Growing up in B'lore, I discovered the sport of football. Everyone in India always played the pseudo national sport - cricket. So when I first got a taste of the 'beautiful game' I was overwhelmed. I was 7, it was 1986 Fifa World Cup - Mexico. My parents had one television - color. The games were shown live in India, a little after midnight due to the time difference. I knew one player, one star, one genius whose talent still remains unmatched today - Diego Armando Maradona. Him dribbling past the entire English defense, and mimicking the same against Belgium left me speechless. I was fascinated. Fast forward to the end of the cup, Maradona proudly raising the World Cup - no one ever in history had so much influence on a single World Cup. One might say - Diego single handedly won the World Cup by himself. Playing football on the streets bare feet, is how I learned. The sweat, dirt, tar pebbles of the road embedded into my sole didn't hinder me. Calouses, sore heels didn't weigh me down. I was still in search of the elusive - first goal. I was 7, and I played with kids of varied ages from 7 - 12. This made the competition a little harsh. It was never too easy going up against a 12 year old. I lacked the speed, the endurance and the strength. I was easily thrown off the ball, lost possession far too easily and panicked in front of goal - which was 2 flower pots 10 feet apart. As I kept playing all I could dream about was this magnificent sport. I envisioned scoring my first goal, celebrating. It was not to be for a short time. I kept playing, kept getting better. Back at home everyday after school I kicked the ball onto a wall and practiced control.
2 months in - we organized a game a fine Saturday evening. By this time I had pleaded for my parents to buy me cleats (studs) - shoes that soccer players wear. Proudly I graced the field that evening. Summers in India were brutal. The sun hadn’t completely set and the dust laden air kicked up by kids who had already played made it only worse. The smell of kerosene run by auto rickshaws faintly filled the air. In a distance on the field, a herder with his only cow looked on. People on the street walked in a hurry midst the traffic. Some kids still not quite as lucky as me, came up to me to check out my shoes, commented on how good it was, wished that they had the same shoes. Still something inside me - made me feel a little undeserved. There were kids still playing without shoes, who were better than me, faster than me and generally more skilled. The game started and I always played midfield. I was better, more confident on the ball. Even though I wasn't fast enough I played, I fought for the ball, my 'never say die' attitude didn't go unnoticed. I was a passer of the ball. I didn't hog the spotlight, didn't try to take on defenders one on one. All this maturity at my age then, now that I reminisce is astounding to me.
Soon there was break, I passed the ball to a guy upfront, who crossed the ball across the face of goal. I somehow managed to get there at the right moment. Rest is history. The ball cleared the goal line. I was ecstatic. Sure it wasn't the prettiest goal, but I was there to chest the ball barely over the goal line. A classic poacher never complains about the lack of beauty of the goal, but I wasn't a poacher, I was a midfielder who started and ended the play.
That’s that.
