Champions league Cheeseburgered

I watched the champions league final this year at the place where all impoverished GT students who think the game is too significant to be watched on a dodgy stream with Arabic commentary go, the student center (the equivalent of the canteen). The crowds can sometimes be significant for champions league games since these are usually on weekdays when people drop by between classes to catch a portion of the game on the (relatively) big screen. However, with the final being on a Saturday in the middle of summer there was only a smattering of people.

I quickly took a seat in the front row and waited for the game to begin. In the seat alongside was an African gentleman with a computer opened up making rather strange beeping noises. The computer was making the noises I mean, not the African gentleman. After a few minutes Bayern had a chance which was blazed wide by Robben and I suddenly became aware of the presence of a middle aged American woman in our midst, sitting in the front row. “That’s just lahk Fuhball !”, she informed the gathering. “Lahk when yew git th’ ball all th’ way to the eynd”, she elaborated “ but cayn’t mayke that touchdown!”. As she said so she was smiling contentedly, following up these observations with a few rich guffaws. Plainly, all was right in her world.

The game carried on and as the imminence of a goal started to die down the lady began to shift uncomfortably and murmur to herself. After a good 20 mins she could stand it no longer and let her feelings be known. “Kin suhmbody tell me weyhn there’s gohn be a score huh?” she demanded. Seeing no one able to volunteer the information she was seeking, she decided that a more personal approach was in order. “Ah know yew guys kin tell me! ” she exclaimed while pointing at two Chinese youths sitting furthest away from the television. The Chinese youths, looking thoroughly alarmed, vehemently denied the charges leveled against them. The lady shook her head as if implying dissatisfaction and sank back in her seat and proceeded to chuckle merrily to herself.

Soon though her attention was back on the game, and it was apparent that she was unwilling to accept this shoddy lack of goals without an explanation. She appeared to be somewhat reluctant to swallow Middle America’s dictum that ‘soccer’ was a dull and pointless game, possibly giving the benefit of the doubt to the sanity of the assembled crowd who appeared to be rather interested in it. Consequently, with the application of some frankly ingenious reasoning she worked out that it was in fact the players who were rubbish, deferring judgement on the game itself. Having drawn this inference, she was naturally anxious to share her results with the world and proudly proclaimed, “These guys cain’t play ! The ball is makin’ them look stew-pid, all they doin’ is fallin’ over”.

However it was clear that her patience was wearing thin. Bayern and Inter meanwhile, completely oblivious to the consternation they were provoking continued to merrily hoof the ball around. On the 30 minute mark she decided that enough was just about sufficient. “Man ah’m juhst about duhn with this shit !”, she said “We could’a had fifty fuhball scores bah now !” going on to add “Dahyymmn !” for good measure.

But with true American determination to get her money’s worth shining through she sat back down, face dark as thunder, a good woman wronged.

On 35 minutes Diego Milito decided that it might be a good idea to stick the ball in the net for a change and did so with aplomb. “Fahyn’lly ! Oo Man, I thought I was never going to see them put that thang in the goal”. As she looked on, Milito stood in the corner pumping his fists and yelling for all he was worth, “Ah know how you feel, Honey !” she reassured the Argentine.

Having seen one goal, she thought it prudent to quit while she was ahead. And for those she left behind, she did have a stern last word of warning, “Yew know the scary thang ? That could be the only goal of the game !” she shuddered. Seeing no inclination from anyone to follow her example, she shuddered again and exited, leaving us to our fate.

The quality of mediocrity is not strained, but it has it’s uses

The United States of America is probably the greatest sporting nation on the planet. Yes, China did win more medals at the last Olympics, but over the years, across various sports America has won more than any other country in the world. This incredible sporting success is worthy of the envy with which India eyes it from time to time. Indeed, so many lament so often (including me every other day) that we would gladly trade all that cricketing bluster for a couple of Olympic gold medals.

But whatever we may say as a nation about being pathetic underachievers on the world stage - which undoubtedly we are – living in America for nearly a year has convinced me that we have something that America does not. But we are in terrible danger of selling out on that one quality that really should be the envy of the universe.

I think of the movie ‘Invictus’, which concludes with scenes of jubilation across South Africa following their rugby team’s world cup triumph. There is a certain amount of overkill, but the message of unity in celebration across the nation is nailed home.

The feelings and emotions portrayed are deeper and more meaningful than any ordinary sporting triumph. They can in a sense be described by a vicious cycle but in precisely the opposite sense of what that phrase conventionally means. At the core is the joy of the victory, but what fuels it is the euphoria of absolute unity, the feeling that everyone for miles and miles around is thrilled by the same thing as you. This accentuates the exhilaration manifold. People spill onto the streets, the unifying effects are significant.

Think of all the times you’ve heard the fireworks going off after we’ve won a match, all the times u’ve asked a random person on the street the score, the times when that feeling of outrage at seeing Agarkar in the team again were mixed with the thrill of knowing that pretty much everyone in the country is thinking the same thing.

