I remember being nervous as hell a few years ago, when I had the chance to moderate a session on Hyderabad football in my hometown. Since I had been on stage with (the late) Novy Kapadia several times before, I realised that it was the other gentleman who made more butterflies flutter in my stomach that evening.
After all, he was the first journalist from Hyderabad who specialised in sports reporting. He had produced a delightful series on footballers from the twin cities and SA Rahim, the legendary coach, for Sport & Pastime, the weekly magazine brought out by the publishers of The Hindu daily. It remains the most authentic piece of work, and a reference point for researchers on Indian football.
Besides, some have called him the father of Sports Journalism in the state of Andhra Pradesh. And he was the Founder-President of the Andhra Pradesh Sports Journalists Association. With colleagues like Mr RU Dixit, Mr TN Pillay and Mr Ata-ur-Rahman, he forged it long before the Sports Journalists Federation of India was formed in 1976.
Above all, the nervousness stemmed from the gentleman in question being my father, Mr N Ganesan. Born to a migrant from the Thanjavur delta, who rose to be a conscientious Post Master in Hyderabad, my father had short stints with New Era and Deccan Chronicle, before he joined The Hindu in 1953. He worked there till his retirement 34 years later.
He started reporting even as a student in the prestigious Nizam’s College, where he won prizes in essay writing and debating contests. Only a couple of days ago, as we were driving past the Hakimpet Air Force Station on the outskirts of the twin cities, he recalled riding a bicycle all the way there to cover Sardar Patel’s arrival in Hyderabad ahead of Police Action in September 1948.
As a sports writer, some of his best work appeared in Sport & Pastime. He was known for the series of articles on Hyderabad football and for helping Ghaus Mohammed, the tennis legend who was the first Indian to reach the men’s singles quarterfinals in the All-England Tennis Championships in Wimbledon, with his series on Indian tennis.
My father recalls reporting on the Rangaswamy Cup National Hockey Championships in Bhopal in March 1962. An interview with the legendary Dhyan Chand earned him praise from SK Gurunathan, the Sports Editor. Such messages, which came over the teleprinter from Madras to Hyderabad, were treasures to cherish. I can see his eyes gleam when he now shows a scanned copy of that message.
He recalls reporting that the legendary Dara Singh’s freestyle wrestling bouts were stage-managed, with microphones hidden beneath the elevated ring to amplify thuds and screams. He called out the blatant cheating of fans, who believed that the Indian was beating the daylights out of King Kong and others. It led to reports in other cities, and the Great Indian Wrestling Tour winding up.
My father was also the Hyderabad Cricket Association’s Honorary Joint Secretary from 1957 to 1964, and played no mean role in the revival of the Moin-ud-Dowla Gold Cup tournament in 1962. He was the first from Hyderabad to qualify as a first-class umpire and would have stood in more than four Ranji Trophy matches had his employers allowed the BCCI to make greater use of his services.
Having worn a non-partisan hat thus far, I believe I have mustered enough courage to bring in a couple of personal learnings from my father. After all, my brothers and I spent our childhood watching a lot of sport and listening to countless conversations with wonderful sportspersons of the time.
We would get to watch homegrown stars like ML Jaisimha and Mir Khasim Ali, T Gopal and Mulini Reddy, SP Mishra and Nasiruddin Ghalib, to name but a few. We were also lucky to be able to witness visiting heroes like Nawab of Pataudi Jr. and Salim Durani, Ajit Wadekar and GR Viswanath, BS Chandrasekhar and Sunil Gavaskar, among countless others.
Also Read: Imran and Sania Mirza – How the Family Shaped India’s Finest Female Tennis Star
Many years later, when I became a reporter, he told me that I should visualise my best friend on the other side of the typewriter. “You are in a privileged place, someone is paying you to watch and write about sport while your friends have to pay to watch,” he said. “Think of the all the questions your best friend who was unable to watch a game may have. Answer them in your report.”
I can never forget a dinner in March 1992. Not so much the food we ate, but the question that he asked me and the impact it had on my approach to journalism.
The Cricket World Cup was on in Australia and New Zealand. The older fans will recall that the tournament has a curious rule regulating rain-hit games, with the target being reduced proportionate to the lowest-scoring overs of the side batting first. The system believed that the team chasing a target was in a better space than the one setting it.
And South Africa, playing their maiden World Cup upon returning to the mainstream only a few months earlier, were at the receiving end of that rule. After several revisions, they discovered that instead of looking to get 22 off seven balls, they had to get 22 of one! The whole world was united in sympathising with South Africa’s strange plight.
“So, how many runs can a batsman score off one ball?” he asked me. Not expecting a googly, I played with a straight bat and answered “Six, but if you consider a drive to wide long-off and an overthrow for four when the batsmen are completing a third run, seven runs could be scored off one ball, perhaps.”
End of conversation. But after dinner was over, he came to my room and picked up a book from the shelf. It was one of Sir Learie Constantine’s amazing works. He flipped through some pages and made me read a passage which described the author getting 29 runs off one ball. It was a lovely story to write for PTI’s feed, but that would have meant eating humble pie.
In the days when Google search was not even thought about, my vanity had been pricked, and I looked high and low before finding a book in the British Library that recorded an instance of 286 runs being scored off one delivery in a club game, with the ball getting stuck in a tree. And I set about writing a report that got good traction the following day.
However, I had learnt that research and a portrayal of facts take precedence over all else in the art of storytelling in the media. It was one of the many lessons that I learnt from my father, without him ever telling me that he was teaching me a new skill or sharpening any I had. Trust me, the learning continues. It is an experience that money cannot buy.
Happy Father’s Day, Appa. And yes, a Happy Birthday, too.
Also Read: My Father’s Son, my Own Person