When cricket season came around, Sonny, the captain of our village team, announced that he had been selected to play at the national level, and, of course, as friends, we were all extremely proud. For Sonny, who had been preparing for this moment ever since he first held a cricket ball and figured out he could throw, it was a dream come true.
To celebrate Sonny’s big moment, a group of us friends met by the bar and we exchanged drinks, for we could not let this milestone in his career as a cricketer go unnoticed. And so it was that we bought the liquor while Sonny tossed them, one cup after another, and regaled us with stories of his best matches.
If there’s one thing that could be said of Sonny, it was that he was a man for details. He didn’t miss anything. Well, he might have missed the occasional ball or three when it came hurtling his way during village matches, but never mind that, he was a national player now, and he could be relied upon to pay attention to everything on the pitch- from the fit of the umpire’s uniform to how high the blades of grass grew.
Sonny’s powers of observation were legendary, and so, if you could rely on him for one thing, it was a good story.
That day in the bar, Sonny drained bottle and glass, telling us about his qualifying match. The match had been held in the national stadium, and Sonny had traveled to the tryouts after a grand send off from the team.
He told us about his nervousness in the taxi, how his stomach was only clenching and unclenching, how his palms were sweaty.
He told us about the weather in the stadium, and the wicket keeper who kept sneezing because of the dust.
He told us about the batsman who kept passing gas so loud it sounded like a backfiring car muffler, about the fierce blackbirds that had settled in the trees around the stands, about the patrons who kept screaming and cheering, and even the vendors hawking wares in the stands.
It was a wonder he was able to observe all that pandemonium when he was out on the pitch, spinning the ball, and capturing wickets and the attention of the scouts.
By the end of the evening though, Sonny was announcing that he had a new dream- to be named man of the match at our country’s ICC T20 cricket match against England.
“That would be the icing on the cake, man,” he said, cupping his hand in the shape of an imaginary ball, and faking a throw. “For me, you can’t get better than that.” And, of course, all of us friends agreed, you couldn’t get better than that at all.
For weeks, Sonny prepared for his grand moment, and when the tournament finally came around, he traveled to play after a grand send off by the village team, and we friends gathered together once again in the bar, exchanging drinks and all eyes glued to the television, waiting for Sonny to walk up to the pitch and show off his fancy finger spins, for this was his moment to shine.
When the players came on the field, though, we didn’t see Sonny, but we didn’t mind that because we knew that there had to be some kind of crazy mix-up and that soon the TV announcer would be calling the name of our flamboyant friend running late onto the pitch.
We chuckled among ourselves about Sonny being Sonny wherever he went, always wrapped up in some drama, and we continued to watch the match over drinks.
It was Narine who noticed it first. The cameraman had zoomed into the crowd in the stands and was panning over the faces of the patrons, capturing the vibe, when Narine yelled, “Wait, guys, wasn’t that Sonny in the stands?”
And sure enough, when next the camera panned his way, sure enough, there was Sonny standing, animated, in the center of a group of friends, one hand holding a glass of rum, the other, cupped in the shape of an imaginary ball, faking throws, and doing what he does best: regaling his audience with stories.
