Book excerpt | 'Miracle Men': Two moments that changed the course of the 1983 World Cup final

The BCCI on June 25, 2021, tweeted this photo of then team captain Kapil Dev lifting the cricket World Cup trophy 38 years ago. (Photo: BCCI via Twitter)

The following is an excerpt from the book, Miracle Men: The Greatest Underdog Story in Cricket, by Nikhil Naz:

Having made a below-par 183, the Indian team walks out to jeers and jibes from the hostile, predominantly West Indian crowd. The taunts are largely ignored. Except by Gavaskar. A revered figure in the West Indies, he’s indulging the partisan crowd, conversing with them in their patois, with a Trinidadian accent to boost, practised and mastered during his numerous trips to the island. His poise and wit today is only adding to his already large fan base in the Caribbean.

It was in the Caribbean that Balwinder Sandhu too lived one of his most special moments on the cricket field. Getting both Desmond Haynes and Gordon Greenidge – the finest opening partnership in the world – in quick succession during the first innings of the Port of Spain test, only three months ago. Greenidge’s dismissal was special. Sandhu got the ball to jag back sharply after pitching and it dislodged the master batsman’s stumps. Now, once again, he finds Greenidge at the other end. Once again, he’s tempted to bowl an inswinger. But the end from which he is bowling is conducive to outswingers. Thanks largely to Lord’s famous slope. And that’s exactly why the Indian new ball bowler has only been bowling outswingers so far. Plus, the words of his skipper keep ringing in his head: ‘Oye, sardar, concentrate on outswing. Only outswingers get you wickets at the international level.’ Sandhu runs in with ball in hand, the seam facing the on-side. Greenidge is facing the 12th ball of his innings. Only this time he chooses not to face it at all. Expecting another outswinger, he shoulders arms to a ball pitched outside off stump, allowing the well-deceived inswinger to kiss his off stump. Sandhu defied his skipper, but the ball obeyed the sardar’s orders. The death rattle of leather hitting wood is followed by a chain of expletives from the star opener. Directed at himself. He can’t believe he didn’t play at that.

There are a few slack jaws in the audience. Murmurs of ‘the ball hitting a pebble on the pitch’ are floating around. Rajdeep Sardesai- sitting in the stands- is gloating. ‘He’s my friend, he’s my friend,’ he’s yelling in joy. It’s a personal victory for him. Sandhu is his cricketing buddy. Just a few months ago, they were playing in Bombay’s famous monsoon tournament, the Kanga league. Boundaries hit off Sandhu’s genial medium pace are still fresh in his mind. And today, watching his ‘friend’ do so well at the highest level is in a lot of ways assuring for this budding professional cricketer.

In Bombay, Sachin Tendulkar and friends—watching the match on TV— have broken into an impromptu jig after Greenidge’s dismissal. Even before their unsynchronized gyration can come to a halt, Doordarshan, the national broadcaster, has switched to its pre-scheduled programmes of news bulletins and self-help features for farmers.

Kapil is now face to face with The King- Viv Richards, who’s on song. The Indian skipper bowls his preferred outswinger. The batsman takes a step down the pitch, left leg across the stumps, nullifying the swing, leans into his drive, his left elbow – with a white bandage on it – upright, and collects 4 runs straight down the ground. Kapil comes back again. The ball hits the same good-length spot on the pitch. But, swings in. It’s the same forward and across movement by the batsman. And it’s the same result: 4. Towards square leg this time. Kapil wipes the sweat off his forehead. Viv hasn’t broken a sweat. The Adonis lookalike, one hand on hip, the other holding his bat that rests on his shoulders, is chewing gum, nonchalantly; waiting to deal with the next ball that comes his way. The Australian tearaway fast bowler Dennis Lillee is sitting in the West Indian player’s balcony, enjoying every moment of Viv’s craftsmanship.

Madan Lal is brought into the attack. The West Indian vice captain greets him with three boundaries in one over. All three have travelled to different parts of the field: midwicket, extra cover and point. All done with the minimum amount of risk, speeding across the turf, straight out of a batting handbook.

A shopping guidebook is called upon by the Indian players’ wives. Watching from the stands, they’ve had enough. The dangerous Viv Richards is 30 not out. Annu Lal and Romi Dev are leaving for the shopping district of central London. The gatekeeper at the exit does his bit by warning them: ‘Re-entry isn’t allowed on these tickets, ma’am, once out, there’s no coming back.’ The ladies don’t entertain a second thought. They aren’t too sold on watching a one-sided match.

In India, those keen on watching, still can’t. The pre scheduled news bulletin is over, but the live microwave link is down. Mohammed Rafi, dressed in a suit, singing his evergreen hits at a previously recorded concert, is serving as a filler for the national broadcaster. Madan Lal has claimed Haynes, and now wants to have a go at Viv Richards. Kapil isn’t too keen. Viv feasted on Madan’s last over. The captain realises he needs to arrest the flow of runs or the game is done. ‘Maddi pa, you take a break. I’ll get you back after a few overs.’ Madan Lal has India’s first one-day win against the West Indies on his mind, achieved just three months ago. ‘Kaps, give me the ball. I got Viv in Berbice, I’ll get him here too. Just one more over, please.’ The conviction that whenever the great Vivian Alexander Richards is in good flow, he is also the most vulnerable is what’s driving Madan. Kapil gives in.n

The tie-and-jacket-clad Rafi on TV is crooning his hit from the 1961 blockbuster Hum Dono, starring Dev Anand. Madan Lal comes into bowl to Viv Richards, batting on 33 off just 28 balls. ‘Main zindagi ka saath nibhata chala gaya – I kept giving life company,’ says the first line of the song. The ball is dropped short. Viv rocks back and pulls it with utter disregard, as the next line of the song plays out: ‘Main fikr ko dhuen mein udata chala gaya – I kept blowing away every speck of worry in rings of smoke.’ The ball has travelled miles up in the air. Perhaps not connecting with the full face of the master’s bat. Then the next line of the song comes along – ‘Main fikr ko dhuen mein uda...’ – similar to the line before, but with a long, pregnant pause at the end.

Time stands still at Lord’s. Yashpal, at deep square leg, is closer to the ball, and is making a dash for it. Kapil, a natural athlete, stationed at midwicket, has turned around and is also chasing the skier. His instincts dominating his mind at the moment. Patil, at third man, is thanking the almighty that he isn’t standing where Kapil was, else he would have been expected to run. Kapil, running backwards, covering quick distance with his limber, long strides, has the ball in his line of sight. Before he can stretch his hands out to attempt the catch, he sees Yashpal from the corner of his eye. ‘Yash, don’t; it’s mine!’ he screams. Yashpal slows down in his tracks. After a 20-yard sprint, Kapil has grabbed what seems like an unimaginable catch. The stadium has erupted. The entire team is running towards their skipper to celebrate. So are a bunch of Indian fans who have invaded the ground. The next verse of the song plays out on Indian TV, ‘Barbadiyon ka jashn manata chala gaya – I kept celebrating, even failures’. The scorecard reads: Viv Richards, caught Dev, bowled Lal. Mrs Lal and Mrs Dev are out window shopping.