‘Football’ is perhaps the word that was most in circulation ever since the FIFA World Cup started – be it in the lift, park, shop, or even after our Vedic chant. Unfortunately, like the ‘red-eye flight’, as they are called for flying late nights, watching football too became a red-eye activity because mostly it started at 12.30 am. Thus, we watched only the match between Brazil and Japan which started at 10.30. But we felt a void every time we read the hype in next morning’s newspaper. Oh my God, we missed it. So, we decided, come what may, we will watch the final.
First the strategy to stay awake till 12.30. We completed the movie that we had seen half. It was 10.30. We watched India chase England’s formidable score of 387 in the 3rd and decisive ODI match. The going was good till Rohit Sharma was at the crease. He got out; our hopes shattered and thought we would as well hit the bed, because it was just 11.10 pm – and 12.30 was way off.
I woke up at midnight; it was 1.33 am. I thought I would walk stealthily to the living room and watch the football final, keeping the volume low. But alas, hardly had I readied myself when the lady of the house got up too and asked the time. Suddenly she jumped out of the bed and asked, “Shall we then watch the rest of the World Cup final?” We watched the second half. The score then was 0 – 0.
The match was one-sided with Spain dominating. Earlier, newspapers had rated the winning chances of Argentina at 70%. Messi was waiting in vain in Spain’s court hoping that his teammates would pass the ball, for him to shoot it to the opponent’s goal post in a jiffy. Not that day. The ball was all the time in Argentina’s court. Messi was looking aghast. One felt he was making a guest appearance. Argentina’s goal-keeper did an outstanding job. He saved many and missed only one goal. The score could otherwise have been 3 or 4 goals. As for Spain, their indomitable spirit, outstanding passing of the ball - all deserved praise.
Watching football and cricket took me to my own village days. We teens of the village would walk up to Ramu Anna’s house at the fag-end of the village. He would fill air in the football. He had a cycle pump. We would play in the Ammu fields, a patch that had been left uncultivated in the paddy field. At the end of the game, fully thirsty we would rush to our tiller’s thatched cottage and drink water from the pitcher that was in his front yard. We dared not tell this to our parents. Sometimes in a moment of weakness I would whisper it into my mother’s ears. On way back home whosoever had an Anna or two in his pocket would volunteer to buy peanuts and share with all.
As for cricket, for bat we had one made out of the ‘stem’ that holds the leaves in the coconut tree. Balan would bring what was once a tennis ball. We had a set of what would pass for ‘wickets’ from branches cut from trees. Regardless, our team was fairly good – at least a shade better than our neighbouring village Puthur team. Inhabited by fairly well-to-do families, their team had a good cricket kit. We would invite them in what broken English we were capable of then. “We wish to play a cricket match with you, with your ball, with your bat, and in your ground. Ball go, no ball.” The last sentence meant that in case the ball was lost in the adjacent paddy fields while hitting hard, we will not replace it. And they would readily agree. If my memory serves me right, in about eight games we played, we won roughly five.
I did umpire-duty as well couple of times. Truth be told, I favoured my team in the decisions once or twice. Later when we boys met at the village pond for bathing, some from the opposing team would hail me, ‘hello impartial umpire”.
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