The hall was empty. A few seats were occupied. I went inside took a seat in the third row from the screen. It was a huge screen with speakers placed on its side. The crowd had not started pouring in yet. In a few minutes the giant screen would be delivering the world cup encounter between Argentina and Holland, the two stalwarts of classic soccer, the very mention of the match would plunge any soccer loving people into enthusiasm and excitation. I was quiet happy that I had occupied a very comfortable position. I turned around to see the soccer savvy public. A few youngsters were seated a few rows back. They had already begun their routine acrimonies, howling and generating an unpleasant commotion by banging the chairs, a real bizarre style of enjoying soccer or was I weird? Well, for me easiness and relaxation remained the prime facets in enjoying a game, be it soccer or tennis. I was quite happy that they were seated a few rows back .The match was about to begin and all of sudden, the crowd had started scuttling in. My eyes were already glued to the screen as both teams had lined up for the anthem recitation. I confirmed the presence of each player and was happy to see my desired teams on the screen. How I wished I was at the stadium alongside my all time favorite Diego Maradona , who was inspiring his national side with a frivolous thumping on a drum, as a mere spectator in the gallery , much to the admiration of the world cup organizers.
I am a diehard Diego Maradona aficionado, the soccer genius who garnered both accolades and impertinence in his much controversial less resplendent football career. The white and blue stripes (represented by the Argentina) materialized an impingement on the mesmerizing skills Maradona had profoundly delivered to the soccer world and the ecstasy he brought to the millions of his admirers around the globe. Post Maradona era for Argentina was beyond doubt too appalling. In fact, Argentina had never been able to recover from that infliction, loss of this stalwart, who charioted Argentina to two consecutive finals, including the World cup in 1986. Thus viewing an Argentinean match for me was rather a profanity to all the progenitors of the World Soccer Governing body that led the conspiracy (at least I believed) to marginalize this icon who had already procured an iconoclastic status in their view. I was in a reverie when I was disturbed by a nauseating smell from my left. My yearning for a comfy analysis and viewing of the match now was tattered. The seat adjacent to mine was occupied.
The occupant looked a middle aged man, his hair graying on the sides revealing his age .His thick eyebrows even reaching his eyes, which was barely discernible, showed signs of attentiveness and astute concern in his activities. His short stature but broad chest and his monolithic posture on the seat exposed a monomaniac in him who would stride through the desert in order to accomplish his task. His unkempt hair, loosely tied shoelaces, clearly indicated his eagerness and fervor to be a part of this match right from the beginning. He kept his neck low, pulled his head to the shoulders and kept his eyes, which would not have faced the broad daylight thanks to his bushy eyebrows, firm on the screen resembled archers and sharp shooters, who had all these preparatory procedures before their onset. But his presence annoyed me. Being a middle aged man, he would have the natural tendency to brag about the previous soccer matches thereby a act a sort of fracas with numerous expressions which would include howling when there is a shot by a player to the target and untamed phrases at the players and the football rules as such, which were all a intimidation on my proclivity for calmness and a despicable tactics to attract others attention. These thoughts were spiraling in me but had lost its momentum as soon as I heard the whistle from the referee. The match had begun.
There was a warm applause from all the spectators present, viewing the match live from this part of the globe. The Argentineans looked seemingly vivacious and delightful too in their navy blue attire (they were not in their traditional blue-white stripped attire much to my dismay and apprehension). The Dutch in their traditional orange were less convincing compared to their opponents. Within a few minutes of the game, Argentina made their first attempt, a long range shot from their centre forward, who missed the goal post by inches. I could not control my excitation as I punched my fists into the air amid the applause from the spectators present. In a short span another attempt by Argentina was thwarted by the Dutch goal keeper. But this time I noticed something unusual rather extraordinary. All this time, the occupant made not even the slightest noise neither a stimulatory movement that arises out from sheer excitation. He remained in a sort of perplexity with his eyes firmly fixed on the screen and his position impervious and unaltered as at the commencing of the match.
Now I was thoroughly distracted. I could not read what his mind was filled with. No excitement , no words enwreathing , not the slightest hesitation neither a curiosity. His eyes, in spite of being hidden in his eyebrows, refused to take leave from the screen not even for a second. What was he ? A soccer connoisseur, or some sort of extra terrestrial genius, who could predict the outcome of the match cropping up from all this years of experience. Or he would have been blessed with the most fortunate boon allocated to the prophets in disguise, to control temper and emotions. He was something special. He must have a very perceptive knowledge on soccer and it’s history due to which these slender endeavors do not matter. He should possess an immaculate skill to arbitrate a situation when the ball reaches the opponents goal line or when there is a scamper towards the goal region. He did not illustrate any affinity towards a particular side neither was he interested in the instant replays,(aired when there is a foul committed or an attempt to score a goal) as though he had predicted the outcome lot before the analysts had .I really wished now to talk with him, a sort of rapacious affection to share his valuable knowledge to aggregate mine. It was a few minutes before half time that I noticed my neighbor (I felt myself humiliated in addressing an intellect by such derogatory terms) counting his fingers but with his eyes glued on the screen. The stringent action must have been a sort of cerebral calculation on the moments left for half time. I decided to break this silence. The referee’s whistle came as music to my ears and a conclusion to my enigma. It was half time.
I looked on to my neighbor. He was interested now in the audience, who were moving out to relax but still that perplexed look of his was not disbanded. He must have been wondering how the viewers were moving out amid speculation rather be glued to the seat like him. He turned around to me, his eyes piercing through the bushy eyebrows that almost resembled a chick coming out from the egg by cracking the covers. I decided to make my move. But I felt my throat go dry all of a sudden. Usually I had the slightest hesitation when it comes to approaching a stranger but on this occasion I faltered. The reason for this percolation of trepidation might have been due to his intellectuality, that any words foolishly spilled would demean my individuality or because I had humiliated a genius by considering him too low to my standards. I smiled on to him .He nodded his head, a complimentary move to heed my invitation.
“Its extra-time” words trickled out from my mouth.
He gazed at me and in the most sarcastic manner with downright genuineness looked into his wrist watch “Its 10:30 “. I giggled.
Only a most authentic knowledge foundation can materialize such sporadic humor. Such was his autocratic style of performance that I decided to engage in a healthier conversation with him. “Tight match .isn’t it?”. I gave him the onus to explain me the synopsis of the just completed first half.
“Yes, it was” his reply was stern and quite optimistic too.” I had just started enjoying the match when it got over”. “Over” my mind murmured.
“Even, I had started counting the number of players running around in the field with the whistle man ,i could not get how many were present there. Anyway it’s crazy that all these people are running behind one ball. But I don’t understand one thing. Why does that man who keeps whistling in the field not even given a chance to at least touch the ball?”
I looked on the screen. The play would resume in a few minutes. People had started occupying their seats. I was feeling very hungry.
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