The boys nodded.
‘Purohit, take charge.’
‘Sir, who are we playing?’ inquired Rishabh.
‘Arre, how it matters? You have to beat whichever team it is,’ said Mehfouz. ‘Come on, start the warm-up.’
The boys formed a circle. Puro stood in the middle, leading the stretching. Leaning forward, they whispered their shared opinion—that the coach seemed like he had a prickly object wedged up his posterior.
‘You don’t have a last name or what?’ mocked Rahul mid-stretch.
‘And why won’t he tell us who we are playing?’ said Floyd, perplexed.
‘He’s going to be such a pain,’ muttered Dave. ‘Khodu, are you happy now?’
Khodu grimaced and continued stretching. Soon they began lightly jogging up and down the touchline.
‘We’re playing those guys,’ said Sumit, jerking a thumb across the ground. A team in blue-and-white were bouncing up and down, out of sync, trying to pull through a chaotic warm-up routine.
‘Which school is that?’ asked Rishabh. ‘Why won’t Maksud tell us anything?’
‘Mehfouz.’
‘Yeah, yeah, whatever his name is.’
‘Whatever my name is,’ said Mehfouz.
Rishabh shut his eyes as he exhaled. It seemed he couldn’t go five minutes without insulting the new coach. At this rate, it’d be a miracle if he even made it to the substitutes’ bench. But Mehfouz had other things to worry about.
‘Okay, everybody, come here,’ called Mehfouz. He waited for the team to gather around. ‘You’re playing Balaji Anandrao School, Dombivli. Now, for this match, I want you to keep the line-up you had chosen.’ He looked at Rishabh and asked, ‘Rishabh, you were coaching, no?’
‘Well, sir, I was just—’
‘Did you have a team in mind?’
Rishabh murmured assent.
‘Well, tell me, then.’
Rishabh called out the names: Dave, Rana, Khodu, Vade, Bhupi, Puro, Floyd, Tejas, Rahul and Paras. ‘And myself.’
‘You know your positions?’ asked Mehfouz.
The team nodded solemnly.
Then the coach ran over some basic tactics that the boys hadn’t known. They huddled around him and strained their eyes and ears. He kept it short as the referee had already walked on to the pitch, carrying a mud-stained ball in the crook of his arm.
Finally, Mehfouz crouched closer. ‘Ghadge Sir said that you boys have trained yourselves. You’ve worked hard, he said. For me, the most important thing is that you took responsibility. You made a plan, you took a decision. And I will say it: you did well. This is why I am confident about this match. If you can be so strong without a coach, with a coach you will be even stronger. Yes or no?’
Fifteen boys bobbed their heads.
‘Say . . . yes or no?’ said Mehfouz.
‘Yes, sir,’ came the mumbly reply.
‘What is this meow-meow you’re doing? Roar like bloody lions!’
‘YES, SIR!’ they roared.
Across the ground, the knees of many a Balaji Anandrao player shook in their blue stockings as they heard that bellow. The referee tooted his whistle and signalled for the teams to step on to the field.
In the moments right before a match, players always look like they have an ant running up and down the length of their clothes. They wiggle and shake, they jump and twist, they waggle their arms and jiggle their thighs. It is, in fact, a powerful cocktail of fear and excitement that makes them so jittery. If you cut a footballer open just before kick-off, adrenaline would pour out of them in spurts.
The boys of Sanghvi shook so badly that they looked like the top halves of really old mixers. Rishabh jogged over to the right wing. He surveyed the ground with a grim eye. The ground was so muddy that it looked like they were playing on a surface of rich chocolate ice cream. Down the wing was a pool of water so large that it demanded its own lifeguard. The Balaji boys bobbled just as nervously.
The referee called the captains to the centre circle for the toss. Rishabh watched as the coin remained suspended in mid-air for a second, as if the referee had tossed it through a viscous fluid. Puro called heads and fist-pumped when he saw the outcome. He elected to kick off. Thankfully, the Balaji boys decided to stay put in their half and the match could begin.
Rishabh trotted to the centre, where Rahul was standing with his hands on his hips and one foot resting on the ball.
‘Rishabh,’ said Rahul, ‘make sure you find me.’
‘I will. You just stick to the plan and don’t fuck it up.’
