The Death of A Batsman: Upekha Fernando

The news that Upekha Fernando was in hospital and having his leg amputated at the ankle, reverberated on all the WhatsApp groups that had even the fewest Thomians on it. It was then that it struck me what a profound impact he had on all of us who were either his contemporaries, juniors, seniors or old boys young enough to be part of his generation. An impact that – despite STC having had champion rugby teams in the early 90’s – only cricket could have had.

Upekha’s story – of which, admittedly, I know very little – must be put in its historical context. His first Big Match in 1995 was the same year of, but preceded Sri Lanka’s infamous tour to Australia. That tour put Sanath and Kalu on the map and really brought big hitting openers exploiting power plays (or field restrictions, as they were unglamourously known, then) into the public eye. Without the IPL, various ICC championships and money-spinning leagues around the world, cricket was hardly as ubiquitous on television as it now. We watched Sri Lankan cricketers, and if you were an aspiring batsman had Jayasuriya, Kaluwitharana and De Silva as your heroes.

Upekha was all three. He was right-handed, and more conventional, like Kaluwitharana. Devastating square of the wicket, and completely unafraid to loft the ball, like Jayasuriya. And more than anything else, when he was in the middle there was an air of expectation and complete command like Aravinda, when he decided it was on. At schoolboy level Upekha was the Next Big Thing, after the glut of Mahela Jayawardena, Avishka Gunawardhana, Naveed Nawaz and Thilan Samaraweera had moved on from school cricket.

In 1996, some of those big names were still playing, but they were all looking over their shoulder at the stocky, belligerent, right hander at the top of the Thomian order. With one season under his belt and the Royal-Thomian being played simultaneously with the ’96 World Cup, Upekha had plenty of inspiration to draw from, and the Thomians had their own hero. With their last win being way back in 1988 – Upekha a mere 8-and-a-bit years old – STC could dare to dream again. And with the pressure mounting on Warden De Alwis and coach Nihal Kodituwakku to deliver a win, Upekha was always the trump card. And sure enough, 1997 delivered the DS Senanayake Shield to Mt. Lavinia after a 9 year wait. By the time he’d finished, he’d scored the highest aggregate of runs of any batsman in 140 years over 4 years.

The obvious choice for the U-19 National captain in 98/99 Upekha was a shoo-in for the national team. Or so we all thought.

That’s not exactly how it panned out though, and with Upekha moving to SSC at the height of Arjuna’s dominion over the Club, rumour has it that the youngster had to pay the price for the elitism of the so-called upper class Thomians well before his time, and their well-documented condescension to Arjuna when the former World Cup winner was a youngster at the Club. Arjuna – who is himself an exemplary graduate from the School of Hard Knocks – believed in cutting players down to size. And while some respond well to this form of tough love, not everyone profits from the approach. Former Ananda captain, Avishka Gunawardena, the incredibly talented, but somewhat cavalier opener, was also a casualty of the ‘zero tolerance’ discipline policy. Rightly so, some would argue. In terms of fitness, Arjuna adopted a ‘do as I say, and not as I do’ policy, and Upekha – who never really needed to run much against schoolboy bowlers, fell foul of requirements.

Nineteen year old boys usually tend to believe the hype about themselves. Upekha believed – and again, rightly so – that he should be an automatic choice for the national side. But life outside school never really is automatic, and he was not the first, and certainly won’t be the last, sportsman unable to convert schoolboy prodigiousness into lasting performances on the international stage. He played for SSC for 5 years at a time when most of its first choice players were on international duty. He did well, without being spectacular, and hardly banged the selectors’ door down. This was partially due to his lack of fitness, exacerbated by him taking the route from the dressing room to the bar a little too often.

Alcohol is a dangerous drug. It is socially accepted, and in Royal – Thomian circles it’s hailed as the magic potion that provides the indomitable spirit. In the heady days of STC’s dominance of Royal with the two Big Match victories in 97 and 99, the hooch did flow. Old boys would clamour to buy their heroes – ironically, these heroes were still teenage boys – a drink, and the culture is passed on. Alcohol is consumed in bars, genteel ones, with much culture and sophistication oozing from the fermented molasses. It is not consumed in the village thicket by hoodlums, or snorted off a public cistern in a nightclub, or smoked behind the toilets out of sight of teachers and prefects. Alcohol is the drug of choice for most sportspeople, and its influence sometimes fatal to careers.

