The Legend of Pradeep Mathew (45 page)

The match goes down to the wire. 2 balls from the end, with 1 wicket to spare, who scores the winning runs, the highest winning score in one-day history? Who else? Mr Muttiah Murali, the man most sinned against, the second greatest bowler Sri Lanka has ever produced.

Crackers go off on the street. Ari and I shake hands and grin. God is in his tavern even though I am not. And then the phone rings and I answer it. I put down the receiver and ask Ari to switch off the TV. A voice has just told me that Jonny has been shot.

They found the note in his shirt pocket. It was shown to us, but kept as evidence. The handwriting was his, as was, presumably, the browny-red blood smear on the paper.

‘I should’ve given him the cyanide,’ says Ari, lip quivering, placing books into boxes in Jonny’s home. It is days later and we have both kept our upper lips stiff, at least in public anyway, though I have secretly wept three times. The lawyer says that unless valuables are cleared and shipped before the authorities notice, the state will assume control of all assets.

Last week, the High Commission withdrew its appeal over the arrest. The Supreme Court refused extradition. Jonny was to be tried in Sri Lanka and if convicted imprisoned here as a sex offender.

‘Who is Joseph?’ I ask, looking at the giant TV that had enthralled us for many years, now in a cardboard box. The appliances are to be sold to pay the legal fees. The house would be seized under new legislation banning the bequeathing of Sri Lankan property by foreign residents. All that is left are the books and the souvenirs.

‘There is a lot we’ll never know about Jonny,’ says Ari. ‘We may find a diary.’

‘If we do, we burn it.’

‘Will we read it first?’

Whatever we didn’t keep, we would ship to Mrs Margaret Gilhooley of South Shields, Tyneside. Though we knew most valuables would fall prey to customs vultures.

Maybe after seeing the country he loved outplay the country he had fled, he thought it was as good as it got. Or maybe it was the very rational fear of prison, of no sunshine and no cricket.

‘Newcastle is bottom of the table. That Gullit’s sexy football is not working,’ I say, putting away his CDs. ‘Maybe this was just as well.’ My upper lip has stopped quivering.

Right after the Emerson game, Sri Lanka resumed its losing streak. Ranatunga remained unrepentant and emerged a folk hero as the world’s press played the politics cautiously. Ross Emerson was sent on stress leave; I doubt he will return.

Why eight bullets were used when two would have sufficed is unlikely to provoke an enquiry. The
Observer
dedicated three paragraphs to
English sex offender dies while in custody.
And seven pages to the fallout from the Ranatunga–Emerson clash.

It is on the third day that I find the cupboard under the stairs. In it is a pettagama, an ebony chest with carving. It is too heavy for us to move, but we both know what it contains. We apply the smallest from a bundle of keys the lawyer gave us. It opens immediately.

I look to Ari. ‘What do we do?’

He does not answer me, but walks down the hall with a smile. As I open up the chest and marvel at its treasure, the cupboard’s cobwebs make me cough. I put a handkerchief to my lips and point my pen-torch along the open pettagama. Ari wanders in with two ice-filled glasses; I recognise them from the expensive crockery pile.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

He smiles. ‘Buggered if I am going to let these fall into the hands of some sarong johnnie at customs. Will you have the Chivas or a single malt Glenlivet?’

‘Single malt. But just one.’

‘Just one,’ says Ari, his face taking on a solemn look. ‘Just for Jonny.’

‘For Jonny.’

Neither of us are fond of Scotch. The shots, Ari’s first in three years, my first in seventeen months, thirteen days and eight hours, are so stiff that they bring tears to our eyes. Tears that do not stop flowing.

Jonny’s funeral is well attended by many Europeans who we do not know. An Irish lady called Morag introduces herself as the cultural secretary; she offers to help us ship his belongings.

