I was always the odd-job guy. Did a bit of everything - tech, writing, camerawork, and even arranging indoor cricket at office. On late-nighters and weekends, I transformed our office cubicles to fielding positions, and my team-lead would practice a few catches. The wireless keyboard became a bat, two files mounted on each other were the stumps, and fielders were found in the form of plants, printers and desks.

We were about eight of us, and most were into their late 20s or early 30s. I was the youngest, the kiddo. I was also the most passionate about the game. But at that moment in office, in the middle of the night, we were kids again. And we loved cricket, more than anything else that ever mattered.

So when I got an opportunity to accompany a freelance journalist to do a bit of camerawork for TV9, I jumped. It was the first time with the media, and here I was at the Zayed Cricket Stadium in Abu Dhabi for the DLF cup, plugging in my laptop, setting up the wireless connection. I was in awe of the surroundings - wherever I looked, there were pros. The CricInfo commentators, folks from Times of India, the Star TV cameramen. I was understandably nervous.

I thought I’d take a leak and rushed to the restrooms. A few seconds later, a firang walked in, talking on the phone. Where have you been, Sanjay? Oh, alright, that’ll be fine. I didn’t need to look up to know how it was. Deano was a feet away, taking a leak too. Ali Zaffar, the Pakistani popstar, was running his hands through his hair, looking at himself in the mirror. This was the friendship cup - loads of goodwill on the cards.

We had the press badges for just a day, and were more than keen to make the most of it. We took off, interviewing fans and celebrities alike. I did a few bites as well - and a memorable special thirty-second moment I compiled with kids from a school, where they all quoted their favourite cricketer, one after the other. Dhoni, by then, had infected their hearts.

And there was this gorgeous Indian girl, her face glowing in the tri-colour. There’s something about women and patriotism when they go tother. We spoke to her, and she could only say ‘marry me Yuvraj’. I did mention to her that Yuvraj Singh, at that time, was going out with Kim Sharma. I was, of course, fishing more than reporting or spreading awareness.

India lost that match, but for me, it was more than successful. It rekindled dreams of journalism, and more importantly, it made me happy - happier like I’ve never been before. Out there, on the turf, as the cameras flashed and the players and officials scrambled to bring some order to the chaos, I could’ve sworn I belonged there. I was clicking away too, furiously, while shooting enough videos to fill a hard disk or two. We rushed, as we did earlier, clipped the video, tuned the audio, and uploaded it on the remote server.

I also made my way into the press-conference. I popped the same question to Rahul and Inzy, then the captains. ‘Do you think this friendship idea really works, or is it a way of fabricating goodwill at the surface for the people?’. Later, I was told it was a bold question - I still hadn’t been injected with the fright and sensibility of knowing what to ask. Inzy replied very dryly, suggesting that the sport is the one thing that could bridge the gap between the countries. Rahul was diplomatic - he reiterated the focus on the team while disarmingly drifting away from the questions.

Those two never made it to the crowd. They never knew what it was like to grow up as an Indian among Pakistanis, and support your team with a thousand others. They had no idea of how the fans resorted to religion - screaming Ganapati Bappa Morya or La-ilaaha-illAllah at will, in the stands. There was as much goodwill in the stands as there would be on a battlefield. In retrospect, I’m glad they shied away from the question. Atleast they didn’t lie.

I walked out with the other reporters, wishing real bad if I could pop in the next day too, for the second match. A european woman - mid 30s - walked up to me and complimented the questioned I popped. She asked me who I worked for. I didn’t know what to reply, so I just shrugged and pointed at the badge. “I’m a freelancer.”

“Oh? That’s good. Well, see you tomorrow.”

“I don’t think I would be around tomorrow.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“I had the pass for today only. I’m not covering it tomorrow.” I tried to make it sound like I was busy the next day.

“What? But what if you get some time tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Here, give me your badge.”

She stamped it for the next day as well. “If you find time, do drop in.”

I waved goodbye, and as I looked back at her, those pair of foreign eyes had just one thing to say - “I know how much you love this game”. She had seen through me. She knew, for sure, that I wasn’t a reporter. I was just another Indian fan in the ocean.

You can all bet your rear that I was there the next day.

I had cursed the media hype earlier, and I still do, but I came across a few genuine journalists whose life’s objectives were simple: bring the game to the country. They slogged it out there, running around with their cameras and mikes, enjoying the fact that they were bringing those pictures live to a billion people around the world. On that day, I also realised the power of the media. I could walk in, wherever I wanted, through any commando or security-check, and I wouldn’t be questioned.

And then, I realised, how the country had succumbed to this power. And it continues to. And it will.

Here are a few personal shots I managed from my point-and-shoot around the stands and on the turf.