Red Card

by Kautuk Srivastava

  Higher up the pitch, the attackers kept busy too. Tejas bagged Sanghvi’s fifth goal early in the half. He celebrated by sticking his tongue out and thumping his chest. Then the young striker Joy Chakraborty, freshly promoted from the junior team, added a sixth. He would go on to score many more goals for the senior team, but the one he scored on the red earth of Kamani Krida would remain his most vivid strike.

  Towards the end of the match, Floyd dinked the ball over the B.L. defence, and Paras bobbed up like a seal and managed to get his head in contact with the ball. It looped dramatically over the keeper and bounced into the goal. It was a rare goal for Paras, and the only one he would ever score with his head. On the touchline, Rahul struck the ground with a fist.

  ‘Paras scored!’ he said in disbelief. Then, wistfully, he added, ‘I should have been playing.’

  If Paras had bagged a goal—was Rahul’s implication—then he could have easily got a double hat-trick.

  The Sanghvi boys were favourites even going into the tournament. They became the favouritest after winning 7–0. It wasn’t just the score that made people take notice. It was the vitality of their playing that had caught their eye. Their game was more an artful display than a mechanical slicing and dicing. They were even talked about in hushed tones. ‘Seven–nil, seven–nil,’ went the whispers.

  The boys were aware of the effects of their result even as they walked to the touchline. There could have been no clearer announcement of their intent. They had put B.L. Bhosale’s head on a pike and said, ‘This is the fate that awaits those who cross our path’—metaphorically, of course.

  Their next match was in an hour’s time, against Bluebell Academy. They were a competent team but rarely made it past the quarter-finals. After seeing the way Sanghvi had eaten alive, digested and belched out B.L. Bhosale, they had started the bus engine and decided to keep it running. From the looks of it, they would be out of the tournament pretty soon.

  ‘Eat something. Drink water. Rest. You have half an hour,’ said the coach once his team was off the pitch.

  They parked themselves in one corner of the stands and got as comfortable as they could while still being in their soggy clothes. A match was already under way on the ground. Father Ignatius’s High School were playing Lord’s High School. It was a hotly contested match, but Father Ignatius’s had most of the possession. They were a tough side from Vashi and crammed full of skilled players. Rishabh watched them dodge and swerve and dart about like dragonflies skimming over a pond. It made him nervous. Regardless of how well they played, other teams always seemed stronger, faster and better prepared.

  He turned his attention to his teammates. Most of them had opened up tiffin boxes and were chomping on food with feverish hunger. His mother had packed some grub too. He opened his box and saw two limp sandwiches. Sauce had seeped through the surface of the bread, making the poor sandwiches look like they had been shot. For years his mother had smeared sauce on two slices of bread, slapped them together and passed it off as a snack. The sauce wouldn’t even be evenly spread. It was usually daubed in the centre, which meant that for 90 per cent of his sandwich-eating exercise, Rishabh was chewing through plain fluffy white bread.

  Looking at it now made him nauseous. After a decade of quietly eating the same stuff, that day, Rishabh decided that he had had enough. He replaced the lid, got to his feet and dusted himself down.

  ‘Wwww oooo goooog?’ asked Puro through a mouthful of poha.

  ‘What?’

  Puro gulped his food down. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Oh. To the canteen. Getting something to eat.’

  ‘Here, have this,’ said Puro, thrusting forward the serving of poha. No matter what the dish, someone was always tired of having it.

  Rishabh politely declined and made his way out of the stands. The Kamani Krida canteen was situated at the rear of the school, inside a garage. There were three tables, complete with benches, and the floor had white tiles. The place smelled of disinfectant and had more flies than people. Rishabh hoped the food was better than the ambience. He was scanning the menu, when he heard footsteps behind him.

  ‘Arre, hi, yaar!’ said Eklavya Bhamtekara, thumping Rishabh hard on the back. ‘Long time. How’s it going?’

  Rishabh winced. His back stung from the contact, but he bit his tongue and didn’t let out a sound. Whipping around, he found Eklavya and Nagesh grinning at him like thugs from an ’80s Bollywood movie. With a grimace, he said, ‘Don’t touch me again.’

  Eklavya looked at Nagesh. ‘What, I can’t say hi to an old friend?’

