Well, the clock is ticking and I am officially a man of leisure until mid-October.
Amongst the poignant packing away of ones life memories inside overpriced cardboard boxes, the uncertain contemplation of that which lies in wait and the anxiety of attempting to finalise plans for the big push, there remains the extremely important task of deciding which Mumbai football team to swear allegance to.
It seems only right that on arrival, my flag is already pinned to the mast.
It would certainly be comforting to be lost without friends in an unfamiliar landscape, yet to have a retort to that overplayed amd seemingly rhetorical chant of "Who are we?"
To be frank, for a urban throng comprised of over 19 million people, there isn't a hell of a lot of choice out there for football fans.
I could perhaps go for Mahindra United?
Mahindra are the leading Mumbai based outfit and won the national league as recently as 2006. They are the only team in the Maharashtra state to win the FA Cup equivalent more than once, triumphing in '98, '02, and again this year.
This team looks a sure fire route for a newcomer to Indian football to hitchhike upon established success, but the again, as a Swansea City fan used to years of underachievement, this doesn't quite feel right.
So we come to the alternative. Mumbai FC.
Their home ground is in Kandivali, and holds about 12,000.
Formed as recently as 2007 they have been making "big name" signings, such as manager Henry Menezes and Indian international striker Abhishek Yadav. They won promotion from Div2 last season, so 2008/09 will be their first effort in the I-League.
Mumbai FC was launched with the community based aim of encouraging all Mumbaikars with a god given talent (not sure which God does the footbball talent bit, but I reckon Shiva sounds a good bet for my midweek coupon) for footie to participate in the development of the sport and its resultant cultural growth in the city.
Mumbai FC also have an English head coach in David Booth, formerly of Grimsby and Darlo. This sounds more like my cup of chai, but on the downside, they do play in yellow.
Now this last factor may not bother most fans, but for me it counts as a serious negative against them.
I have only ever owned one shirt of this colour, and it attracted lots of flies.
Granted, when I effortlessly plucked said shirt from the outstretched arms of other Jacks down at Southend FC, it was indeed rather sweaty.
I did wash it, several times, but when I proudly wore my undersized yet authentic "Leigh de Vulght" football league shirt around the sites of Australia, the insects absoulutley loved it. It was as if a giant sunflower had appeared in the bush and cross-pollination was this seasons vogue.
That was a harsh lesson I learnt and it has stayed with me.
Under no circumstances can I encourage Malaria carrying Mozzies to come suckle on my juicy Welsh flesh.
So what will I do?
Take the easy option, or go with my instinct?
I think I need to investigate away kits......
Thursday 25 September 2008
Friday 12 September 2008
What a Wankhede!
Cricket, bloody cricket.
Just when you think the 5-day format of the game beloved of gentlemen and empire has been exorcised from the psyche of your average British male, out of nowhere you are given the opportunity to move to Mumbai.
My relationship with the sport has been a long and increasingly tenuous one.
As a child I was weaned on stories of legend. It was upon my local county ground that the soon to be "Sir" Garfield Sobers clattered six consecutive deliveries beyond the St Helens boundary rope.
My father claims to have been there on that historic day, as does every man over the age of 50 born within a 10 mile radius of that wicket.
Last month saw the 4oth anniversary of this cricketing milestone and in the interim years I must have met at least a dozen people who have claimed ownership of "that ball", otherwise known as the final delivery of a Malcom Nash over which was to be sent heavenwards over the wall and into Gorse Lane, or perhaps even the distant side street that was to be forever preserved in monochrome as a result of Sobers' remarkable achievement.
My own cricketing memories are somewhat less well catalogued than the BBC coverage from that day.
As a child I played both at school and with friends in local parks. My right hand bowl, left hand bat a continual object for discussion and derision. Amongst the highlight I remember hitting my first century in the loosely demarcated grounds of Victoria Park.
The ground was a local classic. A pot-holed dirt track marking the boundary at one end of the wicket, perfectly achievable with a straight drive, a confident batsman could make quick, easy runs.
Extras were seldom awarded, and the consensus of what constituted a wide was generally governed by how old the bowler was and whether the batsman could still have struck the delivery if his arms were 15 feet long.
Batting at "the railway end", a left handed hook over a low metal fence and into the tarmac covered playgorund would earn me six runs with the probability of a young mum throwing the ball back to speed up the delivery process. A well executed cut to square leg might see me scoring four runs if the tennis ball crawled beyond the t-shirts that doubled for that boundary.
A high scoring innings was usually dependent upon how recently the Council Parks department had cut the grass, and how few fielders were available.
As the years went by my left-handed square cuts continued to serve me well, though like a less dashing, darker-haired David Gower, I too was prone to a loose shot cheaply giving away my wicket.
As my teenage years passed, the opportunity for play receded. It was far easier to organise an impromptu game of tennis with one, or at a stretch, three other players than to organise a bunch of young males to dedicate their spare hours to standing in a field watching lifelessly for long periods of time.
The urge to play cricket slowly recinded, but the trademark LH bat had left its mark on the Tennis Circuit of South Wales where my double handed backhand was a much feared weapon which even helped me to the final of the county U-16's tournament where I was soundly beaten due to a combination of big match nerves, tennis elbow, and the fact that my opponent was considerably better than me.
Eventually even the tennis seemed to take too long to complete, though admittedly this coincided with the fact I was now old enough to be legally served with alcohol, and yep, there were ladies in those there bars.
