Everything the Stranger Saw

It's 3:17 am here... oh well, time doesn't matter! It's June the 10th and there is just one day left before the FIFA World Cup 2010 begins, maybe more, but I'm not in the mood for doing the maths right now. The fact that I had completely forgotten about it, is bothering me. I only remembered now because one of my seniors from university, who is a mad-cap football lover, has been piling up all those crazy fanboy status updates on his facebook recently and they have become so frantic now that they couldn't escape my notice. Reading his proclamations about his favourite team has made me kinda nostalgic about the team I've supported ever since the first world cup I remember watching and it has made me a little sad too, because I don't have a friggin' clue as to what has been going on with this particular team in the build-up to the tournament.


It started in the summer of '94. The World Cup was being played in the United States so we were getting late night transmission on national TV in Pakistan. Football was new to me at that time and in a nation still basking in the glory of the '92 cricket truimph, I watched these tiny creatures running frantically on the old grainy screen of the Russian television set with avid amazement. I have always had a sleeping problem and the World Cup was the best available cure for the lazy summer vacations of a seven year old.

Now, many would remember FIFA '94 as the end of Maradona's playing career



or the end of Escobar's living career





but I would, forever, remember it for the not so tall footballer with an athlete's body and a firm jaw who gave me both my first real joy and heartbreak of football. Oh, and who can forget the hairstyle!

For three matches, the fans prayed for him, urged him, begged him, made fists and fingers at him but he didn't budge. His tally of goals, a simple zero. A void as lifeless as a barren womb. But he remained stolid, not a frown could be seen on that wide forehead. He was supposed to be their shining star, their salvatore. The team scrapped their way through and they looked away from him, knowing full well that they'd require him in the most crucial of times but not knowing that the fate of the entire tournament rested on his rigid shoulders.

And then, when the Eagles had put them in to a corner and time was running short, he couldn't bear anymore. This was his moment and no one could take it away from him:



and:



The Divine Ponytail had arrived!

and from then on, there was no looking back.

Spain had no answer to his coolness



and Bulgaria, who had been surprisingly good uptil then, tried their best but in vain



But you see, it's not over till it's over! Twelve years before Zizou lost his head on another Italian's chest, one man had stood in the heat of the battle, his veins injected with painkillers, and looked at the goal. He had carried them that far. He took his run and



It was his tournament, and no one could have taken it away from him... except himself!

And at that moment, I realized that if you ever wanted to tell someone what true happiness was, you could just show them a footballer's reaction after he had scored a goal and if you ever wanted to show someone utter agony... well, just show them one who had missed a penalty.

Roberto Baggio stood alone on that ground, a mere human, his hamstring pain replaced by one far greater, the pain of defeat. He stood alone in that stadium of 90,000 as the samba boys danced all around him. For a long time, no one came to console him maybe because not even his team-mates could've felt the same agony as he was experiencing. Maybe there is no way to console someone who had just mis-kicked a World Cup away. I could taste the disappointment on the tip of my tongue right out of my television screen as Romerio and Bebeto cried with tears of joy. It was bitter and from that day on, I have always associated a miss as the natural outcome of a penalty kick to help me get rid of that bitterness.

I imagined myself in his place and in his shoes, my first thought was about committing suicide. Could one live with oneself after this? That was the response of a spectator. For players, it is extremely important that they consider defeat as a part and parcel of the game and Baggio returned to play some fine football. The curse of penalties continued for Italy, and it had to take true love's first head-butt to remove that, but not for Baggio. He even made a bloody commercial for Johnny Walker about it



That's my man!

I don't watch football too critically and my allegiance to football clubs and teams is purely emotional so I wouldn't harp about Italy's style of play, their defensive outlook and their tactical acumen. My support had already flown to Rome long before I could reason about football's strategies. Last year, while I was being interviewed by an HR official of a private firm for a job I had applied for, she asked me who my favourite football team was? and I said, "Italy."
"Because they won the World Cup?" She asked and I could only laugh and say, "No! because of Baggio."

There have been many impressive names in Italian football since then but I cannot discuss them at length here. The present team, however, seems quite lackluster on paper. Del Piero, Totti and Inzaghi are gone from the last Cup. So are Nesta and Materazzi. Cassano's been left out! I really don't like Iaquinta. He just can't score. Quagliarella must deliver. Slim chances of getting past the quarterfinals (the first round even) especially if they come to face Spain! So, let's see what happens as the Azzurri fight to defend their title.

Meanwhile, Five Rupees has done some great posts leading to the World Cup. Do check them out and I'll leave you with Shakira! Arrivederci!



PS: DO NOT IGNORE 2:38 !!!