Romancing the Slazenger

They say Warren Buffett was a child when he decided he would be a businessman. George Mallory, as a child, wanted to scale tall mountains. Tiger Woods picked up his passion for golf as a child. He picked the passion for women too, but that must have been later. I doubt he did that as a child. But I digress. Where I was going with all that was - my childhood ambition was to own a Slazenger cricket bat.

From the time I started playing cricket, I’d always wanted a Slazenger. Many of the cricketers I’d admired had played with one. Viv Richards had played with one. So had Kapil Dev and several others.

Early in my playing career, I'd been gifted a bat - an SS Sunridges. My benefector took me to the store to pick the bat. The store didn’t carry Slazengers. I didn’t really know how to pick a bat. The one I picked somehow turned out to be a decent bat. There were minor issues. As I started playing with it, I realized that the sweet spot was a bit hight on the blade than I’d have liked,  But my main complaint was that it was not a Slazenger.

I played for a league team in Toronto. I don’t mind admitting that I was no Tendulkar. I used to enjoy my weekend games well enough. The team I was playing for was really strong. That meant that I’d toil on the field for 50 overs, and usually wouldn't get to bat. On many occasions I got to bat when the team was in such trouble that it exceeded my capacity for rescue. There were a few exceptions to that rule that make fond memories. Usually my good memories as a batsman came from the odd good shot that I could live on until the next good shot came along. So, you could say my trusty SS was gently used. For several years, it seemed more likely to die out of boredom than of overuse. It looked good to last several more years.

I was working in the Toronto office for a multinational company that had offices in and around London, England. My job involved visiting those offices once in a while. One of my guilty pleasures during those trips was going to Liliwhites, the sport store at Piccadilly, just to drool at the cricket gear. I’d buy smaller things like a ball, a pair of gloves, or a track suit, but I didn't feel I could justify buying a bat. 

During my trip in the summer of 2005, the stars aligned. I'd had a decent season with the bat. *That* Ashes series was in its late stages. The Englishmen I knew were once again willing to admit to following cricket. In London, I had an evening free. I made my way to Liliwhites. I had to climb a few flights of stairs to get to the cricket section. It was almost empty, unlike the football section, which was packed. 

The young salesman approached me. He greeted me, lowered his voice, and said in a conspiratorial voice, ‘We have bats on sale. You can get yourself a Grade 1 English Willow bat for the price of a cheaper one!”. 

That seemed to be a sign. I had played well enough that summer to have earned the right to gift myself a good bat. It was perhaps my imagination, but late that season, my old faithful SS Sunridges seemed to show signs of its age. I headed to the bats section with anticipation.

The Woodworms were the most prominent on display. Not surprising, as Flintoff and Petersen had used Woodworms to sensational effect that summer. But the brand held no charms for me.

Luckily, the store also had a good selection of Slazengers. There were a few made of English Willow that felt good to hold, and were well priced too. I picked one up and played a few shots in the air to summon my inner Viv.

An older man, who seemed to be in his seventies approached me, and asked if I needed help in picking a bat. Although he was wearing a blazer, something about him told me that he wasn’t a salesperson. I accepted his offer. 

“So where are you from, then?”

Unlike many people these days, I was not offended. I told him I was from India, but lived in Toronto, Canada, where I played cricket. It turned out that he used to play cricket for one of the minor counties in his youth. “I used to come here to admire the gear. This used to be the Harrods of cricket gear. It’s sad to see what it has become!”.

I couldn’t see anything wrong with the store, but I was willing to believe that the store had been even better in his days.

“So you wear those ridiculous coloured clothes when you play?”, he asked.

“No, we wear whites”.

He looked impressed, and seemed to have been reassured that I was worth helping. He insisted I call him Rob. He showed me a few things about the bats that I wouldn’t have noticed, and pointed out the models that had round handles versus oval ones. He showed the grain difference between grades of willows. He advised me to buy the lightest bat that felt normal, as heavier bats could ruin one’s technique. He explained that the bottom hand tends to be stronger and dominate when your weaker hand - usually the top one - gets tired.

“I’ve always wanted a Slazanger. I should buy one, and start chewing gum, like Viv did. I can perhaps get good enough to walk down to pace bowlers and tonk them over their heads”. 

Rob didn’t seem in a humorous mood. Nor did he have any romantic notion about labels. He said most of the bats were perhaps made at the same factory, regardless of brand. He pointed out that some of the Fearnleys looked better, and were slightly cheaper.

Fearnleys! I had not paid attention to them. I initially resented Rob equating them to my favorite brand, but eventually agreed that they might be worth a look. I recalled that I’d seen Gavaskar and Botham play with them. So they were interesting as well. I put the Slazanger that I’d picked aside, and walked to look at the Fearnleys.

The salesman walked over and asked how I was doing. Before I could answer, he asked if I knew who Rahul Dravid was. 

“Of course! Who doesn’t?!”

“He was here. I was talking to him just a minute ago. He is walking down the stairs”. 

I cast all the Fearnleys aside, and raced down the stairs. The only international cricketers I had met until that point had been Azharuddhin and Shoaib Mohammad, the Pakistani cricketer. I wanted to improve my record. There was no plan as to what I’d do when I found Dravid. Maybe shake his hand and his flick would rub off on me. 

I went up to the front door. No trace of him. Perhaps he went into the football section? It was so crowded that it would have been impossible to spot him. I walked back to the cricket area. I was too distracted to resume evaluating Fearnleys. I just paid for the Slazanger I had picked, thanked Rob for his advice, and left.

When I returned to Toronto, there was some amusement at my enthusiasm for my new posessession. I purchased a wooden mallet and spent a good deal of time knocking the bat in. At work, the word got around. There was some good-natured banter about my feelings for the new bat.

My boss, an Australian, had the most probing questions.  “I’ve seen you buy cars and a house too. You seemed quite calm then. Why are you so thrilled at this?”

“Have you seen Viv Richards bat?”

“Yes, but what’s the connection?”

“He played with a Slazenger!”

“So?”

“You call yourself Australian?”, I asked, fully aware that it was a weak comeback. But it didn’t matter. I didn't bother explaining. He wouldn’t understand.

In idle moments, I speculated if there might have been a possible alternate thread of my life, like in Richard Bach's One, or in the Tamil movie 12B. Might my cricketing career have taken a different turn, had I purchased a Fearnley?

That was then. Many years later, I concede the possibility that Rob had been right all along. As with many things in life, labels matter less than they initially appear. Things that we spend considerable efforts chasing tend to be as good or as bad as the alternatives. We overvalue labels like many superficial things - likes on facebook, page views of your blog, money, fame.

In addition to many precious moments on the field, my Slazenger also gave me a lesson. Slowly learnt. But that's the fault of the learner, not the bat.