The whistle is blown and Rishabh rolls the ball forward. Rahul swoops down on it as three Balaji players rush him. He neatly scoops the ball to Floyd, who is charging from behind him like a freight train. Floyd dinks the ball to Puro. The whole Sanghvi midfield pushes forward like a pack of wolves on the hunt. Puro tries an audacious pass to Tejas. The ball soars across the air and Tejas steadies himself in anticipation, but before it can land, a Balaji head blunders into it. The ball bobbles ahead and the Balaji player runs towards it with a satisfied grin, which leaves his face as soon as he sees the stork-like legs of Rana pinch the ball away.
Rana looks up and spots Puro waving his hands at him like a man marooned on a desert island waves at a passing ship. He pokes the ball to Puro, who resumes the attack with a determined run. He skips past one defender and nears the edge of the D. He finds himself facing a thicket of Balaji players and coolly passes the ball out to Rahul. Every defender turns to the left, leaving the right exposed. Rishabh, not one to let an opportunity pass him by, flies down the wing and infiltrates the box. He screams, ‘RAHUL! LOOK!’
Rahul spots him on the far right and side-foots a pass, just as the goalkeeper comes at him like a maddened rooster, with both arms flapping. Time slows down. Rishabh sees the goalkeeper rattling into Rahul. He sees the lolling pink tongue of a Balaji defender who is desperately running in to prevent this pass from meeting its target. The ball glides over the surface, dips viciously on to the mud and skips off it like a pebble on the surface of a pond. Rishabh watches in amazement as he unconsciously sticks a foot out and stops the ball.
I stopped it! he thinks. Is my breathing always this loud? Wow. I sound like a harmonium. Wait, there’s a ball at my feet . . . I’m in the middle of a game! That’s right! Oh, look—the goal is in front of me. What luck! You’d better do something quick, Rishabh. That defender and his tongue are almost here.
His eyes droop, his body slackens and he stabs at the ball in a relaxed manner. The ball, which was perfectly happy going one away, gets rudely diverted to another. It rockets into the net! Rishabh sees the mesh ripple and hears that delightful ripping sound, and he erupts in a howl.
‘YAAAAAAASSSSSSSSS!’ he screams as he wheels away. Puro slams into him, Rahul hugs him from behind and Floyd grips his cheeks with aggressive affection. The whole team, save Dave, land up at the right corner flag to celebrate. Bhupi is the last to reach as he waddles forward, hitching up his shorts as he comes.
‘Bastard, you did it!’ he pants.
The Balaji boys wait patiently as Bhupi waddles back to his position before they resume the match. Mehfouz is heard viciously yelling something from the touchline.
‘Stay focused! Stay focused!’ the words waft to the wing.
Why’s he still shouting? thinks Rishabh. Give us a break. This team is finished!
The Balaji players do look defeated. They’re slouching around the field, crestfallen at having conceded so early. They don’t even make eye contact. The Sanghvi boys relax. The fatal bite has been administered, and now they can take their time with their prey. They prowl in their positions, baring their teeth and smiling in the gently falling rain.
But as the game restarts, they quickly realize why the coach has been frothing at the mouth. The Balaji boys don’t roll over and die as scheduled. Instead, they begin putting passes together. Rishabh finds himself pulled further and further into his own half. He’s marking a number 13, who
has an annoying habit of wriggling past him. Their defence is under siege. Each time they clear the ball, it lands right back with a Balaji player, who politely decides to return to sender.
The Balaji boys prod and prod; unable to penetrate the flanks, they play the ball infield. Their centre midfielder receives it and drives forward. He comes up against Khodu, who seems alert but out of breath. Khodu starts and lunges at him with a tackle. The boy cuts the ball away from Khodu’s sliding body and tears into the open space ahead of him. He aligns his body and kicks the ball inches away from Dave’s fingertips.
It’s Balaji’s turn to celebrate, and Rishabh feels humiliated by their happiness. Khodu is still wallowing in the muck, heaving asthmatically. From the touchline comes a volley of abuse. The coach is positively bouncing with rage. Rishabh is alarmed by how far out the coach’s eyeballs have ventured from their sockets. A few minutes later, the pressure is relieved by the whistles for half-time.
