To Sir, With Love … a Large Whiskey and a Cigarette
In 1983, Mr. Vijaya Malalasekera took over the position of Head Coach of Royal College from Mr. Mahes Rodrigo. In keeping with tradition, the first XI Cricket Team was coached by an experienced and well-respected former cricketer. He was ably supported by the affable Dr. Milinda Amarasinghe, and the two complimented each other’s styles and created probably one of the best coaching partnerships Royal has had.
That year, expectations on the team were high as we had a ‘coloursmen’ laden side led by the brilliant Chulaka Amarasinghe and were expected to finally break the 13-year run of draws at the Royal-Thomian.
Mr. M or simply ‘Sir’ as we referred to him, was the youngest coach of recent times, a legend both at Royal College and at Cambridge University and was no stranger to most of us having coached the second XI for a few years prior to this. Known for his firm but fair approach, wit, humor, and knowledge of the game, we immediately established a respectful, but friendly rapport with him.
Practice would start at 3pm, and about an hour later, Mr. M and Dr. Mili could be seen walking in, both with unmistakable gaits, and expelling puffs of smoke from one of their many cigarettes for the day.
As the season wore on and the team got off to a rocking start with 6 straight wins on the trot, the buzz of a Royal-Thomian win became louder, but it didn’t rattle Sir’s style or approach in taking each game with its own merit. His focus was on what we needed to do, to be the best on that day. He wasn’t afraid to make controversial decisions or to ‘shake the tree’ to get the best out of us and that culminated in the team of ’83 living up to their expectations and winning the big match, ending the long string of boring (and not-so-boring) draws.
Match days would be special. He would walk in with his three young boys, Sanjiv, Rajiv and Ashan, who were as much a part of the team as we were. While they livened up the general atmosphere, their main task was to carry messages to the girlfriends of the players who would gather at various corners of the ground on most weekends. And this task they carried out most admirably. While this was all fun and games, what I observed most was how much they adored their father and how his firm, but fair style was reflected in his parenting as well.
My memories of Mr. M are many. One was how he had a station wagon and would open the boot and give a sharp whistle and the three boys (Prashan was still an infant) would shoot into the back of the car to be locked up safely and driven home.
Another was once when Mrs. M decided to walk into practice (at this point, I have to respectfully point out that Mrs. M is an exceptionally good-looking lady) and all the players eyes strayed from Sir, who was giving us a pre-match pep talk. Mr. M didn’t miss a beat, he just said, “take your f****** eyes off my wife and pay attention to me” and continued on his monologue undeterred.
My relationship with Mr. M went beyond that of a coach. I had my share of challenges and Mr. M seemed to know just how to handle me, something most people, including my parents, were struggling with. He didn’t try to discipline me or control me; he always spoke to me kindly and with respect and found ways to quietly, but effectively resolve the issues that cropped up.
One was an allegation that I was sneaking out during match weekend residential camps to go drinking at the Bloomfield bar. This was nothing out the ordinary for most of the team, but I was singled out as a problem by my irate father. Mr. M had a solution. His advice to my father was “I say, Stanley, this boy is going to drink if we like it or not. Why don’t you let it happen under your supervision?” The result was that my father would come with two cold bottles of beer and park outside the college hostel, and I was allowed to go out and drink them in the car. Did this stop me from drinking more? No, but it pacified my father and that was the primary objective (just for the record, the drinking age in Sri Lanka, for those prissy sorts who are scandalized by this revelation, was 18. I was 19).
Another time, I had a ‘melt down’ midway through batting at a game. I’d rather not go into details, but despite Malik Samarasinghe trying hard to pacify me, let’s just say, a lot of ancestry and legitimacy of birth was traced of both the opposing players and the umpires. The game was stopped. Warnings were given and play eventually resumed. Not long after, I was dismissed and still seething, returned to the dressing room to continue my tantrum.
The dressing room was cleared, and once I calmed down, I saw Mr. M, standing quietly, observing me. Once I settled down, he walked up to me and said “How? Have you calmed down now?” I responded with a sheepish “Yes, Sir.” He asked me to go wash my face and come back, and he told me a story from a Jathaka (folk) Tale. The gist of it was ‘if someone offered you a plate of rice, and you refused it, what would happen. That person would be left holding the plate of rice.’