  Nagesh flashed his protuberant teeth. The smile stretched his skin, making his face look even more hircine.

  ‘Not your friend,’ said Rishabh, turning away. His fingers had bent the laminated menu card.

  ‘I heard you people scored a lot of goals,’ continued Eka.

  Rishabh didn’t answer. He was staring at the menu, but his eyes were glazed over. His muscles were taut as he waited for the trap to spring.

  ‘I also heard you got subbed,’ hissed Nagesh. The trap had snapped. Nagesh let out a dry chuckle and tapped Rishabh’s elbow.

  Instinctively, he swatted Nagesh’s paw away.

  ‘Can’t believe you’re still a substitute,’ goaded Eklavya.

  Rishabh faced him. ‘And I can’t believe you got dumped.’

  Eklavya’s mouth opened and shut like a guppy’s. His eyebrows waggled.

  Meanwhile, his crony looked on, concerned. He glanced at Rishabh and they had a silent exchange. ‘You shouldn’t have said that,’ Nagesh indicated with slow shakes of his head.

  ‘Why?’ signalled Rishabh with a toss of his.

  ‘Apologize, now!’ commanded Nagesh, pulling back his cheeks in a snarl.

  ‘Pfft,’ blew Rishabh.

  ‘That bitch didn’t dump me,’ roared Eklavya.

  ‘Oh, sorry. Then I guess she lied to me when she called me,’ said Rishabh.

  Nagesh threw his hands up and turned his head to the heavens. He was disappointed in Rishabh’s disregard for personal safety. He knew Eklavya and how upset he was over Tamanna. And few things outside the realm of hell were as destructive as an upset Eklavya. Dutifully, he scanned the surroundings to make sure there weren’t any knives or sharp objects around. He spotted a stray fork and quickly snatched it off the counter.

  ‘She called you?’ repeated Eklavya in a low whisper.

  ‘Yeah. On the phone. Told me everything.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that. I wouldn’t want to hurt an old friend,’ retorted Rishabh with relish. He knew that information would enrage Eklavya but half the information would drive him positively insane.

  Eklavya advanced towards Rishabh. ‘Tell me,’ he growled, ‘NOW!’

  Rishabh looked at his twisted, angry face and he saw Eklavya for what he truly was: a scared, overgrown child whose self-respect rested on being admired by those younger than him. At once, Rishabh’s fear turned to pity. But pity wasn’t going to stop Eka from clobbering him.

  Eklavya had already encroached to within inches of him. Rishabh could see an aggrieved vein on his forehead. Without waiting another second, he shoved Eklavya in the chest. Eka stumbled backward on to Nagesh, and Rishabh darted out of the canteen.

  ‘Eklavya, she’s gone. Leave her alone. Sort yourself out,’ he called out after him.

  Shortly before noon, Sanghvi took the field against Bluebell Academy. The harsh sunlight made Rishabh squint. At the far side of the pitch he saw Amar standing listlessly, one hand on his hip and the other screening his eyes as he waited for kick-off. He looked more like a clueless spectator who had wandered on to the pitch by mistake than a player about to play in a quarter-final. One could fault him for his posture but not for his performance. Ever since he had replaced Vade, the left flank had thrived. His piston-like legs regularly propelled him past Tejas, who was left trailing like dust behind a comet. And then when attacks broke down, he
charged back to defend without complaint or fatigue. Simply watching him motor up and down the flanks could induce motion sickness.

  The Bluebell Academy attacking pair made their way to the centre. One of the boys clamped the ball under his stud. Amar let down his handmade visor. He cast his eyes over the ground and saw Rishabh flashing a thumbs up. He held up his thumb in reciprocation. He felt delighted to be on the ground under that bright sun on that wintry day. All was right in the world for Amar Verma. He couldn’t understand why his teammates were hanging their heads and waggling their limbs in nervousness. It amused him to see them behave like his father, who had a hefty home loan on his head. The fear of bankruptcy and losing the roof over their heads was concretely worrisome. This was just a game. But for all his perspective, his heart skipped a beat when the whistle was blown, and he leapt to attention as the ball was set in motion.