The boys trundled off the field. The Balaji team left in better spirits than Sanghvi’s. The rain fell harder. Rishabh took off his glasses and wiped them with the hem of his shirt. At the school level, each match consisted of two ten-minute halves with a five-minute half-time break, and it properly knackered the young men.
‘Sit down,’ growled Mehfouz, ‘drink water, shake your legs, take deep breaths.’ He paused.
‘You fuckers can’t understand or what?’ A gasp rose from the team. No adult had called them ‘fuckers’ before. It was both exciting and insulting. ‘That goal was a bloody shame. And you,’ he said to Khodu, ‘you can’t stay on your feet or what? Bloody fucker, stand your ground, no. You like rolling in mud or what? Are you a pig?’ Khodu remained silent, gulping mouthfuls of air. ‘Answer!’ roared Mehfouz.
‘No, sir.’
‘Then don’t slide in next time.’
The coach continued to savage them individually and collectively. Then, towards the end of the mauling, he said, ‘But you boys are playing well.’ Which led to the whole team tilting their heads quizzically. He praised their discipline in formation and their passing before dropping his voice to a low rumble. ‘Just do one thing: attack them from the right side. They are slower there. And don’t worry, it’s only a matter of time—you boys will win.’
The boys cheered at this, loudly. Mehfouz’s conviction was contagious. They got up and stretched. As they were about to head to the field, the coach called, ‘Bhupinder?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Bhupi, wincing in anticipation.
‘Tie your shorts properly. When you are running ahead, they shouldn’t run down.’
The second half gets under way and Sanghvi pounces on Balaji. The whole team seems unafraid. The Balaji boys start the half more tentatively and find themselves pushed back by wave upon wave of Sanghvi attacks. Puro begins asserting himself in the midfield, orchestrating the game with his array of passes. Rishabh sees Puro’s features shaped by concentration. In this half, he’s on the flank, where the coach is standing, and he hears constant commentary, like he’s listening to a radio channel he can’t turn off.
‘Pass right,’ the coach yells. ‘Do what I told you! Aye, bloody Purohit! Pass right!’
Puro hears the coach but every time he looks to the right, he sees Rishabh closely marked, so he swivels and passes elsewhere. ‘Get rid of your marker,’ he whispers to Rishabh as they come together for a free kick.
Rishabh tries to shake off the left back, but the boy clings to him like his shadow. Rishabh is despondent. He looks around and spots Bhupi ambling down his line. An idea occurs to him. He jogs up to Bhupi and says, ‘Next time Puro gets the ball, I need you to run down the flank, okay?’
‘All right,’ says Bhupi, expiring breath.
‘Overlap me, okay?’
Bhupi gives him a thumbs up, unable to drum up any more air for words.
Moments later, Puro gets the ball. Rishabh turns to Bhupi. ‘NOW!’ he yells. Bhupi lets out one last almighty heave and charges up the field like a beach volleyball that’s been given a good thump. He patters past Rishabh and his marker, who yelps. An intruder has bundled past him, right under his nose, as it were. The boy, enraged that someone could overtake him with such ease, tears after Bhupi, leaving Rishabh alone.
‘Puro, here, here!’ calls Rishabh.
Puro looks up, sees Rishabh unmarked and gladly lays the ball off to him. Rishabh darts into the box. Defenders, now alerted, begin swarming around him. He reaches the goal line and then spots Rahul unattended at the penalty spot. He cuts the ball back with a grunt. Rahul controls it, steadies himself and then pokes it with the toe end of his boot . . . and the ball zips into the net! Relief explodes in the centre of Rishabh’s chest. The Sanghvites race forward, hollering, fully intending to mob Rahul. Rishabh is the first to get to him. He grabs Rahul’s head in a lock and says, ‘I told you I’d find you!’
‘I’m dying. Need. Air,’ rasps Rahul, choking in the vice-like grip. Rishabh lets go so the striker can receive thumps on his back as well as the many joyous gaalis from his teammates. At the touchline, the coach holds up both his thumbs and there’s a hint of a smile beneath his moustache.
The score 2–1 is one that doesn’t inspire much confidence. It’s an unstable score, which constantly looks to tip over to a more even 2–2. It’s a score that makes the rest of the match incredibly nervy for the boys of Sanghvi as they quell even more desperate attacks from the Balaji boys. They hold off the opposition most admirably . . . until the dying minutes, when the Balaji number 9 slinks past a hapless Khodu. The boy is about to pull the trigger when Dave flies off his goal line and smothers the ball without regard for life or safety. He does receive a good wallop in the thigh, which he would later dismiss by saying, ‘Look, I’m just happy it wasn’t two inches to the left.’
