Boy next door done good

One for the purists: Rahul Dravid reaches his hundred © AFP

For a dispassionate observer at the Motera Stadium, Rahul Dravid's innings of 110 was inextricably tied to the mood of the sparse but belligerently vociferous crowd, even though Dravid himself played through the day with his trademark equanimity and even-headed judgment.

When Dravid walked out to bat, Virender Sehwag had just excited the crowd, thumping three fours and a six and promising more fiery stuff with each flash of the bat. In that context, few could have replaced him to a more contrasting effect. Dravid started slowly, as is usual with him, and the spectators, already fattened on a diet of fast runs, actually started to boo. Only the purists saw and revelled in the marked difference between Dravid's classical, textbook defence and the not-so-orthodox blocking from Akash Chopra at the other end.

Although the situation was far from critical, the spectators soon started to equate the runs drying up with a state of tension. Dravid and Chopra pushed singles where they could, but they were more than content to leave many balls outside their off stump. The atmosphere had palpably changed; a few half-hearted attempts at booing, almost nostalgic in tone, by a small section of the assembly only brought upon themselves even louder boos, this time accompanied by some hissing.

Chopra fell, and while Sachin Tendulkar was at the wicket, Dravid was conveniently forgotten - in fact, every single of his was cheered, for it gave Tendulkar the strike. That period of play allowed Dravid to get deeper into his rhythm, and by the time Tendulkar had been dismissed, he was in the zone, concentration on full, feet moving mercury-light.

As Eden Gardens 2001 testified, Dravid and VVS Laxman bat well together. At their strokemaking best, they are both cast in a similar, elegant mould, and Laxman's freedom seems to rub off on Dravid. The pair batted fluidly today, running well, wristily cadging runs on either side of the wicket even as the spectators slowly started to emerge from a pre-tea stupor.

The final 20-odd overs of play were, considering that the stadium was only one-third occupied, surprisingly electrifying. Every single ball was cheered lustily and accompanied the unmistakable sound of a thousand plastic bottles meeting their deaths on the backs of chairs. Both Dravid and Laxman fed on the energy, progressively becoming more willing to cut the ball outside off or pull the short one on middle and leg. When Dravid cut the four that brought him his century, roars of approval issued from throats parched dry by the Ahmedabad sun. He may never be the spectator's delight for the way he starts an innings, but when, as he so frequently does nowadays, he reaches three figures, all is forgiven, and Dravid is unreservedly the crowd's boy-next-door-done-good, Mr Consistent, everybody's favourite son all over again.