From Row Z with Love - 1

Remember us in your prayers

Everyone who has seen Chicharito is familiar with his pre-match rituals. There he is. On his knees, eyes closed and arms raised in prayer.  Well guess what, I think it works for him. How else do you explain his performance against Wigan? He produced more bad touches in this single match than Giggsy has made premier league appearances. And to top it all, there was the penalty. It was a strike so weak, Al Habsi had enough time to take a picture of the rolling ball on Instagram, post it on Facebook and get three likes – all before comfortably saving it. But come the final whistle, and the man had an assist and a goal to his name. God sure does work in mysterious ways on the football field.

Thank you for explaining

The prominent display of the DOCOMO sponsored ‘Replay’ sign was the highlight on an entertaining Saturday around the Premier League. The little revolving rectangle on the screen was so big, it almost blocked out Robert Huth at one point. In the end, when you think of it, it was a nice gesture. Without the assistance of the ‘replay’ band , this is how things would have unfolded – “Wow. Crouchie scores against City again. And again, this time in dramatic slow motion. And again, from a different angle. With  Joe Hart stranded on all occasions. City are going to find it hard to climb back from this 3-goal deficit. All thanks to you, DOCOMO. They will never fool us again. “  

Is it the white shirt?

Look who is back among the goals again – It is Dimitar, wait for it, Berbatov. That’s right. The only creature, apart from the horse, that is capable of sleeping in a standing position. The man who struggled to find the elusive net at Old Trafford, is curling them in at Craven Cottage. He grabbed a brace on his debut. Now who would have thought of that? Not the wily Scot for sure. Was it the Manchester weather? Was it Wayne Rooney’s hair? Was it Vidic’s wife? Whatever it was, it sure wouldn’t be the shirt. Or would it?

Handgate

First it was Wayne Bridge. Now it is Anton Ferdinand. Judging by the way John Terry is making friends, he could very well audition for a sequel to ‘How to lose friends and alienate people’. What say, Simon Pegg? Sleeping around with a colleague’s ex-wife, parking in handicapped spaces, accepting money from a reporter for a tour of the stadium, and the mother of it all – making racist remarks. And surprisingly, it is that friendly lamb of a boy, Joey Barton, who goes to jail. Mario Balotelli, it is time to up your game. There’s a new ‘gangsta’ in town.

A kick in the balls!

After a customary wait of around 15 minutes, and the usual rejection by around 10 auto drivers, I was finally offered a ride to my destination by Syed Dastagir Sardar. There was something uncharacteristic about him. It could have been his readiness to take me to Brigade road, or it could have been his politeness even when asked to take a longer route to pick a friend up. Anyway, I was on my way and that is all that counted.

My friend, The Fat Knight as he is popularly known, started ranting about a movie he’d watched the previous night as soon as he got into the rick. ‘United’ it was called, a movie on Sir Bobby Charlton. The conversation that followed was something worthy of those magical foreign movies you buy from shady shops in National Market. Those Iranian types.

Fat Knight: “Dude, watched 'United' yesterday. Superb movie!”

I, the ardent Manchester United fan, shook my head in joy at the admission from a Chelsea supporter.

Fat Knight: “I didn’t know it was about Bobby Charlton. He doesn’t rate the present England team too much. He says that they will never win the world cup.”

“Where is the magic, the Iranian type,” you might ask. Well, here it is.

Syed (head slightly turned, in fluent English): “Which team are you talking about?”

We exchanged confused glances, The Fat Knight and I.

Fat Knight (Continues, unimpressed by his curiosity): “England. There is this guy named Bobby Charlton (slight condescension in his tone)…

Syed (Interrupting him): “Of course I know Sir Bobby Charlton. (We gasped at the prefix). And Bobby Moore.” (Fat Knight fainted. I woke him up with a sprinkle of sweat from my forehead) 1966, World Cup.” (I fainted.)

