After a less than satisfactory World Cup in 1999, Indian Cricket, at the onset of the new millenium, grappled with the match fixing imbroglio and dampened any hopes of imminent glory. Cricket fans, thus, needed a new motivation to stay tuned to the sports channels.
I was already hitchhiking with Mika Hakkinen, albeit virtually, aboard the coveted Silver Arrows machine. I had to choose from amongst the Pro-Wrestling promotions, the NBA or Lawn Tennis. The MLB and NFL were precluded owing to their not-so-inviting broadcast schedules and the scanty reruns. A tele-tryst, though, affected my selection. The appointed place was the Theatre of Dreams located in the Republic of Mancunia; my date, a ravishingly beautiful game called Football. Spellbound, I had become a denizen of Mancunia before the final whistle. Interestingly, I did not have to renounce my Indian Citizenship - and that well before the GOI proposed the Overseas Indian Citizen option!
Whilst eagerly following the trajectory of the football and its impact on Manchester United's season, I got acquainted with the rules and, as much, with the players. Given the disparate nature of player nationalities, inadvertently, I had begun following the International Football scene.
With Japan and South Korea readying to host the FIFA World Cup of 2002, I was hoping to egg India on at the tournament. My ignorance regards Indian Football was exposed when I learnt of their quelled qualifying campaign. However, Football would still be at the World Cup and I had to tele-trace her. Like every other sport, Football necessitates, at least a hint of, partisanship before one can savor the splendor. The absence of both India and Mancunia meant I would have to adopt a surrogate motherland. Besotted with the English Premier League, I chose to cheer the English. I did celebrate with David Beckham after his successful penalty kick - a goal deemed his atonement - against Argentina when he hurtled toward the corner flag and burst into tears pointing to the Three Lion emblem. Brazil, expectedly, expelled the English at the quarterfinal stage. Ronaldinho's goal, though, was a deviation from all predictions! Brazil firmed their grip around the Cup and confirmed themselves as Pentacampeones by defeating the Germans in the final - a match whose outcome did not matter much to me anyway.
At the German hosted 2006 World Cup, English Football seemed impregnable to the betterment of its fortunes from four years earlier. The Pundits' forecasts and the team's pre-tournament form showed no inclination of being on a collision course, and none would wage a bet on the English landing the cup. Still holding on to my honorary English supporter status, I decided to root for the Italians. Having seen Paolo Maldini, a distinguished defender, retiring from the International scene without being decorated with a World Cup winner's medal, I was keen for Fabio Cannavaro to fare much better. The Azzuris, throughout the tournament, resolutely adhered to the principle of guarding their own goal before chancing on the eventual counterattack – a credo attributed to Italian Football and routinely deplored by the gaffers of top English clubs. The final – a contest between France and Italy – aroused sufficient dilemma. The game was to be French conjurer, Zinedine Zidane’s last match as a professional and every Football fan loathed having to see him on the losing side. But Zidane’s emotional outburst and consequent ouster, ill-fated as it might have been, would allow Fabio to savor a legendary victory. All of Italy rejoiced – Polizia and Mafia alike. My shouts of applause probably got suppressed en route to Europe!
This year the Football Fiesta arrived in South Africa on its maiden visit to Africa. Although English superstars fuelled the expectation of their claiming the title of World Champions, misgivings about their chances and that of Italians were equally widespread. I was going to keep an eye on their results anyway. But, my backing had migrated to Spain, and Voila! I was also a pseudo Spaniard. The switching of my support was a no-brainer given FC Barcelona’s recent domination of the UEFA Champions League; the Spanish team has stars from the much admired Catalan club at its core. The English and Italians disappointed without dumbfounding anybody. Spain, though, led by the likes of Carles Puyol in defense, the diminutive demon of a midfielder, Xavi Hernandez and the mercurial David Villa marched on to their first World Cup final. Much was expected of the game with the Netherlands forming Spain’s opposition. The Oranje have always been, and were, expected to reenact the Total Football they popularized through the 1970’s. But Spain would have to go Dutch as their opponents were disposed toward being disruptive. At last, as Iniesta grew impatient enough to embrace the inevitable, Spain were crowned World Champs. I joined King Albert and Queen Sophia, and their subjects, along with Rafael Nadal, Shakira, the Spanish and ad-hoc Spanish Diasporas in celebration – a muted one, in my case, at 3 AM.
Yet, something as astounding as the denouement of Football matches is the popularity of the sport. Initially, I ascribed it to the sensational nature of the games; the emotional aspect exemplified in the jubilation of the victors, Beckham’s goal of redemption and Zidane’s angry head-butt, and in Wes Sneijder’s look of desolation at the culmination of the latest World Cup final. The commercial clout, of course, is irrefutable. Equally compelling and confounding is Football’s ability to obliterate boundaries and nationalities in those instants of exultation and exhilaration and to momentarily, at least, achieve globalization on a subtler level – I surely do not need the Queen’s charter to cheer England! But, perhaps, what lingers beyond the economic bequests and the enjoyment is the contagion of hope: the hope that united
Africa and amplified the drone of the Vuvuzelas as an entire continent rooted for Ghana; the hope that must have made the breeze seem more than a little heady to 3.5 million Uruguayans; the hope that reverberated in President Zuma’s wish to have South Africa host an Olympics; the hope that would have resonated with the throbbing of hearts in the future Bests and Peles. With Football serving to sustain hope on such a grand scale, and with such ease, one cannot be surprised by the fact that FIFA boasts of a larger membership than the UN! The World Cup also had a slightly trivial benefit to offer – the reinforcement of my belief that the television is not an Idiot box; this, despite the persistent peddling of pessimism under the guise of prime-time News.
