Every few years an event occurs that is certain, even prior to its incidence, to have a perceptible impact on one's general temperament, one's personality. One can only hope that this impact, inevitably deep, is positive, and does not effect one's disposition towards oneself, others and indeed the world. At least, one hopes. Alas, dear readers, this past week in mid-March 2007, not one, not two, but, in fact, three such events left a deep, well defined, faultlessly concave impact crater on my soul.
Granted the West Indies loss was bearable. It was the first game of the tournament, they had home advantage, and we were walking on the field for the first time since Shoaib and Asif’s unavailability was reported, ruling them out completely. We had enough bench strength, I thought, and there was no reason why Gul and co., themselves a handful by any standards, could not take us to at least the latter stages of the Cup. It wasn’t a toothless attack, and, in fact, I felt we bowled fairly well in all of our games.
However, this was just the beginning. Upon Sabina Park, from the East came the great Caribbean cloud, thick and ripe with tragedy, bringing with it a disaster dressed in green, sporting red stubble, and nursing a pitcher of Guinness. Team Pakistan, on Saturday, March 17, 2007, the cornered tigers, the South Asian giants, the Men of God, succumbed to a skirt wearing, beer abusing, potato eating Irish team. Like the clouds over Sabina Park, my heart sank. An ominous sense of the end came over me; the end of what I did not know, but a shameful, honor-less end of all things. We were out of the cup.
Luckily, I had hedged my emotional bets that day by having Jack Brown, my brother Asad’s best friend, come over and spend an evening with the Naqvi boys. After a quick bowl of DC’s best guacamole on 14th and E, we took our seats at the Shakespeare Theatre for a remarkably well adapted and directed (I can’t say much for the acting) production of Richard III. This preceded an ever solid midnight burger at Clyde’s downtown. Jack, Asad and I discussed the play, movies, university life and the reasons for the proliferation of indie rock in Seattle. My lingering dejection caused me to cancel my St. Patty’s day drinking session with Kenneth Westling, a friend from Vienna (besides, who wants to go hang out in Cleveland Park?), but things were generally looking up. The night ended with a read through the New York Review of Books. The impact, it seemed, had been cushioned.
Sunday. My flight back to Columbus was at 6pm. We woke to a gorgeous DC spring day. A spattering of white clouds served only to accentuate their bright blue backdrop. The air was crisp, clean and leaden with a sense of springtime renewal. Jack called up around noon and said he could use some King Kabab to reacquaint himself with the district. Asad and I had no real objection. We picked up Fuad, Asad’s lawyer friend, and drove off to Crystal City, windows down and collars popped. Yesterday’s travails seemed a dream, barely clinging to my conscious.
The Afghans at King Kabab have been there since time immemorial. They have always been distracted, busy, intense; they yell at each other in Pushto and Punjabi while brooding over their handis, filling the air with aromas of cumin, coriander and turmeric. ‘Aaj to nihaari paki hai, sir!’ Sunday specialty is nihaari. Indescribable. Meals devoured, we head back to district, our pallets satisfied. Around 2.30pm, Asad gets a call from Taimour, a friend Asad and I first met at an awful barbeque lunch two years ago at Asif Bhale’s. ‘Yaar bhenchod Woolmer mar gaya hai!” Even through his faint, digital voice, I could sense bewilderment. Asad, sitting shotgun, turned, his eyes squinting in disbelief. ‘Bob Woolmer’s dead, Raza.” I could feel my soul’s crater stretching deep into my body. That Sunday, after about a decade, I shed my first tear. The nihaari didn’t sit well.
Granted the West Indies loss was bearable. It was the first game of the tournament, they had home advantage, and we were walking on the field for the first time since Shoaib and Asif’s unavailability was reported, ruling them out completely. We had enough bench strength, I thought, and there was no reason why Gul and co., themselves a handful by any standards, could not take us to at least the latter stages of the Cup. It wasn’t a toothless attack, and, in fact, I felt we bowled fairly well in all of our games.
However, this was just the beginning. Upon Sabina Park, from the East came the great Caribbean cloud, thick and ripe with tragedy, bringing with it a disaster dressed in green, sporting red stubble, and nursing a pitcher of Guinness. Team Pakistan, on Saturday, March 17, 2007, the cornered tigers, the South Asian giants, the Men of God, succumbed to a skirt wearing, beer abusing, potato eating Irish team. Like the clouds over Sabina Park, my heart sank. An ominous sense of the end came over me; the end of what I did not know, but a shameful, honor-less end of all things. We were out of the cup.
Luckily, I had hedged my emotional bets that day by having Jack Brown, my brother Asad’s best friend, come over and spend an evening with the Naqvi boys. After a quick bowl of DC’s best guacamole on 14th and E, we took our seats at the Shakespeare Theatre for a remarkably well adapted and directed (I can’t say much for the acting) production of Richard III. This preceded an ever solid midnight burger at Clyde’s downtown. Jack, Asad and I discussed the play, movies, university life and the reasons for the proliferation of indie rock in Seattle. My lingering dejection caused me to cancel my St. Patty’s day drinking session with Kenneth Westling, a friend from Vienna (besides, who wants to go hang out in Cleveland Park?), but things were generally looking up. The night ended with a read through the New York Review of Books. The impact, it seemed, had been cushioned.
Sunday. My flight back to Columbus was at 6pm. We woke to a gorgeous DC spring day. A spattering of white clouds served only to accentuate their bright blue backdrop. The air was crisp, clean and leaden with a sense of springtime renewal. Jack called up around noon and said he could use some King Kabab to reacquaint himself with the district. Asad and I had no real objection. We picked up Fuad, Asad’s lawyer friend, and drove off to Crystal City, windows down and collars popped. Yesterday’s travails seemed a dream, barely clinging to my conscious.
The Afghans at King Kabab have been there since time immemorial. They have always been distracted, busy, intense; they yell at each other in Pushto and Punjabi while brooding over their handis, filling the air with aromas of cumin, coriander and turmeric. ‘Aaj to nihaari paki hai, sir!’ Sunday specialty is nihaari. Indescribable. Meals devoured, we head back to district, our pallets satisfied. Around 2.30pm, Asad gets a call from Taimour, a friend Asad and I first met at an awful barbeque lunch two years ago at Asif Bhale’s. ‘Yaar bhenchod Woolmer mar gaya hai!” Even through his faint, digital voice, I could sense bewilderment. Asad, sitting shotgun, turned, his eyes squinting in disbelief. ‘Bob Woolmer’s dead, Raza.” I could feel my soul’s crater stretching deep into my body. That Sunday, after about a decade, I shed my first tear. The nihaari didn’t sit well.