In all honesty, it took me a while to understand what he said, but I eventually did, and it has been a lesson that has stood me well to date.
Another occasion that Mr. M changed my life was mid-way through the season. My batting, although promising, was always derailed by what I will refer to as my regular ‘rushes of blood to the head.’ My average was ‘very average’ and beyond thumping the occasional 6, I was not living up to Sir’s expectations. One evening, during practice, he walks up to me behind the wickets and tells me, “You are opening with Chulaka in the next game.” My immediate reaction was a strong urge to urinate. I looked at him incredulously, and he gave me his usual smirk and walked back to his customary position behind the bowlers’ end stumps.
The evening progressed, and around 5pm I gathered the courage to ask him, “Sir, can I have some practice against the new ball.” He said “Yes. Wait.” Practice was nearing end and I looked towards him again; he looked up at the sky and the fading light and said, pad up. He then went on to have three new balls brought out, and gave it to Chanaka Perera, Chulaka, and Rohantha Jayasuriya, the fastest bowlers we had, and said, “Bouncers, gentlemen. Hit the bugger.” May I remind you these were the days before batters wore helmets. To say I nearly soiled myself would have been fair. I survived the evening by ducking, weaving and falling flat on my ass with Mr. M and Dr. Mili holding onto each other and laughing their ‘asses’ off.
My stint as an opening bat lasted a couple of innings, but it did something amazing to my batting. Once I moved back to my customary ‘late middle order’ position of #8, my scores suddenly came in respectable numbers. Several scores and a match-winning partnership with my partner in crime Rochana Jayawardena followed. I guess in retrospect what I lacked was self-belief. Sir recognized that in me and his way of fixing it was showing his confidence in me by thrusting me into a key batting slot, albeit briefly.
Life went on, I entered the real world, working and starting a family, and I continued to visit my guru whenever I got a chance. The familiar greeting of “I say, young man. What have you been up to now?” We would go to his office room, Sundaram would fix me one of his legendary Scotch’s (usually floored me with one drink) and a cigarette would be offered, which I gratefully took, and we chatted. We chatted about life, work, sport, and if I was ever in ‘a spot of bother’ very soon into the discussion, a solution was found. He was my mentor. He was a man I could call in a crisis and he made things just seem better.
Through it all, I continued to admire and try desperately to (and failed miserably in some areas) emulate his role of a father and husband. I modelled a lot of my parenting on what I learned from him, and I am eternally grateful for his guidance in shaping my own relationship with my two boys.
His sons adored him, as did Mrs. M, and he adored them. When he spoke to me about Sanjiv, Rajiv, Ashan and Prashan’s achievements, he beamed with pride. He loved his family beyond words and wasn’t shy to show it.
My last visit was a day before I went in for a fairly lengthy surgery. Savantha De Saram and I would drop in to see him on and off as we did that morning. Sir was in his chair, smoking a cigarette and was happy to see us. He had a chuckle about me having heart surgery. We had a laugh and I promised to come and see him once I recovered. I left him smiling and wishing me luck.
Sadly, my recovery and a subsequent bout of Covid meant I didn’t get to see ‘Sir’ before he departed. A part of me is happy, that the last memory I have of him was one of humor and good cheer. A part of me is gutted that I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to my hero.
Today, as a pall bearer at Sir’s funeral, I was sad, but I was also full of admiration and love for a man who touched so many lives, who I was fortunate to have had as a coach, a mentor, and a friend. Aunty Niri, Sanjiv, Rajiv, Ashan and Prashan and their families along with so many of us are going to have an unfillable void in our lives. A void left by a giant of a man who not just lived on his terms but died by them as well. A man I was fortunate to call ‘Sir.’ A man without whose influence I wouldn’t be half the man I am today.
Goodbye Sir. I hope the Whiskey is of a good blend and the ice is plenty, and there is an ashtray close by. You will be missed.
