Rewind, Retrace, Reason

June 20 (geddit? RED-LETTER day? hehehe)

Alongside being the day Queen Victoria took to the throne in 1837 and Mali and Senegal were liberated in 1960 — neither of which are especially important to me — the date to me has always reminded me of one of my most treasured ‘firsts’. To put it into perspective, June 21 that year was the day of an English Language exam I had and so the decision of whether or not to follow through with the June 20 plans wasn’t exactly difficult.

Oooh, turns out the German Parliament decided to move its capital from Bonn back to Berlin on June 20 in 1991. But that’s neither here nor there. So, I woke up on Sunday, June 20, 1999 to the sound of floorboards creaking — as they do in houses made of wood — and looked out of the condensation-covered window. “Please be sunny. Please be sunny,” I recall saying to myself. No such luck as a damp, overcast and drizzly morning awaited me.

Then, it gets a little personal and more importantly, irrelevant to the crux of my story, so I’ll jump ahead. Getting off the tube hurriedly at Marylebone station in London and trudging towards St. John’s Wood tube station — I can’t recall why there was any need to walk, when another train would’ve happily gone to St. John’s Wood. Nevertheless, walking down wet roads and watching fallen flowers floating in little puddles, dodging children bouncing around in gum-boots (Wellingtons, as they are called in some places) and hearing the sssshhhhhhhwwwssss sound of car tyres on wet tarmac just made my nervous energy levels go through the roof.

Of course, those levels hit something of a crescendo as we finally reached the venue. In addition to my presence, ‘we’ would also comprise my grandfather’s dear friend who just so happened to have a spare ticket for the 1999 ICC World Cup Finals at Lords — Grand Stand 2nd tier. This would be the match that would go on to be the first ever cricket match I would watch at stadium. LIVE!

I recall being awe-struck at the sight of the towering Natwest Media Centre. I recall feeling incredibly out of place overhearing elderly gents sporting suits and yellow-and-red MCC ties talking about how “ripping” that Shoaib Akhtar fellow was. I recall feeling my heart thump louder and louder on the walk from the merchandise stalls to the ticket collector, who stamped my ticket. I recall being turned loose inside to find my seat. I recall finding my seat and brushing off the droplets of rainwater that covered it.

Sure, it was an Australia-Pakistan showdown, but it didn’t bother me. And yes, the match was about as much of a showdown as one would expect between a great white shark and a french poodle (the damp squib of a match saw Pakistan make something like 130 and Australia barely breaking a sweat chasing it). But none of that mattered. Even eating from an overpriced packet of the finest salted, fried potato slices didn’t affect me.

The match was over in no time and a kindly old man smiled somewhat sympathetically at me and said something like “Chin up, there’ll be another one in four years”. I smiled back and said something about it being ok because I had a good time. That’s when the layout of wrinkly lines in his face suddenly began transforming into the shape map of a whole different country. He’d seen my India jersey under my jacket. He apologised. I told him it was all good. He scuttled away. It was all good.

Ten years on, June 20 still sends chills up my spine.