  Bluebell Academy are respectful towards Sanghvi. Rishabh sees it in the stricken face of his marker, in the crablike retreat his defender makes every time Rishabh rushes at him with the ball. But Sanghvi don’t reciprocate the feeling. Rather than displaying the panting intensity they had shown in their first contest, they resort to a confident, mellow passing game. They roll the ball around the ground lazily. And Bluebell Academy are happy to chase it in the middle of the pitch. It’s better than having to fish it out from the back of their net.

  When Sanghvi do decide to attack, they are met with a compact, organized Bluebell Academy defence. They keep tight, well-manned lines and mark their players with an obsession that borders on stalking. They leave little space for Rahul to wiggle through. A burly boy, roughly the size of Kanchenjunga, marks Paras. Once, Paras manages to get a lead on the mountain. He drives forward with the ball at his feet but, within seconds, the defender covers ground and lands a powerful shoulder charge—one that sends Paras skidding a good twelve feet. After that, Paras goes missing from the game. He’s reluctant to receive passes and doesn’t call out for the ball.

  Rishabh is one of the few Sanghvi players who are having a good game. He’s been flying up and down the flank, like a honeybee going from flower to hive, making tackles, threading passes and supplying crosses. He pings ball after ball into the middle of the D, but they get repelled before Sanghvi heads can get to them. When Bluebell Academy attack, Rishabh doubles back to help Bhupinder and makes one critical tackle.

  Bluebell Academy’s number 9 turns Rajput and bursts into the open space. Rishabh at once chases after him. The boy pulls his right foot back, rearing to shoot. ‘No!’ screams Rishabh and slides in between the boy and the ball. He knocks the ball out for a corner; but his foot takes the place of the ball. The number 9 is already in the middle of a sweet strike. He follows through and wallops Rishabh in the ankle. There’s a sickening sound as leather crunches into bone. Rishabh yowls like a cat in heat and rolls around, clutching his ankle. Pain is shooting firecrackers into the darkness of his closed eyes.

  When he opens them, he finds himself in shade, under the canopy of the concerned faces of his teammates.

  ‘Don’t get up,’ says Dave. He kneels down, grabs hold of Rishabh’s ankle and gives it a fine twist.

  ‘Ahhhhh!’ he screams.

  ‘Do you feel like kicking me in the face?’

  ‘Yes!’ Rishabh winces.

  ‘Good. Then it’s not broken. You can walk it off,’ advises Dave with the confidence of an orthopaedic doctor with twenty-five years of experience.

  Rishabh is hoisted to his feet, and he gingerly places his weight on his left foot. It still hurts, but he can continue. He looks to the bench. The coach has been pacing the dugout with his hands behind his back. When he sees Rishabh on his feet, his eyes sparkle. He rolls his hands, checking if Rishabh needs to be substituted. Rishabh holds up his palm in negation. The coach signals back, as if to say, ‘Perfect!’

  Rishabh plays with a slight hop for the remainder of the half. He feels a twinge each time he rests his weight on his left foot. Thankfully, the half comes to a close soon, and Rishabh hobbles off the pitch.

  Rishabh was desperate to play the remainder of the match, broken foot be damned. When the coach asked him how he felt, he did a jig to demonstrate he was fine.

  ‘Your foot is fine but your dancing is broken,’ said Rahul wryly.

  The coach was not happy with the half. His brows had come together and his moustache was moving in agitation. He waited for them to catch their breath and sip some water. He had a long address to make and he wanted their full attention when he spoke to them. At last, he said, ‘Not good. What I saw was not Sanghvi School. How many shots on target this half?’

  He glared around the team. No one answered.

  ‘Zero,’ answered the coach. ‘You boys have to realize this is a different team. This is not like the first match, where you could play easy and win. You have to work hard against this team. You have to show that you want to win. You have to show initiative. Where was the desire?’

  He turned his gaze to Paras. For the coach, Paras’s performance personified the half—weak and anonymous.

  ‘Aye, Paras, you are hiding on the pitch. I know the defender is tough. He’s not giving you much chance. But when you don’t have the ball, at least make a run. At least defend from the front. Try to get the ball. Help your teammates. You have bloody disappeared! Not one pass has come to you in the last fifteen minutes. You know why? Because you are afraid of taking responsibility. Otherwise, how can it be that on such a small pitch, with only twenty-two players, nobody can see you?’

  He ran his angry stare over all of them. Purohit tugged at a tuft of grass; Rishabh noticed the force with which he was yanking at the vegetation. He’s angry, thought Rishabh. That’s a good thing.