The Auto driver, by now our hero, went on and on. He was a Karnataka player in his early days, a real, living, contemporary to Charlton, Moore and Best when you think about it. On our mention of us being from Kerala, he listed a few teams he had played against; Titanium, one of the superpowers in football during the 60s, being one of them.

By the time we arrived at our destination, us men of large proportions had been reduced to midgets. We were in the presence of greatness. Fat Knight even went ahead and invited him to join us for lunch.

 “No, thanks. You guys carry on and have a nice day,” said Syed Dastagir Sardar (he’d grown in our eyes by now, you see) as he collected the exact amount displayed on the meter. He merged into a field of autos, disappearing, probably amidst many such unusual stories we were yet to hear.

As we walked to up to our restaurant, we were still in awe. We recalled how he’d mentioned one of his brothers, a former Indian footballer by the name Hafeez. And we wondered, just wondered, whether he’d also be telling his stories from his glory days. To some  passenger. In some city. In some corner of our cricket-mad country.

Football, bloody hell - part 7

De Jong says Man City has replaced Chelsea as a team everyone hates. Why can’t a man simply hate two teams at a time?

Arsene Wenger insists that Cesc and Nasri will be staying. Yes – Nasri in an apartment in Manchester and Fabregas at a villa in Barcelona.

Juventus Manager Marotta admits interest in Rossi. Elton John admits interest in Marotta.

Hamburg wants Liverpool’s Joe Cole. Apparently, the high fitness level of their players is driving the medical team into depression.

Nicholas Anelka says he won’t be forced out of the Chelsea team . He plans to leave voluntarily.

Wenger says he is not stubborn. And Balotelli is Buddha.

Inter Milan use Eto’o cash to bid for Real Madrid star Kaka and three small countries in Africa.

Football, bloody hell - part 6

Birmingham striker Jerome wants his club to splash cash during the transfer market. Considering his form, they do need a replacement.

Roberto Carlos says Roma striker Adriano could still make Corinthians move. With the weight he has put on, he can move pretty much anything.

Real Madrid want Las Palmas star Viera - plus two teammates. Why don’t they just bid for the club as a whole and save the trouble?

Manchester City want Milan veteran Pirlo. News of the World claims that the next on their list is the British Museum.

Cole fires an air rifle during training. Balotelli throws a dart at a youth team player. Rooney, I hear, was seen pushing a cannon to Carrington last evening.

Dawson keen to use Spurs experience to strengthen grip on England spot. Yes of course. The bench is one place where England lacks in depth.

Brazilian Rogerio Ceni became the first ever goalkeeper in world football to score 100 goals. Abrahamovic now wants to sign him to replace the misfiring Torres.

Football, bloody hell - part 5

Nani is targeting the Ballon d’Or after emerging from Ronalod’s shadow. All he needs now is a rope to hang the trophy by and a crossbow.

Terry says he is confident that Chelsea is over their form slump. Russian vodka hasn’t lost its magic yet.

Dzeko’s move to City is going to cost the blues a whopping 38million pounds. Sheikh Mansour’s
son will have to do without his pocket money for a week.

Michael Owen claims he is ready and match-fit. Tall claim coming from somebody who is capable of picking up injuries while on the bench.

Liverpool welcome fit again Gerrard with open arms. Now they are waiting for Santa to bring them excuses when they lose next.

Balotelli is the first name on Guardian’s worst team award of the year list. Rumours claim that the Sheikh splurged as soon he heard the word ‘award’.

Alan Pardew insists he has no intention of selling his rogue midfielder Joey Barton. The Newcastle Police are taking him for free.

Nicklas Bendtner has been told there is no chance of him joining Lazio. Arsene Wenger was dejected by it and called it an act of typical Italian betrayal.

To err is human, to be Brazilian is divine...

There it was. The Brazilians were in town. And so was beautiful football. A rampaging victory over the African superpowers followed. The world rejoiced over the victory. The world mourned the angel’s a.k.a. Kaka’s sending off and the inevitable cheating by an African player. Things were back to normal again. Justice prevailed. Or did it?

