In defense of a fanatic, Shakira and World Cup final: As I have hardly any interest in who wins today, I am a blessed one with the tranquil non-existent presence today, all because I am a Brazilian fan shown the exit from the fabled arena by the scruff of my neck. Today my fixations are more fed by the gyrations of the She wolf Shakira Isabel Mebarak Ripoll and the stringed melody of Spirits Dancing in the Flesh of Santana than the faints and dodges of Leo Messi and the unmatched strength skill and stamina of Muller-Swainstiger-Kruz. Lest I forget to congratulate the Champions and console the Runners as I most surely shall vanish into deluge to reappear only in Moscow after two couple years later, I wish all the best from my heart. Best of luck-Messi, Muller and Shakira. The World Cup is like a fountain of immortality to me. To relive the unbridled excitement of the days when my spirits were unburdened, when the hairs weren’t grey and the grass greener. And it all began in a monsoon night years back. In those days like most houses in our small town, we did not blissfully have the luxury of owning a Tv set. It was an early July night, around 8 pm braving a heavy monsoon beating down the streets, I accompanied my father and an uncle in a short walk of 7 to 8 minutes. We reached the house of one Mr Ashok Sarkar, went up the wooden stairs to the spacious hall like sitting room in the first floor. There in that dimly lit room about 50 odd people assembled to watch a match- Brazil vs Argentina. My father and uncle got welcomed to the comfort of a sofa, and I took my place on the wooden floor just a few feet from that whining, sparkling box they called television. I was excited, it was my first viewing, I wanted to see the television, literally see it. My mother, my aunty had repeatedly asked me to take good note of its size, how much space it occupies, whether it is noisy, whether the pictures are as clear as the cinema- for them I was a spy to provide them with inputs to raise a demand for the same at home. But I miserably failed in seeing the television. The match had already started, and sitting like a little hyena with my head raised towards the set, I could only watch what the television showed- the match. For records Brazil won it 3-1, Zico, Serjinho and Junior scored for Brazil and Diaz scored for the Albicelestes. But the ultimate casualty was the sentimental, fanciful, romantic twin brother of the four chambered blood pumping organ of a star struck kid. The black and white telecast was painted yellow and green by the most talented team of Brazil that never won the Cup. The very next match Rossi turned the table 3-2, and Italy went on to win the Cup in Espana 82. But by that time it was too late, the Selecaos had done what they do so well, won another inconsequential heart. Since then I have seen almost all matches of Brazil, live or recorded, competitive or friendly and obviously the World Cup. I grew up in age and the World Cup started reappearing every four years as usual. Brazil won two Cups in 1994 and 2002, had so many heart breaks in this course starting from 1982 till the recent 2014. Through the years there were lot of changes, I was four years wiser every time the Cup reappeared, we had a TV in our house since 1986, it telecast in colour, a Maradona and a Messi took the world by storm. Germans always came back with surprises, Zidanes and Platinis and Baggios painted the green canvass with sparkles. But there were repetitions too the biggest of which for me was that my Cup begun and ended in Brazil. I aged, I became worldly wise, I now know how to manage the last few days of the month after my meager pay packet does a 2014 Brazil on my pocket, I know to discreetly glance at the poster of the Miss Leone-s while walking the streets with my wife without her knowledge, I know that I have to take a atorvastatin and fenufibrate dose to do a Romero against my shooting triglyceride to keep watching the ball roll, but I am yet to know a reason why I should not support the boys in Verde e Amarelo, and I know there are similar hearts beating for Argentina, Germany, Italy, France or England and I know why, see you all hale and healthy in Moscow with your stripes, the show must go on, you are the best of foes that a Brazilian can expect and friends the game can ever have. My life is all the more golden for the memories and greener for more to come.
Posted on: Sun, 13 Jul 2014 18:54:34 +0000
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