It takes us seven days to put Jonny’s life into boxes. Morag brings in two workmen to do the heavy lifting. We tell no one about the pettagama in the cupboard under the stairs. The day before we are to hand over the keys is the 1999 World Series final. Of course Sri Lanka did not make it; we lost five of our remaining six games. I suggest, Ari agrees.

‘For Jonny.’

‘For Newcastle.’

‘Ah?’

‘They’re playing Spurs in an FA Cup quarter on the same night.’

‘So?’

‘They never disconnected Jonny’s cable. He’s paid a year in advance.’

Ari laughs. ‘Typical. But you must promise. After tonight we give everything away and do not touch it again.’

‘Scout’s honour.’

And so it is that we spend that Saturday flipping between games, sipping every possible Glen. We mix Glenlivet with Glenfiddich, Glenburgie with Glenmorangie, GlennHoddle with GlennMcGrath.

As Aspirilla equalises for Newcastle, we talk about what we didn’t find among Jonny’s belongings. No letters, no photos, no bills, no diaries. Either the lawyers have taken everything or he had nothing to hide.

We tell our wives we are staying over and drink till we collapse. We drink a million toasts to our friend, to Bolgoda, to the mighty Geordies, to the losing Englishmen. Each toast tasting sweeter than the last. And then, silently sprawled in separate rooms, we shed a few more tears.

The next morning Ari keeps his word. The rest of the bottles are donated to Manouri’s Easter Raffle, all except one. The Johnny Walker Silver Label Arrack that I had seen in one place before and had abstained from tasting. I find it while stumbling to the toilet at 4 a.m., slip it into my bag, and go back to sleep. This is one of those many drunken stupidities that I may choose not to remember.

What would I do? Ask for an autograph? Present him with my book? Ask him what he thinks of the current side? Ask him if he ever won Shirali back? Ask if the stories about kadale and South Africa were true?

If I am fortunate to ever meet him, the only thing I would want to do is shake his hand, bow my head, and say, ‘Thank you.’

The day after the Emerson game the
Island
publishes a record of criminals who had been deported to Australia in the last century. Each has an unfamiliar first name, but a famous last one.

The article is written by my good friend T.M.K. Clementine and titled ‘Cheating is in Australia’s Blood’. I find it quite amusing, but Ari does not.

‘Wije, sometimes I am ashamed to be a Lankan. As if our ancestors were any better.’

‘It’s a joke, Uncle.’

‘What is a joke is that they are now changing the rules to accommodate the bending of the elbow.’

‘Exactly, Putha. They have scientifically proven that even the McDermotts and the Reiffels bend. If 5 degrees is illegal, everyone is illegal.’

‘How can you change a rule book because of one bowler?’

‘If you can’t change rules, Lillee will still be using the aluminium bat.’

‘That’s completely different, Wije.’

‘Anyway, the whites have been writing the rules for centuries. It’s time we added ours.’

‘But not like this.’

‘Everywhere else you are innocent till proven guilty. Murali shouldn’t have to prove his innocence. ICC should prove his guilt.’

Ari grunts and walks out with his newspaper. Unlike Ranatunga, he does not stop at the boundary.

The
Sunday Observer
reruns the ad. Don’t ask me why, I haven’t paid them a red cent extra. It is a mistake, a bank error in my favour, proof perhaps that the tide is turning. Almost two years after I stopped running it, it appears out of nowhere and I get a further barrage of calls.

Most respondents tell me about the Asgiriya test or about the Sharjah performance or about how he won Bloomfield the Cup in ’93. I mention names like Kuga, Newton and Shirali and get no reaction. I tell most of them that they do not have any information that I am willing to pay for, but they are welcome to drop in at my house for a tea and a chat. That usually scares them off.

With Reggie Ranwala, I agree to travel all the way to Panadura at my expense. That is not because he remembers me winning Ceylon Sportswriter of the Year four times. I tell him it was twice, but he insists it was four times. Not because of this, but because of one thing he says just as I am about to cut the line. ‘Mr Karunasena. I don’t know where Pradeep Mathew is. But I can tell you how he took NZ$278,000 from Sri Lanka cricket.’