Well, here’s the simple truth. America has nothing of the sort. There is no single unifying force here. There is nothing, literally nothing that can unite America’s millions like cricket can unify our 1 billion. When Michael Phelps wins some 85 gold medals, some people will read about it somewhere and go hmmm, when the saints win the superbowl New Orleans will celebrate and Indiana will mourn. When the US soccer team reaches the quarterfinal of the world cup nobody even knows the US has a soccer team.

So answer me this, should the sporting pride and wealth of a nation not at least partly be based on the ability of sport to unify, strengthen and gladden?

You may well argue that America is an exception, and that this feeling of universal joy following a triumph is the norm across Europe and Africa. This is quite true, yet the reason we can be prouder of it than any other country is that we overcome the very factors which inhibit the USA in this regard, which is scale. America is a vast land with a widely disparate demographic. So are we. This puts a firm stopper on the influence of a universal unifier in the USA. For us, it does not.

Yet, yet, we are in grave danger of losing it all. Tell me of a memorable Indian triumph in the last few years that has stuck in your memory. Nothing ? Then tell me individually, people of Bangalore, Chennai, Mohali or Kolkata of your biggest cricketing memory of the past few years.

Ouch.

Drivel Ahoy !

Here it is, the speech for the defense - of the drivel that is to follow. I dreamed a dream once of being a great writer. Having some random samplings put on display in minor publications only served to fuel the fire, so to speak. Unfortunately, someone bunged an icicle in it when I wasn’t looking and now I have nothing but steam and haze, and gas, but that’s because I don’t eat properly. Before you close the window in a hurry let me assure you that is the last you shall hear of my internal machinations. Not the last I will hear unfortunately but lest I go back on my word, enfin on that topic.

So where were we ? Ah yes, I was on the brink of greatness and then the icicle and poof. So now, I invite you to join me in my ‘journey (back) to greatness (that I never had, but that I like to convince myself I was on the brink of)….

'Grow old along with me,

The Best is yet to Be'

Whoever wrote that must have been a supreme mentalist. I mean, what ?

I am an engineer. Haven’t the first bloody clue what that is supposed to mean but my best guess is that it means I will try to bullet point and sequence everything, mostly because people think bull shit can never be served up in that form. Poor souls, if only they knew that is the most exquisitely elegant and convincing form of bullshit, well, they would be engineers too, I suppose. But, before I am distracted and go off on a tangent, which happens once every half a second or so, the point I am trying to make is that I did not actually just sit around waiting for the great fire to be lit once again. No indeed, I had, a cunning plan. A plan so cunning the fox that thought of it would be appointed the professor of cunning at Oxford.

• And it was thus - I shall begin, to read.

Elegance in simplicity of course. Much research on the great writing birds revealed that they all read a lot. So I would do so too. Hence I picked up this book I had bought ages ago on someone’s recommendation called ‘Snow’, by Orhan Pamuk, the 2006 Nobel prize winner for literature. You, being of sound mind and excellent constitution have by now of course, quite cleverly spotted the glaring flaw in my plan, the fact that no Nobel prize winner has ever written a book that wasn’t entirely incomprehensible to human beings. In my euphoria at finally being on the road to getting my greatness fire thing lighted again, I completely omitted to consider this simple fact. Result, two weeks of unimaginable tedium during which I grit my teeth and kept reading even though it felt like I was trying to balance an elephant on my head.

I will not even attempt to encapsulate the subject matter of the book as I have very little idea of what it was. Something about a mental chap going to a town where everyone is seemingly mental as well. By seemingly I mean to myself of course. As anyone who has undertaken the impossible task of trying to squeeze meaning from a book of this nature will know, it will soon pull the rug from under your feet and you will begin to lose sight of the fundamental truths about your own sanity. At this point (about 25 pages in) the experienced reader will toss the book to the furthest corner of the cupboard and mutter darkly about the lunacy of the person who recommended it.

I however, am made of sterner stuff. Actually I’m not, I just didn’t know any better. And fire – icicle- greatness and all that. Hence I did not repine. Before picking up the book each time I had to play various motivational speeches in my head, Once more ! Once more into the breach dear friends, or close the walls up with our English dead. I’m not English. But you get the idea.

Anyway, beyond a point it started to take a toll on my health, I knew that unless I found some way of escaping this enslavement soon, grave consequences would result. I had got past halfway and was contemplating the idea of sticking my head through my computer screen (the fact that I wasn’t even reading the book at the time will convey the gravity of my depravity) when inspiration suddenly struck and I ‘accidentally’ chanced upon the Wikipedia description of the book which naturally I only intended to read for background on the book itself. However I ‘unwittingly’ happened to glance at the plot and alas, that was the end. I knew all. I could no longer read the book, for Wikipedia had callously omitted to include a spoiler alert. Of course, only once I regained full sanity and re-read the Wikipedia page, did I grasp the full horror of what awaited me, had I not chanced upon that page when I did. For surely, another few pages and all would have been lost. I should soon have been blubbering and claiming to be a loaf of bread.

Happily though, I have made a full recovery and as I sit here writing this, my thoughts turn once again to the fire of greatness thingummy. Perhaps I will soon embark once again on my quest ! For….umm… the proverbial lighter I suppose. Or matches really, I’m not fussed. Electric coil, sure, I suppose that could work…