In the late 1950s, Tej Saraf was a budding journalist working with The Statesman in Calcutta.His senior colleague there was Pearson Surita, the famed cricket commentator.Tej, always a joyful lover of the game of cricket, although only a stop-gap man on the field at times with very tiny hands that could barely hold a cricket ball with secure grip, broached the subject of bringing the prestigious Ranji Trophy contest to the backwaters of Jammu and Kashmir.The large-hearted Pearson took up the idea, and Jammu and Kashmir came to be accorded inclusion to the national-level contest.Illustration: Pariplab Chakraborty.At the time when we played our first game – in 1959 – all we knew of cricket was a coir or jute matting, pretty unseasoned Kashmir willow bats, a new cricket ball if and when we got one (almost never in the nets for want of allocations), lots of talent and energy, and often only roasted chick peas in our pockets for nourishment.Playing on mat, most of our prowess in scoring came from bottom-handed, cross-batted shots, since the ball always kept a height on coir or jute.Our star players pulled or cut with gusto, although hook shots were rarely executed with any commendable efficiency because the art of bowling bouncers was still alien.Never having seen or played on a turf wicket, and never having been coached at any stage of our zestful immersion in the game, our left elbows never learnt to bring the bat down straight to confront the line of the ball, making driving in the V a rare sight in any innings.Nor had our bowlers any consistent idea of how to use a new ball to effect with a delivery stride suited to seam or swing , in or out.If such things happened they happened rather as pure circumstances aided by the presence of a floating cloud above the field of play.We had spinners who turned the cherry prodigiously, but without any great sense of strategy or direction, not always knowing how and where to place nine men on either side of the pitch.There were hardly any players in any city level or college/ university level teams who boasted a wicket keeper professional for the job.Improvisations were the order of the day, not always without success, let it be said.Most of our games were one-day engagements, so that hardly ever did our tactics see beyond to a more extended challenge.So imagine for the first time coming face to face with legends of the game that we had often only drooled about from the mountain-ringed confines of our valley, green as its foliage.As part of J&K’s Ranji team over sixty years ago, I had the privilege of rubbing shoulders with some of the finest cricketers of my time.There was the incomparably astute Lala Amarnath (who could look at a first day pitch and prophecy how and when the match would end) with whom I was to toss twice as captain (1961-62);Tiger Pataudi (whom I had the shocking honour to clean bowl once off a ball that chose to cobra back (for no fault of mine) into the stumps as he shaped to cut, never mind that he had already made 52 in some 20 minutes at the crease;Hemu Adhikari, whom I had seen make 63 graceful runs against the fearsome Wesley Hall and Roy Gilchrist in the test match at Kotla in 1959, if memory serves me right;Surendra Nath whose inswing was literally a curve ball that started from the cover region and left the batter underneath his left armpit, in one match crushing my toe unforgettably with a yorker of a vintage that Bhumra may still need to match;the wily Bishan Bedi, whose flight never once let you guess correctly the length of any single delivery;even Dattu Phadkar in one match at the Railway Stadium in Delhi, of whom Polly Umrigar once said had he been allowed some leeway in his delivery stride he would have been the world’s fastest bowler;Budhi Kunderan, who played his first Ranji match against us, having already played test match cricket;Balu Gupte, a more than difficult customer to fathom, and others who were equally proficient although short of test match experience, like the deadly Rajinder Pal.Those were days of course when the game had nothing mercantile about it, and when one hardly thought of taking up cricket as a livelihood prospect.And in that early, nubile phase of Jammu and Kashmir cricket, we got used to headlines in print that called us “minions”, often underscoring the “massacre of the innocents, sometimes kindly noting some runs well made, some wickets well taken, some catches that surprised, and spirits that never once flagged, however the drubbing we got.Speaking for myself, I left the state in 1962 and thus lost touch with Jammu and Kashmir cricket in the subsequent years, to the point that I am unable to name the warriors who have just brought us such glory in the Ranji semi-finals, barring those of the fiery Nabi and the stolid Abdul Samad.But the moot point is that slowly, but thankfully, came the turf wickets, the coaches, the equipment, the patronage, the official will to be counted, and the youth who, transcending local circumstances, harvested such merit for themselves and the place I call home.Two or so generations later, here we are – contenders to win the coveted Ranji Trophy.Those of us still alive from yesteryears feel no less members of our troop than the young players that have so decisively proved their metal, trouncing the high and mighty more than once.We were the foot soldiers who first fell to the bullets on the frontlines; and those that sent us are to be lauded for having built behind us an edifice of prowess that has now brought pride and glory to the beleaguered Union Territory.If one may speculate: should not the territory be now restored to full statehood as a prize for the outstanding Nabi and his compatriots who may well lift the cup that the greatest in the game have lifted before now?And may we not rightfully expect to see a Nabi for a start to be donning the India cap as a true salute to mother India?To Tej Saraf, who, last I know, lies on perpetual dialysis at home let us say “Thanks you, O selfless pioneer; feel good, your dream has come true.”To team Jammu and Kashmir we say “excelsior” and climb the final mile as only we of the hills can.We will applaud you to the echo which will applaud back.Badri Raina taught at Delhi University.This piece was first published on The India Cable – a premium newsletter from The Wire – and has been updated and republished here. To subscribe to The India Cable, click here.