Craig Turner took over the captaincy from Martin Crowe in the mid-90s. Crowe was New Zealand’s greatest batsman. He would have stood toe to toe with any of the Laras or Tendulkars of his era, had he not been painted by his country’s media as a ‘tall poppy’ and a ‘tortured genius’.

Crowe was an Aucklander who drank fine wine in fine restaurants with his fine wife and appeared in women’s magazines modelling Armani. Despite his batting prowess and leading New Zealand’s Young Guns to an unlikely World Cup semi-final in 1992, he fell out of favour with management and the public and was replaced by that lad of lads, Craig Turner.

Perhaps aware of his journeyman talents, and that his scruffy hair and hook nose were unlikely to win him Armani contracts, Turner famously said in a press conference, ‘Crowe is a wine-and-cheese man, I’m more of a beer-and-pie man.’ The press were pleased to see a good ole Kiwi bloke at the helm of New Zealand sport. Many were sick of those poofs from Auckland.

Turner was captain when Sri Lanka toured in 1995. He led the sledging against the tourists and was so flabbergasted at Murali’s action that he mimicked it on the field to the roar of the crowd.

Early on in the tour, Turner hurled the ball at shaky opener Duleep Samaraweera who, well in his crease, leapt in the air to avoid it. The ball hit the stumps, TV replays revealing that both Samaraweera’s feet were off the ground and that therefore, technically, he was out. Sri Lankan supporters, expecting Turner to call back the batsman, booed and hooted when he didn’t.

The one-day series went to New Zealand, who won the first two games. At Eden Park, in the last game of the tour, with Sri Lanka in command, Turner came out to bat. The first ball from Gamage he defended. Aravinda de Silva raced in from cover and hurled it at Turner’s chest.

‘I was there when Pradeep suggested it to the seniors,’ says Reggie, pouring me a lager. ‘They all thought it was a great idea. Even the Captain.’

An over later, Turner pushed out to mid-off, where Pushpakumara sped in and threw the ball at Turner’s head. Beer-and-pie language followed and even though Turner managed to get 30, he never got away from the hurl of missiles, each done with a massive grin, much to the crowd’s delight and the Kiwi captain’s chagrin.

‘Pradeep said he would personally give his gratuity cheque to whoever ran out Turner that way. Pukka fellow, no?’

Mathew didn’t play on that tour, not even a practice game. The series was not only Sri Lanka’s first victorious overseas tour, it was also Pradeep Mathew’s last public appearance.

‘1996 was luck. We beat crap teams like Zimbabwe, Kenya and England, then beat India and the Aussies. We avoided the in-form teams. Most of our games were at home. We have never been able to string together six consecutive wins outside of Sri Lanka, either before or since.’

I advise Ari not to voice that in public. He might get buriyani shoved into his eyes.

Rules are many things, but arbiters of fairness they are not. At most they provide a little shape, dispense a little meaning, and put a young boy in Karachi and an old man in Wollongong on the same page.

Rules separate Rugby Union from Rugby League from American football. In my opinion, only one of them is worth staying up for. Hint: not the ones that use shoulder pads.

Rules are responsible for why some racket sports draw crowds and others draw yawns. Follow this logic:

The very design of a game establishes opportunities for drama. A tiebreaker, the racket sport’s devil dance of one-upmanship, occurs once in a set of TT (at the end), but may occur several times in a game of tennis. In badminton, it can potentially occur with every point.

Rules explain why TT is considered boring; tennis, entertaining; and badminton, tedious. It has nothing to do with ping-pong vs ball vs shuttle.

Rules explain why Andre Agassi dates supermodels. Rules explain why World Badminton Champion Peter Rasmussen and World TT Champion Jan-Ove Waldner do not have perfumes named after them.