  ‘Only this Rishabh is calling for the ball. Full match, I can hear him. Even when it is with Tejas on this side of the pitch, that bastard is shouting for the ball. That is the initiative you have to show. Be in the game. Take charge. Make things happen.’

  Rishabh’s back straightened. He felt proud that his contribution hadn’t gone unnoticed. He had worked his socks off for the whole half and now, after the coach’s critical acclaim, he was ready to throw himself into action all over again.

  ‘We can do this,’ he said and clapped his hands. ‘Put those goals in. Come on!’

  ‘Yeah!’ yelled Rahul.

  Purohit threw a fistful of grass to the ground. ‘Enough being nice and all. Let’s get them!’

  They jumped to their feet and shook themselves out.

  ‘That’s the spirit, boys. Move your lazy asses. Ask for the ball. Push for the win. Go for what you want or you will have to settle for what you get.’

  The pungent smell of Relispray is driving his marker crazy. Rishabh has applied about half the bottle to his left ankle. It’s serving as a repellent while providing some relief. The boy keeps a foot away from him; his ankle feels cool and numb. The pace of the game has picked up in the second half. Sanghvi’s play has more attacking intent. But their waves of attack keep crashing against the same solid defence.

  Puro has grown more vocal. He compliments Tejas when the left-winger delivers a peachy cross that sails inches over Paras’s head. He roars in admiration for Rahul’s stinging shot that slams straight into the Bluebell Academy goalkeeper. He bellows for the defence to keep their shape as Bluebell Academy advance with the ball. And they aren’t empty words. He leads from the front. He takes players on, dribbling past defenders and chipping away at Bluebell Academy’s resolve.

  But for all his effort, the score remains unchanged. The minutes tick by. Bluebell Academy make a few attacks, and Rishabh starts noticing a pattern in their play. The Bluebell Academy raids peter out instantly because they are carried out by a maximum of two players. It’s as if the rest of the team is forbidden from entering Sanghvi’s half.

  ‘They’re playing for the draw,’ he says to his captain.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Puro. He, too, has sensed their ultra-defensive mindset.


  ‘Let’s blitz them,’ proposes Rishabh.

  ‘No, they can counter.’

  ‘We don’t have much time. They want to drag us to shoot-outs, Puro. If we have to do something, we have to do it now.’

  Puro looks around the ground. An ominous feeling surges through him. He has seen these circumstances before. He knows how much it hurts to lose a game to the cruel lucky draw of a penalty shoot-out. And Sanghvi are cursed. No team of theirs has won a penalty shoot-out in twenty-six years.

  ‘All out, bey. It’s time,’ decides Puro.

  He relays the message to the coach, who immediately catches their drift and yells out command after command to direct all resources towards getting a goal. Amar moves up the pitch permanently. Tejas tucks in more centrally. Floyd drops deeper, functioning as a holding midfielder, freeing Puro to roam further up the pitch. The coach tells Chakraborty to warm up.

  They get closer. They secure two corners in quick succession. Rishabh floats two balls in, but the boy-giant niftily clears them. As the match enters the final few minutes, the game becomes ever more frantic. Scruffy shots blast from the Sanghvi players. Even the Bluebell Academy defending is desperate and last-ditch. The pressure is on Sanghvi, and they transfer it to Bluebell Academy. Chakraborty is ready to come on.

  The ball rolls out for an innocuous throw-in. But before the coach can signal the substitution, Amar has scooped up the ball and hurled it. It drops into a little cavity between two Bluebell Academy players and lands at the feet of Paras. In a flash, his XXXL-sized dance partner joins him. They match each other step for step. When Paras goes right, the big lad lurches right. When Paras goes left, the defender lugs his weight to the left. They’re spinning in circles. Then Paras drops a shoulder to the left. The wall cabinet marking him takes the bait. He spills to his right. Paras strokes the ball forward, through the behemoth’s legs. It threads to the other side and Paras retrieves it. The titanic boy takes a few seconds to realign. That’s all the time Paras needs. He skitters into the box and hurries to the byline. He looks up and sees the sprinting form of Rahul. Paras squares the ball into Rahul’s path. Without hesitation, Rahul pulls the trigger and breaks the deadlock.