Girls Evening Out at the T20 Finals
Sushmita Bose -
Sunday, June 28, 2009 2:48 PM
I have a simple theory about supporting a team when a football or a cricket match is going on: I always root for the best-looking side in the tournament. If it's the full line-up in cricket, then I invariably veer towards New Zealand (Daniel Vettori takes the cherry on the cake), and I am deeply saddened if they happen to make an early exit. This time, the Twenty20 ICC World Cup almost eluded me: my TV, given to me as part of my ‘furnishings' in my apartment, does not beam any of the international sports channels. I'd occasionally see -- and hear -- some folks in office whoop and then go tsk tsk, and I when I asked them what was going on, I was told it was the T20 tourney.
India, I heard, couldn't make it to the semis.
And a few days later, I heard that Pakistan and Sri Lanka had made their ways into the finals.
It was Maria's last day in Dubai last Tuesday. Last Sunday was the finals. "I want to watch the match," she announced grandly. "And I want YOU to watch it with me. What's more, you'll have to support Pakistan."
I am always game for a girlie evening out, but I produced my theory on good-looking sides. She didn't buy it. "Hey, this is Pakistan vs Sri Lanka -- I don't think you'll get see Greek gods in any case, so you may as well give me company."
We decided to go to a sports bar. One of the sports bars next to our apartments apparently has a TV attached to every table, but we pitched for the old faithful - The Old Vic at the Ramada, also shouting distance from our nook. There was a giant screen put up, and a few smaller ones all over the place. When we walked in, Sri Lanka was already batting. "Look at Sangakkara," I said excitedly. "I think he's very hot, I'm supporting Sri Lanka."
"He's not," Maria countered. "Look at his nose, it's too long."
"It's not too long, it's fine, it's better than Umer Gull's nose," I maintained stubbornly. "Er, two women in a bar alone, do you think people here may think we are, you know..."
"Doesn't matter," Maria reasoned. "See," she pointed around, "there are mostly Pakistanis here and, right now, they are far too excited by the cricket... God, if Pakistan wins, everyone will be so happy, it'll be one good thing to happen to us after a long time -- you better start cheering for us."
Groups of Brits and Aussies occupied a few other tables but they were keen on drinking intently and appeared rather disinterested in the goings-on on-field - and onscreen. I ordered a Bacardi Breezer and cocktail samosas; Maria had a bad throat, so she wanted only warm water. "By the way," she added huskily, "my sister's also coming here to hustle you into supporting Pakistan."
Her sister walked in 15 minutes later, and kept adjusting her hair and looking at herself in the mirror. "Is Pakistan wicket-keeping?" she suddenly asked. "It's called fielding, you dodo, not wicket-keeping," Maria snarled. "Oh whatever," her sister said. One more patting of the hair. One more look stolen into the mirror. "A guy I really like at work is also here, he's sitting at the other end," she whispered into my ear. "I've come here just for him." And then, loudly: "Do I look pretty?" "Awful," said Maria, "the poor chap will run for his life... anyways, he's not interested in you."
"You look REALLY nice," I offered. "Shall we go and look him up?"
She and I went to the other side of the L-shaped bar, and she pointed out a man sitting with some 10 other people in a dark corner, nursing a large whisky on the rocks. "Do you think he's hot?" she wanted to know. "Ummm, you are better by far," I said. "I really like you Sushmita," she beamed. "Once Maria goes, you and I can be friends."
Maria glared at the two of us when we returned after our sightseeing. "Are you here to watch cricket or lech at men?"
"Both," both of us said.
The match, it seemed, was going Pakistan's way. I tried to clap once when a SL bowler (I forget who) got a Pakistani batsman out, and at least 30 people turned and stared at me. I squirmed in embarrassment. The two ladies sitting with me burst out laughing, even as one of them tried to steal yet another look into the mirror.
As Pakistan won, shouts of ‘Pakistan zindabad' erupted, and a lot of people enthusiastically hugged each other. One very drunk -- and very happy -- gentleman staggered over to us. "I have ordered a cake -- in my team's honour -- and you ladies will not go anywhere without having a slice of that. Also, I want you all to order a round of drinks -- it's on me." Having said that, he raised his voice and shouted: "EVERYONE IN THIS BAR... THE NEXT ROUND OF DRINKS IS ON ME."
"I think I'll tell him you are Indian, he'll retract his offer about the cake and the drink," Maria joked.
"Don't you dare, the cake looks really yummy," I said. It was, even though someone spilled a glass beer onto it.
A solitary Indian gent (other than me, that is) skulked away. I have a feeling he was rooting for Sri Lanka but couldn't be very vociferous about it since he knew he'd be outnumbered. We skulked away too, after gorging on fat slices of the black forest cherry cake. "Let's scram before the drunk man starts insisting he wants to pay for our drinks," Maria's sister had hissed. "I have a feeling he'll want our numbers."
"She just wants to leave because the guy she's after just left -- she's hoping to ‘accidentally' bump into him in the lobby," Maria snorted. "She's so pathetic, isn't she?" Well, we did 'see' the man in question, but he seemed to scurry away a tad too furiously. "There I told you so," Maria was triumphant.
"The man is such a creep," her sister fumed. "I don't know why I like him still. Maybe he has a gilrfriend. Sush, tell me na, am I better than him or not?"
"Far better," I said. "You'll get a really hot man, don't worry."
"Yes! Yes!" she pranced around on the road, while Maria rolled her eyes up.
We walked back home, laughing and giggling. It was a great evening.