Kaka epitomized what football should be all about. An extremely talented player who plays football the Brazilian way – the way it was always meant to be played. His fear of God was just another feather in his Champions League winning cap. But above all, he was Brazilian. And as the word goes around in world football, Brazilians could do no wrong. They were born to play football, and that too the beautiful version. Africans, in this case the Ivorians, on the other hand were the anti-thesis of what the game should be. Thanks to Rigobert Song and the likes. Rumour was that he once got booked for carrying an AK 47 on the field. But things have changed since that Cameroonian debacle. The World Cup has come to Africa. Period. But last night was proof of what is wrong!

“Fucking black bastard cheated,” screamed a friend of mine. An avid Brazil fan, he was swearing at the ridiculous sending off of Kaka, the Brazilian playmaker. The man who was fouled, Keita, was an African. As long as he was not beheaded or castrated, no Brazilian was to be cautioned or so said the rules of the game. After all, Brazilians could do no wrong. So when Kaka, the same guy who wears a Jesus on his vest, received the second yellow, there was public uproar. Africans cheated. Poor Kaka! God’s second son! Brazilian! What rubbish! I guess people have short memories. Remember Rivaldo in 2002? If you don’t, here’s a reminder. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4RKo_50sWW4

There is no doubt that Keita could very well share the Oscar with Rivaldo for that spectacular piece of cheating. But then again, so could Fabiano, with his impersonation of Godson Kaka by using the hands of God to score his second one. And he too went to ground as if he was shot in the head at the slightest of nudges. But yeah, he is Brazilian and Brazilians are capable of doing no wrong. Coming back to the red card, Kaka was no saint last night. No fucking way. All the claims about Keita approaching Kaka from the back and charging into him are rubbish. (People who have just read about it and not watched it please keep your mouths shut.) Kaka raised an elbow, though not head high, at the onrushing Ivorian. And a raised elbow is a bookable offence. It is usually a straight red. So the Brazilians should at least be happy that the ban is just for a match. So shut up and stick to your simple task of delighting the world the Samba way!

Forever United

I recently got myself a Manchester United logo tattooed on my arm. The torture lasted 4 and a half hours (relatively quick according to the artist). And by the time it was done, I was a happy man. Now, I don’t expect many people to share my joy, or even understand it. Precisely the reason why I got it in a not-so-visible area. I am tired of explaining to non-believers what football and especially United mean to me. This is probably the last time.

I fell in love with Manchester United the day I saw them take on the table toppers Aston Villa in the winter of 1998. I was a novice among premiership watchers that day. I was unaware of the Busby Babes. I did not know that this was one of the most famous teams in the world. I did not know that Fergie was a Scot. My choice was based on instinct. One to support the underdogs. And the reds did not disappoint me one bit. The remainder of the season saw Manchester United fight their way up, in their now-famous post-christmas surge, and won an unprecedented treble.

More than a decade has gone by since that cold and fateful winter afternoon. Since my journey with Manchester United began. My faith in them has not moved an inch – very much in tune with one of the club songs that go, “We shall not be moved.” They have won many a wonderful game. And they have lost many a painful one. But through tears of joy and sorrow, I swore by the Ferguson’s red army.

And today, my friends ask me why, of all things, I got myself the tattoo of a football club. One look at the climbing debt and you will know that Manchester United’s future is not the brightest. Chances are, in a few years from now, they will have to sell their best assets to address their mammoth debts. And one day, the worst nightmare of every United fan will come true, and Ferguson will step down from the helm. And United may turn into a club that plays boring football. “What then?” ask my mates. And I have no answer. It could be my way of showing gratitude to them for giving me something to believe in year after year. It could be my way of appreciating the most beautiful football they showcased time and again. It could be my way of saying ‘thank you’ for giving a rebel his cause. At least for a while.