Wankhede that night was a cauldron of emotions. A swirling cocktail of anticipation, excitement, and sheer euphoria bubbled over as the evening unfolded
Fireworks erupt following the 2011 ICC Cricket World Cup final between India and Sri Lanka (Photo: AFP)
MS Dhoni, in his signature nonchalance, charges out to Lasith Malinga and whips a powerful flick to square-leg boundary. Wankhede roars, leaving even the security guards bouncing like overzealous fans. Dhoni repeats the script in Malinga's next ball, another boundary, same effortless grace. A dot ball and two runs follow, almost as if 'Captain Cool' wanted to give us a moment to breathe. By this point, the duo - Dhoni and Yuvraj Singh, had the crowd eating out of the palm of their hands.
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Next over followed, Nuwan Kulasakera’s wide delivery outside off stump is delicately caressed to point for a single by Singh, much to Kulasekara's visible dismay, magnified on the giant screen for all to see. But the pièce de résistance arrives with Kulasekara's next delivery. A full one, begging for mercy, and Dhoni obliges - by launching it over long-on with an artistry that cannot be defined in words. The ball soars, the crowd roars. At that moment, the noise isn’t just heard - it’s felt in your very bones.
Wankhede that night was a cauldron of emotions. A swirling cocktail of anticipation, excitement, and sheer euphoria bubbled over as the evening unfolded. The crowd, like a well-rehearsed choir of chaos, belted out chants of ‘Jeetega bhai jeetega, India jeetega’ and the ever-iconic ‘Sachin, Sachin’, shaking the very foundation of the stands.
As someone who swears by the charm of Eden Gardens - having spent countless afternoons marveling at its boisterous, cricket-mad crowd - I will admit I walked into Wankhede with a touch of Kolkata snobbery. But the moment I stepped in, I was absolutely floored. Every milestone was met with a fervour that bordered on hysterical. Boundaries were greeted like divine blessings, sixes like the second coming of cricketing gods. It wasn’t just a celebration, it was a collective delirium, the kind of uproar that could probably register on a seismograph. Wankhede, you magnificent beast, you’ve got a way of stealing hearts and eardrums.
How must it have felt to be a Sri Lankan fan in those towering columns of blue that evening, the teenager in me sometimes wondered. ‘They had no choice but to blend in with us, that is how thoroughly India dismantled them that night,’ my Dad would then tell me. And that is cricket for me - equal parts theatre, triumph, and occasional tragedy for the ‘other’ side.
It is the kind of sport that doesn’t just hand out victories, it orchestrates moments of sweet domination disguised as art. And for better or worse, it is the reason I’ll forever be drawn to this maddening, magnificent spectacle.
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