the groin without the box! It must seem like the end of the world.

      One day I came across two of our friends ‘from those days’ and we headed straight to the coffee house, chatting nostalgically well into the evening. The crowd at the coffee house was mostly unfamiliar very young dudes, their chatter consisting of strange present day Gen-Z phrases which caught our ears from time to time, but which we couldn’t fathom.   It didn’t bother us. We proudly rested on the laurel of being customers at this coffee house since its inception. We were the first citizens here. These pink and yellow greenhorns were not even born then.

      Box boy’s name and his insistence on wearing a box while fielding on the boundary also cropped up.

      Obviously.

        The three of us, though, were avid cricket lovers, true to the game in every way. We had all seen the incidents involving Rahul, Salt, and Siraj. Their import was not lost on us.

        We sighed, in submission, over the irony of the matter. A burden had built within our minds on the issue. We became silent for some time – pondering, wondering.

        Just then a pretty looking family entered the coffee house. An elegant looking elderly Sikh gentleman with his wife apparently. And a younger, smart Sikh couple. With them was an extremely fair little Sikh kid, maybe about 3 years old. They occupied a table close to ours and continued the dignified, happy chatter they had walked in with. The fidgety little boy moved around the small coffee house playfully. He suddenly came over to our table and stared at us curiously. His father, the younger of the two gents, came over and took him back to their table, smiling and nodding at us.

        That caused all of their group to turn and look at us, and we at them. Something clicked. What could it be? The older gentleman who was about our age, got up and came over to our table. There was definitely a whiff of familiarity about him, which we couldn’t place. Smiling, he asked, “If I’m not mistaken, you three played cricket at the VRC College ground in your junior college days?”

        Our minds raced. Then it hit us. Simultaneously. Nodding vigorously, we shouted out together, “DC! Is that you, really? For God’s sake, where have you been all this time?”

        He smiled a broad, happy smile. “Yes, guys. It’s me. DC.”

        “Where did you disappear?” I asked. “So many years. Come. Sit.”

        He sat at our table. “After my graduation, my family moved to the US and I did my Master’s in Hotel Management, a period of internship, and then got into my own hotel business. I have a small chain of hotels there now. With God’s grace, I’m doing well.”

        And why are you here with – what, your family? – at this mediocre Gen-Z hangout?”

        “I came here to show my family one of the favourite places I used to visit. My son there is my partner in business. It interests him to observe, feel, and study the ambience of restaurants, small and big.”

        “Oh!” We exclaimed together, exchanging glances with each other. “Son, eh? Bro, he’s one handsome dude. And the ladies are your better half, your son’s better half, and their cute, foreigner-looking son?”

        “Yes. Thank you. Why don’t you join us? Come let’s join our tables and all get to know each other.”

        We agreed. It would have been impolite to not accept.

        After the introductions, the light conversation gained intensity arising from a sense of oneness that lucky people sometimes get to develop in such chance, short encounters.

        We spoke openheartedly, every school and junior college joke recounted; friendly backslaps exchanged now and then by us old friends. But we took care not to bring up the groin guard incident before DC and his family.

        After all, we had only just agreed that he was ‘not wrong’ in that old matter. And now we’d got to know his well mannered, beautiful family. He himself had turned out to be a sophisticated gentleman. No wonder he was a successful businessman.

        After about an hour or so, as we got up to take leave of each other, DC’s son handed us his US business card along with his and DC’s personal numbers, and invited us to be their guests whenever we visited there.

        We thanked them all profusely, by now feeling an obligation to ingratiate ourselves with this wonderful and successful family. The burden of the groin guard incident niggled our minds, creating a sense of guilt within us.

        At least we hadn’t been foolish enough to bring up that story before the family and embarrass DC. In all probability, he had never told his family about it. In which case he risked a distasteful exposure by us by calling us to join him and his family at their table. Who would tell their family that he had been ousted from a college cricket game for the peculiar reason he was?

        As we were leaving, I looked at the neat business card in my hands, My mind boggled and mye eyes widened to their largest ever yet at seeing what it said. 

        It read, “The Box Boy Group of Hotels”.

                                                                            *****

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