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Runs 'n' records for Sri Lanka

Prem Panicker

It is half an hour after the last ball was bowled on day three, and the players trooped off with the scoreboard reading Sri Lanka 322/1, Sanath Jayasuriya batting 175, Roshan Mahanama batting 115.

It is the kind of day that, for a cricket fan, should provide matter for celebration. After all, at a time when we rue the fact that one day cricket is killing the ability of batsmen to play the long, studied Test innings, here we have master blaster Sanath Jayasuriya himself batting out an entire day. In fact, for the second time this year - the first was Greg Blewett and Steve Waugh in South Africa - we have two batsmen batting out an entire day, just when we thought the classical "Test innings" was a lost art.

And yet, I find myself sitting here, musing on the meaning of the word "professional".

Does "professional" refer to a person who is paid for doing what he does?

If yes, then the Indian team that played today is professional.

Does "professional" refer to a sense of duty, of responsibility, of a pride in one's profession, of a determination to do one's damndest despite the conditions?

If yes, this Indian team does not deserve to be called "professional". For what we saw out there today was a case of abject, total, abdication of responsibility.

Sometime back, when I wrote a piece critical of the team's attitude in a particular game, I had a lot of readers writing in to tell me that it is funny how I, who "hype" the talents of a Tendulkar or a Dravid or a Prasad or a Srinath or an Azhar or Ganguly forget my own words and, doing an about turn, slam them.

Maybe it is time to answer this question: yes, I do think that the players named above are outstandingly talented. But I also think that a bunch of outstanding players does not make a team.

What does make a team is collective determination. A will to win. A fierce desire to do one's damndest, irrespective of what conditions you are playing in.

If I were to rate the performance today on the basis of that definition, it would be easy - India batting zero on all counts.

I guess I should have expected this. For what do I see in the papers first thing in the morning? Sachin Tendulkar - captaining a side that has put 537 runs on the board; a side that has five bowlers; a side that goes in on the morning of day three knowing that the ball is turning a foot or more; a side that knows the opposition, needing 339 to avoid the follow on, is 39/1 - tells a reporter: "Oh, there is nothing in the pitch!"

What does that indicate? A state of mind in the captain - which means, in the team - on the lines of 'Heck, no point trying, the conditions don't help us'.

Raises a question here: When, then, will you try to win a Test match if you don't try on a turning track with three spinners and 500 plus on the board? What do you want before you will go for a win - a minefield?

With that as prelude, the Indian side walked out to the middle. And as early as the first half hour, it was evident that Roshan Mahanama was desperately struggling for touch against both pace and spin alike. What would a captain do in a situation like this? He would crowd the bat. He would have his outfielders racing in, attacking the ball, not allowing singles to be taken, not letting the off form batsman escape to the other end and get away from the strike, he would have his fielders encouraging each other and the bowler, he would create an atmosphere of 'do it, get the guy out'...

So what does the Indian side do? It bowls Venkatesh Prasad with one slip and one short square leg and everyone else well spread out. And - I saw this, but I have trouble believing it, still - when Mahanama pushes a ball uppishly towards deep mid on (never mind why the fielder was deep in the first place, in the first hour of play), the fielder stands where he is, the ball trickles towards him, he bends leisurely and picks it up and lobs it underarm back towards the bowler while the two batsmen stroll the single.

In fact, that was the most marked characteristic of the Indians in the field - they moved as though they were wading, reluctantly, through molasses. Or like weary, footsore travellers in a desert, dragging themselves up yet another sand dune knowing as they put one foot before another that there is no oasis waiting for them on the other side.

If there was a method in that madness, I for one honestly couldn't see it.

Nothing, somehow, made sense. I could cite instances ad nauseum, but two suffice. Leading up to the last hour of play, Nilesh Kulkarni was easily the most impressive bowler. Even when Jayasuriya deliberately went after him in one over, playing predetermined drives and pulls to blast him for four fours, he kept his cool, tossed the ball up, made it jump and turn and troubled both batsmen. So why did he bowl only 13 overs (at that point 2 maidens and 34 runs for one wicket) over five hours of playing time?