I was already hitchhiking with Mika Hakkinen, albeit virtually, aboard the coveted Silver Arrows machine. I had to choose from amongst the Pro-Wrestling promotions, the NBA or Lawn Tennis. The MLB and NFL were precluded owing to their not-so-inviting broadcast schedules and the scanty reruns. A tele-tryst, though, affected my selection. The appointed place was the Theatre of Dreams located in the Republic of Mancunia; my date, a ravishingly beautiful game called Football. Spellbound, I had become a denizen of Mancunia before the final whistle. Interestingly, I did not have to renounce my Indian Citizenship - and that well before the GOI proposed the Overseas Indian Citizen option!
Whilst eagerly following the trajectory of the football and its impact on Manchester United's season, I got acquainted with the rules and, as much, with the players. Given the disparate nature of player nationalities, inadvertently, I had begun following the International Football scene.
With Japan and South Korea readying to host the FIFA World Cup of 2002, I was hoping to egg India on at the tournament. My ignorance regards Indian Football was exposed when I learnt of their quelled qualifying campaign. However, Football would still be at the World Cup and I had to tele-trace her. Like every other sport, Football necessitates, at least a hint of, partisanship before one can savor the splendor. The absence of both India and Mancunia meant I would have to adopt a surrogate motherland. Besotted with the English Premier League, I chose to cheer the English. I did celebrate with David Beckham after his successful penalty kick - a goal deemed his atonement - against Argentina when he hurtled toward the corner flag and burst into tears pointing to the Three Lion emblem. Brazil, expectedly, expelled the English at the quarterfinal stage. Ronaldinho's goal, though, was a deviation from all predictions! Brazil firmed their grip around the Cup and confirmed themselves as Pentacampeones by defeating the Germans in the final - a match whose outcome did not matter much to me anyway.
At the German hosted 2006 World Cup, English Football seemed impregnable to the betterment of its fortunes from four years earlier. The Pundits' forecasts and the team's pre-tournament form showed no inclination of being on a collision course, and none would wage a bet on the English landing the cup. Still holding on to my honorary English supporter status, I decided to root for the Italians. Having seen Paolo Maldini, a distinguished defender, retiring from the International scene without being decorated with a World Cup winner's medal, I was keen for Fabio Cannavaro to fare much better. The Azzuris, throughout the tournament, resolutely adhered to the principle of guarding their own goal before chancing on the eventual counterattack – a credo attributed to Italian Football and routinely deplored by the gaffers of top English clubs. The final – a contest between France and Italy – aroused sufficient dilemma. The game was to be French conjurer, Zinedine Zidane’s last match as a professional and every Football fan loathed having to see him on the losing side. But Zidane’s emotional outburst and consequent ouster, ill-fated as it might have been, would allow Fabio to savor a legendary victory. All of Italy rejoiced – Polizia and Mafia alike. My shouts of applause probably got suppressed en route to Europe!
This year the Football Fiesta arrived in South Africa on its maiden visit to Africa. Although English superstars fuelled the expectation of their claiming the title of World Champions, misgivings about their chances and that of Italians were equally widespread. I was going to keep an eye on their results anyway. But, my backing had migrated to Spain, and Voila! I was also a pseudo Spaniard. The switching of my support was a no-brainer given FC Barcelona’s recent domination of the UEFA Champions League; the Spanish team has stars from the much admired Catalan club at its core. The English and Italians disappointed without dumbfounding anybody. Spain, though, led by the likes of Carles Puyol in defense, the diminutive demon of a midfielder, Xavi Hernandez and the mercurial David Villa marched on to their first World Cup final. Much was expected of the game with the Netherlands forming Spain’s opposition. The Oranje have always been, and were, expected to reenact the Total Football they popularized through the 1970’s. But Spain would have to go Dutch as their opponents were disposed toward being disruptive. At last, as Iniesta grew impatient enough to embrace the inevitable, Spain were crowned World Champs. I joined King Albert and Queen Sophia, and their subjects, along with Rafael Nadal, Shakira, the Spanish and ad-hoc Spanish Diasporas in celebration – a muted one, in my case, at 3 AM.
Yet, something as astounding as the denouement of Football matches is the popularity of the sport. Initially, I ascribed it to the sensational nature of the games; the emotional aspect exemplified in the jubilation of the victors, Beckham’s goal of redemption and Zidane’s angry head-butt, and in Wes Sneijder’s look of desolation at the culmination of the latest World Cup final. The commercial clout, of course, is irrefutable. Equally compelling and confounding is Football’s ability to obliterate boundaries and nationalities in those instants of exultation and exhilaration and to momentarily, at least, achieve globalization on a subtler level – I surely do not need the Queen’s charter to cheer England! But, perhaps, what lingers beyond the economic bequests and the enjoyment is the contagion of hope: the hope that united
Africa and amplified the drone of the Vuvuzelas as an entire continent rooted for Ghana; the hope that must have made the breeze seem more than a little heady to 3.5 million Uruguayans; the hope that reverberated in President Zuma’s wish to have South Africa host an Olympics; the hope that would have resonated with the throbbing of hearts in the future Bests and Peles. With Football serving to sustain hope on such a grand scale, and with such ease, one cannot be surprised by the fact that FIFA boasts of a larger membership than the UN! The World Cup also had a slightly trivial benefit to offer – the reinforcement of my belief that the television is not an Idiot box; this, despite the persistent peddling of pessimism under the guise of prime-time News.
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