Kids, don’t take up sport. Take up baking or something. Die at 60, really fat and happy.

Jimmy Neesham’s tweet after the last World Cup final sums up the emotion of 1.3 billion Indians.

Grown men crying on national television, knocking off the bails in frustration, professional athletes throwing tantrums on the field.

Sport will make you feel things you never knew you had the capacity to feel.

It will lift you up on a gloomy day only to break your heart and throw you back into a deeper, darker pit.

Today, we mourn for India’s loss.

A loss after an unprecedented domination, when domination isn’t usually what we see associated with our name.

Life ain’t easy for many of us, but when those eleven men took the field clothed in India blue, we cheered and roared and kept our hearts in the palm of our hands for them.

Life ain’t easy, but the Indian Cricket Team made us forget that for a while.

I’ve adored sport and stories all my life because they provide an escape from reality and all the chaos reality brings with it.

But what to do when one of them betrays you?

You rely on the other.

So stories must be written, and legends must be told.

Eventually, yes, but not today.

First, we mourn and cry out all our tears. Stop to take a breath and then cry a little more.

We are the descendants of great poets and artists, and as they taught us, The Show Must Go On.

So when tomorrow arrives, we pick our bats back up, put our heads down, borrow a little courage, and start the grind all over again.