22 years on, the pain of Johannesburg still lingers– a fan’s memory of hope, heartbreak, and recovery.
I was a cricket-crazy child in 2003 The kind that knew all the stats, who resembled every gamer’s bowling action, who transformed a broomstick right into a bat and the terrace into Eden Gardens. That year, cricket had not been just a game– it was every little thing. And the Indian group, led by our really own Dada, had come to be the heartbeat of a billion dreams.
India’s journey to the last was something out of a flick. We had begun the World Mug project unconvincingly– scratching past the Netherlands and afterwards taking a discoloration defeat from the really team we would certainly wind up facing again in the final: Australia. But something clicked afterwards. It was as if the group had actually been shaken awake. From there, Ganguly’s guys played like warriors– video game after game, triumph after victory. Defeating teams like Pakistan, New Zealand, Kenya, and England with grit and flair.
Our teamed believe. I believed.
Every Indian family that March felt the pulse of something special. We weren’t simply watching cricket; we became part of a cumulative dream.
And then came March 23, 2003– the last at the Wanderers in Johannesburg. I.