Take Anil Kumble bowling to Roshan Mahanama. Ever seen a leg spinner bowling round the wicket to a righthander with a field of leg slip, short square leg and silly point, but no slip? Going round the wicket was definitely a good idea - it would mean the leggie was hitting the rough caused by the bowler's footmarks at the other end and getting turn and bounce. But that means the ball turns in towards off stump, right? Which means the edge carries to slip, right? Mahanama stood there, waited for it to turn and then deliberately opened his bat face to put it through the vacant slip area - the ball nicely in the air - down to third man, time and again. So what was the response? Not to keep a slip - Kumble took to bowling a couple of feet outside leg slip, and Mahanama took to poking his pad out and letting the ball hit him wherever it liked - which, more often than not, was on the outer thigh, or his haunches. Till on one occasion, Mahanama just kicked at the ball, causing umpire K T Francis to signal a dead ball.

In sum, what we saw today was not cricket - merely a grotesque charade thereof. Because at no time was there an attempt to take wickets. It was like at a team meeting before play, everyone got together and said, okay, we ain't going to get these guys out, so let's get through today with as little expenditure of effort as possible.

Much will be made of two clear - and one almost certain - LBW shouts that were turned down by the umpire. True, Mahanama was given a double dose of luck courtesy Steve Randell - but it pays to remember that Randell, like Dickie Bird, is a 'not out' umpire. In the sense that unless he is convinced the ball would have flattened all three stumps, he won't uphold an LBW appeal. As Tendulkar probably remembers, when he took one from Jayasuriya on the top of his pad yesterday with the ball heading towards the top part of the middle stump.

It is amazing what a year of stress can do to a person. I mean, this is the same Sachin Tendulkar who, at the Firozeshah Kotla last year, in his first Test as captain, took on the mighty Australian batting line up with just 170-odd on the board, and persisted, throughout, with a field of four, sometimes five, close in catchers to force the win. Today, the attitude appears to be, play for a draw, and, at any cost, avoid the criticism that follows defeat.

None of this is to detract from the Sri Lankan batsman. All three spinners turned the ball, produced good deliveries, tested their skills. And Prasad, especially with the older ball, bowled a testing line and length and on several occasions, had even the well set Jayasuriya hurrying. And yet they stood there, hour after hour for six hours, putting together the highest ever partnership for Sri Lanka for any wicket against any team, and in the process ensured that whatever psychological advantage the Indian batsmen had wrested in the first two days had been snatched right back. In other words, Jayasuriya and Mahanama with their bats sent this message: "if you can bat, we can bat longer and better". And given that these two sides are to play four more Tests this year, that message does not bode too well for India - because one thing is for sure, if the situations had been reversed, if it was Sri Lanka fielding today, then Ranatunga would have surrounded the Indian batsmen with fielders and applied numbing pressure even despite his lack of resources. And almost equally certainly, India would have wilted.

Jayasuriya today revealed another facet of his batsmanship. The bludgeoning batsman who holds the record for the fastest fifty and second fastest 100 in ODIs, we all know. Today, though, Jaysuriya revealed unsuspected depths of patience, and a rock solid temperament allied to a hunger for more and more runs. For over after over of spin, he was content to push the singles as and when he could find them, or come forward in defense, applying himself to the task of staying there and letting the runs come when it would. And whenever there was the slightest error in length and line, the batsman pounced in a flash - 20 such flashes producing 20 boundaries.

Mahanama, meanwhile, showed strength of character. When your bat is all edges, it is not easy to just grit it out for hour after hour - especially if your side has, in the recent past, played far more one day cricket than the longer version. Yet Mahanama did precisely that, never letting the pressure get to him - and towards the end of the day, his vigil had paid to the extent that he had rediscovered his touch, and was once more stroking the ball with the classical grace that is his hallmark.

The two will go down in the record books for a variety of reasons - not least being their feat in batting through six hours, 90 overs, that comprised the day's play. And for their determination, the character they showed, the application they brought to their task, they fully deserve to.

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