Many would argue that it is not a crime to buy a youngster a drink. Ah – but it is. Illegal, if not criminal. The legal age to buy alcohol has been raised to 21 in Sri Lanka and in a ‘put to fall’ culture, that’s hardly a human rights violation. So should we have known better than to reward our stars with a bottle? Probably yes. But we are fickle aren’t we, in our hero worship. One moment we are carrying players on our shoulders and hailing them as God’s gift, until the next centurion, or five-for comes along, and we drop the first one. That kind of celebrity is a difficult cross to bear. The pressure to perform, the craving for the adulation of the crowd, the contrasting triumph and disaster of what are – in the grand scheme of life – inconsequential cricket matches can lead to creeping, insidious, mental health issues.

His ‘failure’ as a player to take his rightful place in the Sri Lankan XI, surprised many of us. Cricket was the only career path that a man of his talent was expected to pursue. Especially in its new, post World Cup glamour. The ‘failure’, while surprising the rest of us would have been a gut-punch to the man himself. He knew he was better than being left to languish in the occasional Sri Lanka ‘A’ tour and ply his trade in domestic cricket. Knowing that, would have been difficult. And not having the tools to overcome that difficulty, was probably even more challenging. His first-class career was short lived and by the age of 25 he had given up to play Mercantile cricket for his various employers, at a standard well beneath his abilities. Every time he walked out to face lower division trundlers, he would have taken guard with more than tinge of resentment.

Ultimately, it was an amputation of Upekha’s leg coupled with heart failures that led to his death. The news was met with as much dismay, as his runs were received with joy. Ironically, he died in the week leading up to the Royal-Thomian, 26 years after he first played in the encounter, leaving both Royalists and Thomians shaking their heads at the fragility of life, and tragic waste of a talent. The question then, is what happened in those 26 years before Upekha’s blazing schoolboy career and subsequent capitulation to disease. Although his heart failed him at the last, did his will fail him well before, and are we doing our best to minimise those occurrences?

It’s hard being destined for greatness. And in our own enthusiasm to be associated with that greatness, we don’t often temper expectations with reality. ‘He’s our man’, when the going’s good, but where are we when the the going is not?

Upekha was so revered that not even prefects senior to him would tell him to button his shirt to the top. He always wore it with the top button undone, displaying the gold crucifix on his chest. He may not have been the Universe Boss, but he was as close as a schooboy got within the walls of his alma mater. Even the teachers knew he had one job, and were happy to cut him slack. With hindsight, it’s easy to ask whether such reverence is appropriate for one so young, and whether mental-health issues should have been anticipated. Outside the walls of STC the reverence faded, and boys played with men. This is a difficult adjustment, without a support network, and given that very few Thomians went on to play club cricket, Upekha’s introverted nature off the field would have made the adjustment even more difficult. Too often we build up these larger than life expectations around schoolboy stardom, and then shrug and carry on with barely a glance at the remnants of those shattered expectations. Hundreds carried him on their shoulders when he was scoring centuries and whacking boundaries and winning matches. However, but for a select few friends who reached out in his time of need, the cheering throng was absent at the time he most needed to be carried.

Of his almost 43 years, Upekha played cricket for just over half of them. The years from 1995 – 1999 were the most prolific and celebrated. Yet, they span less than 1/8th of his life. What of the rest? Do we teach kids – for that’s what they are, regardless of their abilities – what to do when the cheering dies down, the crowds have abated and solitude comes calling? Can we navigate the ordinariness of our lives. Are we creating a cauldron atmosphere and treating kids like gladiators? The only difference being that the Emperor’s thumbs-down is slow, inevitable one. Gifted players like Anura Ranasinghe and recently Bandula Warnapura have succumbed in much the same fashion, after facing bitter disappointments at different stages of their careers.

It is difficult to imagine the man who played that imperious off-drive and commanded the SSC with such authority, being reduced to a hospital bed, so early in life. He was a good friend to both those he played with and against. Respect of opponents is always a good marker of character. And as much as we carried him on our shoulders in the good times, we must carry his wife and four children on our collective shoulders as well.

It’s the least we can do for a man who gave us so many runs, and so much joy.