Humour from Lived Experiences. “Talkin’ ‘bout you and me and the games people play”

So said Joe South in a moment of philosophical clarity.  However, as most of us are not Socrates or Bertrand Russell – ‘All work and no play makes Krishna Kumar Kadetotad a dull boy’, is more easily understood.

I didn’t want to be Krishna Kumar Kadetotad. I am proficient thus, in swimming, volleyball and hockey; and passably so in football and basketball. I can give a good fight in marbles, pithoo, Pictionary and should the occasion demand, gilly danda too. That makes me, even though I say it myself, somewhat of an all-rounder.

But God in her infinite wisdom likes to balance things out. She, deciding that giving Rakesh expertise in every sport may result in an inflated sense of self importance, left me with severe deficiencies in some. Golf for example, is an exceedingly popular sport in the Armed Forces and, has the primary benefit some feel, of giving its practitioners undue advantage in currying favours with those in charge of promotions.  Apparently, an officer’s upward trajectory is directly proportional to the number of times he utters ‘Bravo!’, or ‘Great Shot’, after his Boss has hit a particularly average one. Obsequiousness is after all, nearly as effective an attribute for upward mobility as professionalism.  Sadly, I’ve never got a chance to say ‘That’s a Beauty’ to my Bosses because God, chose this very activity to average out my skill levels. How I wish She had chosen gilly danda instead!

To start with, I could never figure out the charm of Golf. It is after all, just hockey played with a smaller ball, a smaller goal, a thinner stick, and at a more sedate, glacial even, pace.  Essentially, as I see it, Golf is the only sport where you whack a stationary ball. Thereafter, you walk leisurely towards it and again give a second whack. And so on till one reaches an open goal. No full backs to pummel you into the ground and no goalie either. Yet golfers I have noticed contrive to make this simple exercise, one full of tedium.

A golfer will place the ball on what looks like a very small, miniature stool and then admire it from different angles, as if seeing Mona Lisa for the first time. He will thereafter look down the range towards the intended flight path of the ball. He may even throw a few blades of grass into the air to ascertain wind drift. And it is only then that he will address the ball. He will plant his feet on the ground, take his preparatory stance with his stick and then do, what is to me, a most mystifying butt wriggle for 10-15 seconds. I could never get it. How does this rather suggestive mini dance, as if one is trying to adjust one’s appendages in underwear two sizes too tight, help?

I’ve asked a few golfers and they parrot some nonsense about it helping in limbering the body and resetting their minds. My foot! Just do some manly jumping jacks and push ups dude. It would scandalise unsuspecting onlookers less too.

Golfers sprinkle their day with words like albatross, birdie, bogey (and sometimes double bogey. Well, double bogey to you too!).  Mostly however, one hears a lot of dammit after 90% of shots. Especially when they are able to find those miniscule patches of sand, in acres and acres of open lawns with surprising frequency.  

And then there is Billiards – another game that finds considerable appeal in the Armed Forces. I can of course, unlike Golf, find some attraction for this sport, primarily because the Billiards Room in most officer’s messes is near the Bar. This game can thus be played with refreshing sips of whiskey and soda in between shots. This liquid equilibrium also has the added benefit of keeping everyone in a mellow and jovial mood. Insofar as dexterity with the cues is concerned however, I am even less blessed than with golf sticks. I have tried it a few times wherein I have found that the blasted cue ball has a mind of its own and spitefully refuses to go in the direction that one desires it to.  Mostly, the ball after being sent on a wild goose chase over the table by me, settles itself into the pot without hitting anything else.  The ensuing mortification results in one trying to hit the ball harder – only to find the ball sidestepping adroitly. The green felt underlay of course can’t sidestep. Result? A nice hole on the table top. Dammit! Ever seen a billiard table bed looking like a newly tilled patch of agricultural land? Well, that tells you that Rakesh Dahiya has been there. He came, he saw and he embarrassed himself.

Not that I have not had embarrassing episodes even in games that I am proficient in. Take badminton. One fine day, young Sub Lieutenant Rakesh Dahiya reached the badminton court a bit early to find it empty save for a frail looking lady. She asked me somewhat diffidently if she could have a game with me. I, confident that I could send her packing in about five minutes, ‘condescended’, and quite airily at that.

The game started. First game. The score quickly reached four – love. I was on love. Meanwhile, the badminton court had started filling up and one of the officers took on the duties of umpire. Five – love he announced, in my view, with unnecessary enthusiasm. More spectators arrived. So did more humiliation. Seven – love.

I meanwhile, was running around the court like one possessed in response to her feints and drop shots and angled smashes. Fat lot of good that did me for while I looked like one who had run a full marathon, ragged, she had hardly broken into a sweat. And then I got my first winner! A rather feeble mishit that trickled over the net. ‘Good shot’, shouted one of the spectators, which even to me, sounded like sheer sarcasm. The service change, quickly resulted in a service change again with another well placed smash from her side. (Those days, one only got a point when on serve. Seven – love it remained.)

The thoughtless umpire meanwhile seemed to be getting into the spirit of things and the decibel levels of his score count, irritatingly, kept increasing. Ten – love he boomed. I would have much preferred if he had whispered the score, for the audience had now swelled to about 30. The score soon reached 12 – love and then game point and of course game. 15 – love. Thank God the game wasn’t played for 21 points as it is nowadays, because let’s face it, 15 – 0 while humiliating, is a bit less humiliating than 21 – 0, right? The lady walked up to me and said, much to my chagrin, ‘well played, another game?’ I could have biffed her straight on the nose. Instead, I demurred and slinked out of the court, my metaphorical tail tucked firmly between my legs. It remained so tucked for the next six months. And yet, strangely, I hold a greater grudge against the referee and his booming voice. 

Incidentally, though scant consolation, I learnt later that the lady was the State Champion. The least she could have done, I reflected bitterly, was to have warned me.

“Well she made me cry

Broke my heart and then said goodbye

Talkin’ ‘bout she and me

And the game she played now”