They say you can judge a man's legend by the quality of myths that
surround him. By that measure itself, Dhyan Chand was an extraordinary man.
They took apart his stick in Holland to see
if there was a magnet inside. The Japanese concluded that he used some sort of
glue to trap the ball to his stick. German dictator Adolf Hitler offered Dhyan
Chand the position of a Colonel in the German army. A Vienna sports club has a statue of Dhyan Chand with four arms holding four hockey sticks!
One thing strikes you -
they never said this about any other hockey player, did they? Whenever a tale journeys through time,
exaggeration inadvertently rides along. Dhyan Chand had no reams of literature to record his brilliance, no highlight
film for us to gasp at. How come then this reverence has come to rest?
We are told that at penalty corners he
would stop the ball with his own hand, then rise and strike it with a smooth swiftness.
We are told that in his 50s, Dhyan Chand would shame Indian goalkeepers
in practice by dropping the ball and then on the half volley drive into the corner of the
net. The grey-bearded Gurbux Singh, breathless, talks about how even in 1959, way past his best,
no man at the Indian camp could win the ball in a bully-off with him.
You had to wonder, did the poets come to watch him play, and
did the playwrights come to watch him play, for he was drama personfied.
We see his magnificence not just in the three Olympic gold medals (1928 Amsterdam, 1932 Los Angeles, 1936
Berlin), but in his goals. Two statistics stand out.
In 1932 India scored 338 goals in 37
matches, 133 being his contribution. In 1947 he accompanied a young team to East Africa
(no Dhyan Chand, no team, said the invitation) and Dhyan Chand, 42 and semi-retired, was the second
highest scorer with 61 goals in 22 games.
As Keshav Dutt, Olympic gold medallist, reminiscences, "His real
talent lay above his shoulders. His was easily the hockey brain of the century. He could
see a field the way a chess player sees the board. He knew where his teammates were, and
more importantly where his opponents were - without looking. It was almost psychic."
Remember Maradona in the 1986 World Cup final, swivelling blind to send the ball 30 yards
or so for Buruchaga to score the winning goal. To not see but to know, to figure the
geometry of a field with a blindfold on, that is an idea of a player's completeness.
When Dhyan Chand passed to you, you did not
want to miss. On that 1947 tour to East Africa, he put through a wondrous ball to
K. D. Singh 'Babu', then turned his back and walked away. When Babu later asked the reason for this odd
behaviour, he was told, "If you could not get a goal from that pass, you did not deserve to be on my team."
Dhyan Chand was to hockey what Pele was to soccer, Jack Nicklaus to golf, Muhammad Ali to boxing and Don Bradman to cricket.
When he fell ill with liver cancer, and came to Delhi's All India Institute of
Medical Sciences for treatment, they dumped him in the general ward. A journalist's article eventually
got him moved to a special room, but the fact that public memory had to be jogged tells its own story.
In Jhansi they had a funeral, not in the ghat, but on the beloved ground that he played on. Players
came, but it seemed a little too late. It made it hard to forget the first few words of
his autobiography 'The Goal': "You are doubtless aware that I am a common man." Dhyan Chand wasn't, but he died like one.
The Government of India issued a stamp in honour of this Hockey Wizard in 1980.