THUD-ALL : A Balderdash Burphy Story

Chapter Seven

"Wide," the umpire called out for the umpteenth time before he noticed that Gangaram had disappeared into thin air. He looked around the field and counted to see if the fielding team had eleven players inside the boundary. There were only ten. Even as he took a step forward to have a word with the captain, he tripped on something and fell face flat on a white patch on the pitch that looked like a person. It was Gangaram.

Gangaram had leapt, sported a shocked expression on his face, somersaulted and landed flat on his face in an eagle-in-glorious-flight like sprawl, having tripped over his own foot after running towards the pitch in a clumsy run-up. The ball had slipped off his hand, looped up and hit him on his head, giving him a concussion, a brain-fade and a sore back – the last one thanks to the half-blind umpire who was looking elsewhere when Gangaram fell so spectacularly.

He immediately gestured towards the dressing room, which was actually the shade of a huge banyan tree where the substitutes from the fielding team were seated. The twelfth man, first carried a couple of bottles of water by sheer instinct. He went in, understood what was wrong, how he was wrong, smacked his forehead and returned to the dressing room. After he finished panting and sending down half a bottle of water, he said, "Ganga is injured badly. We need to haul him in," before looking for a Gatorade.

The other substitutes who grew instantly irate, jostled with him before one of them realized they were committing the same mistake that the twelfth man had committed. They laughed sheepishly at one another, hugged each other, wasted some more time and then drew straws to decide which two would enter the field to haul Ganga in.

By then, the batsmen had scored seventy-three unsuspecting runs. The opposition batsman had had the presence of mind to note that, in the melee surrounding Ganga's iconic fall, the umpire had failed to call a dead-ball and that the ball was still on the pitch. He had walked over to the ball, prodded it gently and the batsmen crossed each other seventy-three times while the rest remained distracted. Finally, the wicket-keeper noticed, made a run for the ball, picked it up and tried to catch one of the batsmen short of the crease, but failed miserably, as he too tripped over Gangaram and fell. Thankfully, play was halted, the ball was dead, Ganga wasn't and two men came in to stretcher him out to the shade, although it was late evening.

"Captain," Gangaram said as he regained part of his senses. "I will...," before being interrupted. "No, Ganga. Don't say a word. I want you to take it easy. And I am not..."

"No, captain sir, I can't," Gangaram said with steely resolve. "I will get into the field again and bowl." He clasped his palms together before letting out a shriek.

"God! I think I have a sprained finger," Gangaram said and turned forlorn.

"It's fine, Ganga. No further action for you. And please don't..." Gangaram put his hands up in a manner of saying, "talk to my hand," or "please," depending on how those around chose to see it. "I will return and will bowl. After all, God has blessed me with two hands, hasn't he?" he asked.

"He has. But I am not the captain. He is on the field. I am a substitute, you moron," the thirteenth man who had grown impatient by then said. Gangaram stood up and started plastering his seemingly sprained little finger on the right – the one that the fish usually bites in nursery rhymes.