This week, I set out to write about India’s curious knack for snatching defeat from the jaws of victory—five centuries in a Test and yet, no win in England! But nostalgia got the better of analysis. Especially after remembering the evergreen left-arm spinner, Dileep Doshi. I couldn’t help but slip into memory lane—back to the days when I shared a dressing room, a meal, and the Fateh Maidan Club with some of India’s greatest cricketing legends, all under the U-Foam banner.
Yes, U-Foam—the team that wasn’t technically a Ranji side but played with the intensity, flair, and ambition of one. Sponsored by a polyurethane foam manufacturer (yes, cricket and cushions did make a great pair), we competed in the Moin-ud-Dowlah Gold Cup Tournament. Back in the 1970s, that tournament was no trivial pursuit—it was the gateway to national selection. Do well there, and the selectors took notice. Ironically, that very tournament now risks fading into oblivion, buried under the weight of misgovernance by the Hyderabad Cricket Association.
It was the 1972–77 seasons, the U-Foam team were runner up twice and joint winners with State Bank of India, which had all eleven test players in the team. Our captain? The one and only ML Jaisimha. He didn’t just bat with grace—he lived with grace. Always immaculately turned out, often with a silk scarf draped just so, and a pipe adding the final touch to his vintage charisma. U-Foam never lifted the trophy, but we came achingly close—runners-up twice, and we lost just one of the five matches we played. But to me, the real trophy wasn’t silver. It was gold—golden memories, and the golden company I kept.
I shared the field with men whose names now echo across cricketing folklore—Sunil Gavaskar, Salim Durani, Eknath Solkar, EAS Prasanna, Bhagwat Chandrasekhar, Mohinder Amarnath, and yes, the ever-probing Dilip Doshi. Just warming up next to Prasanna at the nets or picking Gavaskar’s brain between overs felt like gaining entry into a secret society of cricketing genius. I wasn’t even a regular in my own state’s Ranji side or the South Zone squad, but there I was—opening the innings with the ‘Little Master’ himself. For a cricketer like me, that was worth more than a hundred first-class caps. Honestly, it still is.
Doshi was a classic left-arm spinner—hard-working, methodical, and with a bowling action that looked like it had walked straight out of Salim Durani’s textbook. And while imitation might be the sincerest form of flattery, Salim bhai wasn’t always amused. “Yeh Doshi toh chodta hi nahi!” he’d grumble, dragging me to the other side of the ground just to avoid another round of Doshi’s relentless questioning. “Off the field means OFF the field,” he’d say with mock-seriousness.
Durani was a character. Full of wit, and always with a trick up his sleeve—on and off the field. In contrast, Eknath Solkar was more grounded, though after a beer or two, he fancied himself quite the Mohammed Rafi. I must admit, I didn’t do too badly myself. Our duet nights at Fateh Maidan were the stuff of lore—Eknath belting old Hindi tunes while I tried harmonizing between hiccups. Who says all-rounders can’t sing?
Then there was Prasanna, who, in my humble opinion, bowled the first ‘doosra’ long before it became fashionable. He’d insist I observe him at the nets, asking me to count how many balls spun away from the right-hander. “I’m saving this one,” he whispered once, “for the Aussies.” Sure enough, Dug Walters and company struggled to read him in Chepauk. I was no bowler, but the fact that he trusted my eye? That still makes me proud.
Sunil Gavaskar, now there’s a man of mystery. He always insisted on walking to the wicket on the left side of his partner. Never the right. Superstition? Habit? I never asked—who questions the Sunil Manohar Gavaskar? He was reserved, rarely chatting with teammates mid-innings. His compliments were rarer than rain in a Hyderabad summer. If he ever said, “Good shot,” you knew you’d made it. And yes, always a fresh hanky in hand when walking out to bat. A perfectionist, through and through.
Karsan Ghavri brought his own flair to the mix. Stylish to the core—on field and off. I often joked that he spent more time on grooming than warm-ups. Mohinder Amarnath, meanwhile, was the opposite—modest, smiling, and always focused on fitness. The original Iron Man of Indian cricket, long before we had fitness tests and beep scores.
And then there was Jai—our captain. A cricketing mind so sharp, he could read your injury before you reported it. You so much as winced during warm-up, and he’d say, “Take it easy today, I’ll handle the bowling.” We’d laugh later, not because he didn’t mean it, but because he could do it.
Today, I coach kids, still passionate at 79, trying to teach them what these legends taught me—not just technique, but temperament. It’s not every day that a struggling opener gets to rub shoulders with cricketing royalty, be serenaded by Solkar, questioned by Doshi, dodged by Durani, and mentored by Prasanna.
They say you don’t remember the scores, you remember the stories. And mine are filled with legends, laughter, and a locker room that smelled of sweat, spirit, and the odd bottle of beer.
