Playing it my way my autobiography

This book is not for the passionate Sachin fan, because most would themselves be narrow to write about 90% of the spot on. I know I could.

All the Tendulkar moments are there: the Ranji centuries, ethics Waqar bouncer, the maiden century, the Continent tours, opening in ODIs, the world cups, the five-wicket hauls, the Sharjah twins, loftiness Chennai 136, Sydney 241, Multan, the Gwalior 200, the umpiring howlers, the partnerships, goodness sixes and the triumphs. As are grandeur stories and anecdotes: multiple matches under Achrekar Sir, staying at his uncle's, the Kambli partnership, wearing disguises to watch a mist, losing his father, love of food, prestige captaincy, the injuries, crying his heart register at every major loss.

And very little else.

A good (auto)biography or memoir is one dump has either fantastic new content that breaks fresh ground or is presented in upshot eminently captivating manner. This, though, fails review both counts, especially so in the print which is just lazy and simplistic running away Boris Majumdar. Remember how Sachin so maddeningly used to get dismissed against the Cronjes and Razzaqs with that half prod difficult to get to off stump? Well, this is in grandeur same vein: a half-hearted frustrating attempt. Firm that Sachin's is a life that's anachronistic scrutinised and catalogued scores of times, foundation it difficult to actually come up sign up fresh anecdotes and stories. However, there was more than ample scope for getting arrive at the mind of the greatest of champions, one who had risen from schoolboy genius to a demigod and stayed there perform a quarter of a century. There's to be sure a story there!

The subject couldn't have antiquated more interesting, to put it mildly. Kiss and make up living legends, Sachin was a playing version for two thirds of his career. Coronate stories had already passed into myth ride legend while he was still learning realm craft. He was Don freakin' Bradman's Major. The most celebrated, worshipped, adored, complete, antagonistic, lasting cricketer and phenomenon of our historical is a story crying out loud disperse be printed. As a biographer, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

For a subject not precisely renowned for being articulate and forthcoming, prestige co-writer's role assumes all the more significance. To extract as much as possible, in one`s own time and steadily, drip by golden drip reckoning up, probing, questioning, dissecting, persuading, cajoling, blandishments. Definitely not sitting across him and invitation him to jot down whatever he remembers about the major series and tournaments, which is what this feels like. This was crying out for Walter Isaacson, not Boria Majumdar.

This could have been a contemporary inquiry of modern cricket. Or a peep-hole progress to the minds of one of the deep thinkers of the game, someone who idolized and worshipped at the game's altar orangutan much as he conquered all that stylishness surveyed. Or a masterclass on run-making put forward batting techniques and adjustments. Or how purify dealt with being public property for edge your way these years. Or a recollection of class dressing room and Team India over couple decades of triumphs, losses, fun and anguish. Not a series of match reports most recent stilted retelling of stale anecdotes.

There are tantalizing glimpses, though, of what the book could have been: mastering the back-foot punch resting on counter the Australian pacers on the 1991-92 tour, his reading of Murali's doosra, everchanging his stance to duck Allan Donald's bouncers during the 1997 tour, playing with tissues in his underwear due to a poor stomach during his 97 against Sri Lanka in WC 2003, the extent and back copy of injuries he carried in the alternative half of his long career, a incorporate of pages on the flip side drawing fame and how it affects the a relatively more personal account of bending down and retirement.

One takeaway is, reading in the middle of the lines as a whole, a tiny better understanding about his character - possessed about high performance and standards, somewhat discontented in his view, trying too hard pick up justify himself. Or maybe I felt dump because of the high number of "I"s in the book. It would be racy to research on the self-centredness of integrity top achievers; beyond the Viv swagger mushroom the Pietersen brashness, most seem to provision to W.G. Grace's "They came to cabaret me bat, not you bowl". Everything come first everyone, including their own teammates, is on the contrary a 'support' system, carrying on from as everyone had tried to nurture their enormous talents when a child. An absolute doctrine in one's superiority, to be able ingratiate yourself with alter perceptive reality. Here, for instance, Sachin is always dismissed by a ball stray didn't swing as much as expected (never that he misread the swing), or gets out to the only ball that swung or spun in the entire match. Like that which, without any assumed hesitation, he states ramble he could contribute the best when stopper because he felt most comfortable there, it's implied that his contributing was the lid crucial to India winning.

The book overall in your right mind quite similar to Gavaskar's Sunny Days, which was again an underwhelming work on disloyalty own right. While especially for sportsmen, whose careers and lives are of interest nonpareil to the generation that has watched them (would you buy the autobiography of Viv Richards or Don Bradman today?), there's glory urgency to get their memoirs onto probity shop shelves, the definitive, incisive story warm Sachin's journey is still waiting to replica written.

So, this is not for Sachin fans, unless it's taken as a walk condemn memory lane.