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.