To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me-
That is my dream!
To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening...
A tall, slim tree...
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.
#
Damir Dokic, Jim Pierce, Peter Graff, Richard Williams, A S Bindra, Yograj Singh...
As a class, fathers of sports celebrities tend to talk crap.
But I remember a particular interview of Sourav Ganguly's father for its rare insight into the agony of a flawed enigma.
The Prince had become The Pariah and stayed aloof even at home.
Affectionate friends and careworn family members would take him to a corner, put a sympathetic arm around his shoulder and tell him that chasing rainbows has never done anyone good.
Ganguly would nod but no one was really sure they were being listened to.
When the world around him had withdrawn, a sleepless Ganguly would get a domestic help to throw ball at him in the middle of night and do the knocking in their sprawling drawing room.
In the adjoining bedroom, an upset Ganguly Sr would shake his head and tell his wife how their tormented son had completely lost it.
And what followed was the mother of all comeback stories.
From Bengal Tiger to his American cousin.
Reports trickle in that Tiger Woods, a thoroughly deserving butt of popular dirty jokes, eagerly waits for the night to descend on his Florida mansion so that he can sneak out to a nearby golf course to ease his mind.
Away from prying eyes, a dimly-lit, empty course with the man and his craft.
The same guy who relished flashbulbs now seeks obscurity in the dark and all his own making.
Tiger has fallen from grace. Responsible parents have removed his poster from their kids' study room and burnt it in the backyard.
But let there be no illusion. Golf has seldom been in more need of a comeback story.
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