In the summer of 2011, towards the end of my interview with him for the men’s magazine Man’s World, I asked Shane Warne whether he would bowl me an over. “Sure, mate. I’ll see you at 4.30?” he said.
I was not entirely surprised at his response. Warne had been easy to chat with that day at the Taj Mahal Palace, in Mumbai. The cricketer, who had just announced his retirement from the Indian Premier League in which he both captained and coached the Rajasthan Royals, was in town on endorsement duty, and we had spoken about a bunch of things: his love of supercars, watches, and bespoke suits; the “few” gnawing regrets that he had about the way he had led his life; and, inevitably, Mike Gatting. “I can get him out any time, even now when I’m 42,” he had said and laughed.
Four hours later, after having arranged for the visual documentation of my own ineptitude at cricket and with a bat borrowed from Warne’s Rajasthan Royals teammate Shane Watson, I took guard against the legendary leg-spinner on one of the practice pitches at the Wankhede Stadium.
Twenty five years ago, while tumbling out of my teens, I had painfully buried my cricketing dreams, and my performance against Warne’s first two deliveries was further proof that I had made the right decision. I almost dragged the first ball, a loosener that was drifting way outside off, onto the lone stump; and failed to connect with the next one—a full toss. I thought I saw Warne grimace and, in possibly the first instance of a bowler being appalled at his opponent’s lack of skill, he said, “You should have hit that, mate!” Both of us laughed. It was all happening at the Wankhede Stadium that evening.
Each time I have occasion to look back at my meeting with Warne, as I did last night on hearing about his demise, I remember several things: me stepping down the track and actually managing to get the ball to clear, I think, cover; a vicious but, thankfully, misdirected zooter; and another leg break that I tapped towards point, with, I’m certain, the casual elegance of a Damien Martyn.
The moment I remember with utmost vividness, though, is the third ball of the over. It revolved tantalisingly in the air for what seemed like eternity, and then dipped alarmingly before landing around the off stump and springing, viper-like, at me. There was an element of magic to it, as there is in all things that move us, whether it be a poignant Paul Desmond composition, or a painting of the Himalayas by Nicholas Roerich. Neither of us was surprised at my inability to pick the googly that hit me a bit too high on my ‘pads’. Warne groaned in mock frustration before resuming work.
Mikhail Tal, the swashbuckling former world chess champion, once said: “You must take your opponent into a deep dark forest where 2+2=5, and the path leading out is only wide enough for one.” That day at the Wankhede, Warne showed me exactly what that meant.
Also read: Tribute: Intensely competitive but always cheerful, Shane Warne was one of a kind
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