When the final whistle sounds, they break into such an orgy of shrieking and dancing that the Balaji boys wonder whether they were playing a final in the first round itself.
Their next match was in an hour’s time. At school tournaments, teams would play two, sometimes three, matches in a day because it seemed tournaments were designed by the same people who had come up with Chinese sweatshops. Ghadge Sir dispensed food coupons, which they promptly exchanged for plates of idli sambar. Only when they got their hands on the plates did they realize how hungry they were. They scarfed the grub down in seconds and it warmed their shivering bodies.
The boys found a vacant section in the stands and flopped down. Their studs lay in disarray around them, their shin guards protruded out of their rolled-down stockings, hanging on with a single strap. Paras, who had spent most of the game running furiously with little reward, sighed deeply and shut his eyes. Dutta had made friends with a white stray dog and was petting it silently. The dog thumped his tail at the lavish attention. Tejas sat with a rag in his hand, fastidiously scrubbing his new Nike studs. He knew they were going to get dirty again but was compelled by some mania to keep them sparkling.
‘Look at Tejas rubbing his magic lamps,’ quipped Dave.
‘Regular lamps. There’s no magic in them,’ said Floyd.
Tejas ignored them in favour of extracting a particularly resilient speck of mud.
‘Aye, Tejas, play better passes, no,’ said Puro, suddenly remembering what he had been meaning to tell him all through the game. ‘Tejas!’ he called louder and the left-winger looked up. He repeated his criticism and Tejas turned red.
‘It’s not my fault, yaar. What can I do if the ground is like this? The flanks are the worst. Ask Rishabh!’
‘So we ask the second-worst player why the worst player played so badly?’ sneered Rahul.
‘Your mom scored or what?’ said Rishabh.
‘I did all the hard work. You just poked it in!’
‘I still scored, no!’
‘Aye, you let it be. Who scored the winning goal?’
Rishabh was about to tell him where he could shove his winning goal when they heard a cry for help. On the ground, a livid Rana was
chasing a wailing Vade. ‘Son of a bitch!’ screamed Rana. They raced around before Puro yelled for them to stop.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘He threw mud at me,’ Rana said, then turned to Vade. ‘Such a coward. Throwing from afar! I’ll give you one . . . your teeth will come out of your ass!’
Puro admired the creativity of that insult but, as captain, told them to cut it out. He instructed them to get something to eat, sit down and conserve energy. ‘You idiots will be crawling on the field later. Stay put, understood?’
Soon the coach came to the stands and asked Puro to have the team ready. Then he looked at Rishabh. ‘You come here.’ Rishabh hopped down the stands and joined the coach on the ground.
‘Remove your specs,’ said Mehfouz.
Rishabh took them off. All detail dropped from the world.
‘I want you to wave at your friend Sumit,’ said the coach.
‘But why, sir?’
‘Just do as I am saying.’
Rishabh squinted, trying to bring things into some focus. He stared at the many blurry blobs that milled about the stands. No, he was pretty sure Sumit was not in the stands. He turned towards the ground. In the distance, he saw a large frame hulking towards him. It was still a silhouette to his narrowed eyes but the proportions matched his memory of Sumit, so he stuck a hand out and waved.
‘Put your specs back on,’ instructed the coach.
‘But, sir, what was this for?’
‘I was checking if you can play without your specs. You can’t,’ concluded the coach.
Rishabh put on his spectacles and recoiled on seeing a cheery Ghadge Sir waving back at him. He could have just asked me, thought Rishabh as he joined the rest of the team at the base of the stands.
‘Okay, boys, the draw has been announced,’ said Mehfouz. ‘You’re playing Gyan Vikas High School. They are from Vasai, no, Ghadge?’
Ghadge Sir nodded.
‘This is a knockout format. You lose one game, you’re out. Each game is like a final, and you must win each game. So be alert. Now, some special things to keep in mind: I want both strikers to take more shots, okay? The team that takes more shots scores more goals. Defenders, never pass into the middle, always out. What is your name again?’
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