Perhaps I am a sullen reflection of the way we as a nation have changed? Maybe it is this inability to stay still and reflect without recourse to external stimulation which has triggered the rise of our instant gratification society. If so, surely this is mirrored in the declining popularity of cricket in the UK both as a spectator sport and in terms of those who actually take the field of play.
Todays soundbite generation are in no way inclined to spend more than fractional hours in any given pursuit, let alone spend the best part of five days watching a sporting soap opera unfold in front of them.
With a generation of British youngsters having been raised on a diet of multimedia options, and the lines between real worlds and virtual worlds becoming ever more blurred, is it no wonder that the historically conservative governers at the MCC have been forced to back track and accept that 20/20 cricket is the only way to generate interest amongst this difficult to please audience?
This led me to an intriguing thought.
With India becoming ever more wealthier, and an emerging middle class being offered a plethora of other ways to spend their time and money, is it inevitable that cricket in the sub-continent will follow?
Not necessarily in terms of the loss of love for the sport as seen in England (and Wales)s green and pleasant land, but in terms of a shift away from the connoisseurs choice of the longer format towards a shortened version of the game.
Then I thought, hang on, this has got further to run.
Whats more, I am sure there is a huge market out there waiting for me to exploit it!
Could I yet be the Kerry Packer of my generation?
"Ladies and Gentlemen, I present you........
The 2014 Nip & Run World Cup Final, live from the Wankhede Stadium, Mumbai...."
K
Just when you think the 5-day format of the game beloved of gentlemen and empire has been exorcised from the psyche of your average British male, out of nowhere you are given the opportunity to move to Mumbai.
My relationship with the sport has been a long and increasingly tenuous one.
As a child I was weaned on stories of legend. It was upon my local county ground that the soon to be "Sir" Garfield Sobers clattered six consecutive deliveries beyond the St Helens boundary rope.
My father claims to have been there on that historic day, as does every man over the age of 50 born within a 10 mile radius of that wicket.
Last month saw the 4oth anniversary of this cricketing milestone and in the interim years I must have met at least a dozen people who have claimed ownership of "that ball", otherwise known as the final delivery of a Malcom Nash over which was to be sent heavenwards over the wall and into Gorse Lane, or perhaps even the distant side street that was to be forever preserved in monochrome as a result of Sobers' remarkable achievement.
My own cricketing memories are somewhat less well catalogued than the BBC coverage from that day.
As a child I played both at school and with friends in local parks. My right hand bowl, left hand bat a continual object for discussion and derision. Amongst the highlight I remember hitting my first century in the loosely demarcated grounds of Victoria Park.
The ground was a local classic. A pot-holed dirt track marking the boundary at one end of the wicket, perfectly achievable with a straight drive, a confident batsman could make quick, easy runs.
Extras were seldom awarded, and the consensus of what constituted a wide was generally governed by how old the bowler was and whether the batsman could still have struck the delivery if his arms were 15 feet long.
Batting at "the railway end", a left handed hook over a low metal fence and into the tarmac covered playgorund would earn me six runs with the probability of a young mum throwing the ball back to speed up the delivery process. A well executed cut to square leg might see me scoring four runs if the tennis ball crawled beyond the t-shirts that doubled for that boundary.
A high scoring innings was usually dependent upon how recently the Council Parks department had cut the grass, and how few fielders were available.
As the years went by my left-handed square cuts continued to serve me well, though like a less dashing, darker-haired David Gower, I too was prone to a loose shot cheaply giving away my wicket.
As my teenage years passed, the opportunity for play receded. It was far easier to organise an impromptu game of tennis with one, or at a stretch, three other players than to organise a bunch of young males to dedicate their spare hours to standing in a field watching lifelessly for long periods of time.
The urge to play cricket slowly recinded, but the trademark LH bat had left its mark on the Tennis Circuit of South Wales where my double handed backhand was a much feared weapon which even helped me to the final of the county U-16's tournament where I was soundly beaten due to a combination of big match nerves, tennis elbow, and the fact that my opponent was considerably better than me.
Eventually even the tennis seemed to take too long to complete, though admittedly this coincided with the fact I was now old enough to be legally served with alcohol, and yep, there were ladies in those there bars.
Perhaps I am a sullen reflection of the way we as a nation have changed? Maybe it is this inability to stay still and reflect without recourse to external stimulation which has triggered the rise of our instant gratification society. If so, surely this is mirrored in the declining popularity of cricket in the UK both as a spectator sport and in terms of those who actually take the field of play.
Todays soundbite generation are in no way inclined to spend more than fractional hours in any given pursuit, let alone spend the best part of five days watching a sporting soap opera unfold in front of them.
With a generation of British youngsters having been raised on a diet of multimedia options, and the lines between real worlds and virtual worlds becoming ever more blurred, is it no wonder that the historically conservative governers at the MCC have been forced to back track and accept that 20/20 cricket is the only way to generate interest amongst this difficult to please audience?
This led me to an intriguing thought.
With India becoming ever more wealthier, and an emerging middle class being offered a plethora of other ways to spend their time and money, is it inevitable that cricket in the sub-continent will follow?
Not necessarily in terms of the loss of love for the sport as seen in England (and Wales)s green and pleasant land, but in terms of a shift away from the connoisseurs choice of the longer format towards a shortened version of the game.
Then I thought, hang on, this has got further to run.
Whats more, I am sure there is a huge market out there waiting for me to exploit it!
Could I yet be the Kerry Packer of my generation?
"Ladies and Gentlemen, I present you........
The 2014 Nip & Run World Cup Final, live from the Wankhede Stadium, Mumbai...."
K
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