Schumacher plays second fiddle

Sarandeep Singh charged to the boundary whooping and hollering like a man who'd eaten a particularly spicy Mexican curry. The large crowd let out a collective sigh before rising to their feet for the obligatory standing ovation. The man himself doffed the bat in cursory fashion in the direction of the most fervent support. And then he disappeared out of view with 88 runs to his name.

It wasn't the most accomplished innings he'd ever played - not even close, but miscues and edges mattered little to the assembled throng, who acted as baseball fans of the past had done when granted an intimate audience with Babe Ruth or Joe DiMaggio. Mind you, neither was ever revered quite like Sachin Tendulkar has been, ever since his debut back in the mists of the 1980s.

After three days when the crowd was scarcely bigger than the three-men-and-a-dog variety, Bangalore's sporting public redeemed itself by packing themselves into the stands on three sides of the Chinnaswamy Stadium - the serpentine queues outside the ground after lunch, and the rush for parking spaces had indicated as much earlier.

India's pub capital may follow Formula One with a passion, but even the prospect of a Michael Schumacher Juan Pablo Montoya duel at Monza couldn't deter most from catching a glimpse, or more, of Tendulkar, even if some came attired in their Ferrari caps and T-shirts.

After the bellowed welcome when he walked out to bat, centre stage was briefly stolen by a stray dog, who sauntered right across the pitch without so much as a warning from the bemused umpire. Exit canine, enter the master. Amit Bhandari bowled well for five overs, but he clearly hadn't read the Ten Commandments on where to bowl to Tendulkar. The first commandment goes something like this: Thou shall not pitch short and wide. When Bhandari sinned, more than once, the ball streaked to the point fence with a "thank you, most kind" plastered to it.

By that stage, the dull thump of noise had been upped to a crescendo. This may be Dravid, Kumble and Srinath country, but wherever he goes in India, Tendulkar remains first among unequals. Heck, there was even someone half-leaning into the press box, waving a placard that said he was 8,000-odd days older than Sachin. The significance of that stat might stump even Bill Frindall.

While Tendulkar was the apple of each spectator's eye for the two hours he spent in the middle, Sadanand Viswanath paid a visit to the media enclosure. The Challenger final also doubled up as his benefit game, and though he's a good deal tubbier and puffy-cheeked than the twinkle-handed youngster with a Caruso shriek who so impressed at the World Championship of Cricket in 1985, there was no mistaking his enthusiasm for the game.

Immaculately attired in a suit, he spent some time catching up with old friends in the media. But on occasion, when his gaze strayed to the middle, you detected a hint of longing in the eyes. His career, like Paul Gascoigne's in football, will forever be a reminder that there are no dead certs in sport. Tales of what might have been invariably outnumber the success stories. For every Tendulkar, there are ten like Viswanath, their path to glory obstructed by indiscipline and personal tragedies. And they weren't all daft as a brush like Gazza either.