He carried a list.
Sachin Tendulkar – who remembers every innings he’s played, who can tell you the field placement on a delivery from 1996 – carried a piece of paper to his own farewell because he was afraid he’d forget someone to thank.
That’s the part that broke me.
The speech itself was what you’d expect and nothing like what you’d expect. He started with his father, who told an eleven-year-old to chase his dreams without shortcuts. He thanked his mother for every prayer. He thanked Achrekar sir, his childhood coach – the man who never once told him “well played.” Not once. Because he was afraid the boy would stop improving.
Never said well played. To Sachin Tendulkar.
He thanked his brother Ajit, who sacrificed his own cricket career for Sachin’s, and who – the night before the final match – had called to discuss Sachin’s dismissal. Knowing there was a remote chance of batting again. Because that’s the habit they’d built over twenty-four years. Even last night.
The crowd kept interrupting. Not with noise – with “Sachin, Sachin.” That chant that’s been following him around for twenty-four years, in every stadium, in every country. He said it would reverberate in his ears till he stopped breathing. He’d pause, they’d chant, he’d try to continue, his voice would crack. A man who faced Shoaib Akhtar at 160 kph without blinking couldn’t get through a thank-you speech.
He thanked the physios, the trainers, the support staff – the people who put his body back together every time it broke so he could walk out and bat again. He thanked his wife for taking on everything at home so he could take on everything on the field. He thanked his children and told them the next sixteen years belong to them.
Then the chant started again and he stood there, in the middle of Wankhede, trying to hold it together, and you could see him realize it was actually over.
I watched it live. I don’t think I blinked for twenty minutes.