Welcome to the Born Spectator - a S&T special!!!

For the first time visitors to the blog, this is a treat to relish. An emerging sports columnist from India combines with a celebrated cricket expert who has traversed the world under the guise as a writer beyond genius in his field. Trevor Chesterfield lends his own eloquent slant on the game while the blog aims to encapsulate the most striking moments of the game and the sports arena of the globe.
If there was a way to describe the emergence of this blog, it can only be encapsulated in the following words. Thebornspectator.blogspot.com approaches the summit of a special relationship between a guru and his protégé. Admittedly this is a brainchild of partners in equal but in reality, there are no equalities. While both are credited cricket writers, it is not only his age but also, his expansive expertise in the game that makes Chesterfield a towering personality and one of the most sought after foreign entities in India and in Asia. The younger (although Chesterfield will no doubt debate it) writer hopes to break the shackles of being unfairly labeled solely a cricket writer and rebels to be appreciated also as an observer of other globally and equally fascinating sports.
I would not say I stumbled upon my calling as a sports writer/columnist. Rather I would say it was preordained, even beyond the predisposition to fantasizing of a life built around the world of sport. To one day share the same platform as a world renowned cricket writer-columnist-expert and to have him deeply entrenched in one’s life as friend-philosopher-guide is beyond awe-inspiring. (It can be downright overwhelming!) Today I am proud to say I have no qualms about it. I stand here (still not equal to him, how can anyone be?). But I stand here knowing that I am the bud that holds the promise of all he is today. My place in the world is the embodiment of it. But my dreams are precisely that, mine. That it is happenstance that they collide too closely with his, I believe, is no small coincidence.
‘The Born Spectator’ by Ogden Nash captured my imagination as a girl of thirteen (or fourteen). Introduced to the poem in standard eight, it has remained the summation of my philosophy towards sport. In true example of a typical school going adolescent in India whose primary focus remained academics while sports was confined to a single day celebrating it at school, watching sport avidly on television wrapped me in a cloak that I will never tire being grateful for. It made me bold when I had no Olympic gold to chase. It made me feel emotions that I would perhaps never understand the depth of had it not become my lifelong pursuit and absolute obsession.
In true unabashed form, I admit I feel no shame to openly admit I would not trade this spectator’s seat for a place in the middle. To have experienced myriad passions, to have dreams conquered and dreams dashed but to get up again, dust off the mud to chase glory again; for sport’s life lessons, I am still many miles away.
In the game of life, there must be a winner. But that does not mean there, essentially, be a loser. If that were the case, there would be no rallying and raucous, delirious celebration as the one witnessed when the three time Wimbledon finalist Goran Ivanisevic finally realized his dream of holding the trophy aloft in 2001 after years of painful disappointments. It is the triumph over turmoil that inspires the sportsman in us to stand tall. This is my rally.
For the benefit of those less fortunate to have never stumbled on Nash’s lines on the Born Spectator:
CONFESSIONS OF A BORN SPECTATOR
One infant grows up and becomes a jockey,
Another plays basketball or hockey,
This one the prize ring hates to enter
That one becomes a tackle or center,
I am just glad as glad can be
That I am not them, that they are not me.
With all my heart I do admire
Athletes who sweat for fun or hire,
Who take the field in gaudy pomp,
And maim each other as they romp.
My limp and bashful spirit feeds
On other people's heroic deeds.
Now A runs ninety yards to score,
B knocks the champion to the floor,
Crisking vertebrae and spins,
Lashes his steed across the line,
You'd think my ego it would please
To swap positions with one of these
Well, ego it might be pleased enough,
But zealous athletes play so rough,
They do not ever in their dealings
Consider one another's feelings,
I'm glad that when my struggle begins
"Twixt prudence and ego, prudence wins.
When swollen eye meets gnarled first
When snaps the knee,
and cracks the wrist
When officialdom demands,
Is there a doctor in the stands?
My soul in true thanksgiving speaks
For this modest of physiques:
"Athletes, I'll drink to you
Or eat with you,
Or anything except compete with you,
Buy tickets worth their radium,
To watch you gamble in the stadium,
And reassure myself anew,
That you are not me and I'm not you".