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It's a goooaaaal!
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The World Cup is when the global village puts its foot forward, writes a besotted fan.
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United colours of the world.
I HAVE a confession to make. Every four years, I need a fix. No oxygen bar can send me tripping, nor can the snappiest DJ at Bangalore's trendiest pub. Not even a quickie gulp of chicken soup can boost my feel-good quotient. All I need is a high-voltage, long-distance dose of Zinedine Zidane and Luis Figo, Roberto Carlos and Ronaldo, Beckham and Christian Vieri. What's the spell the FIFA World Cup casts over a middle-aged, middleclass, middlebrow writer? My friends and family can't figure it out.
My rites of initiation began at a Kolkata college. I puzzled over why prawn prices soared when Mohun Bagan bested their traditional rivals East Bengal in the state league. Or what triggered the rush for hilsa fish when the result was the reverse. Football mania took over my life during the Mexico World Cup of 1986. I recall sitting up into the wee hours with brothers and neighbours, cheering, "Argentina! Maradona! Argentina! Maradona!" Of course, our side won!
I couldn't help cheering on May 31 over last-minute access to the elusive Ten Sports. Since then, blurred images and no-shows have marred matches galore. Doordarshan will telecast matches from the semi-finals onwards, the cold storage vendor suggests. It feels strange, though, to watch this first Asian World Cup by daylight, a contrast to sleepless nights in search of football nirvana.
What's it about the World Cup that turns an ordinary fan into a fanatic? In an age starved of heroes, it evokes the one and only Pele. Or the dazzling Edson Arantes do Nascimento, Brazil's trump card. No social privileges, no class hierarchies, no colour bar could tame his talent, first honed in the shanty town of Tres Coracoes with a ball of rags. And then, along came Maradona, Zidane, and Ronaldo. Each testimony to overcoming the odds in life. In an era of individualism, football celebrates the team above the star, no matter how dazzling.
Football fever's about participation in a proxy war, if you like, where black and white, yellow and brown, come into the fray on an equal footing - and send pulse rates racing with their sinuous grace and athleticism, their dribbles and tackles, their penalty kicks and brilliant saves. Only, these forays into attack and defence are truly global - sans the jingoism and doublespeak that mar real life hostilities. This is the global village putting its best foot forward.
Isn't it incredible that Senegal, who snubbed champions France by a single goal in the opening match, are coached by a Frenchman? Or that Nigeria-born Emmanuel Olisadebe is Poland's secret strike weapon? Or that the English team has a Swedish coach named Eriksson? As for intra-team flare-ups, will they cramp the style of the Irish or the Slovenians? Unlikely, I'd bet. Rooting for the samba naturals from four-time World Cup champs Brazil, I'd like to wear my heart on my sleeve for Rivaldo and Denilson, Ronaldo, and Cafu, while shedding a tear for injury-struck captain Emerson. Go for it, boys! I'd sacrifice deadlines and catnaps for an all-Latin final with Argentina. It would be just as easy to root for Veronand Crespo, Batistuta, and Saviola, in a team valued at a breath-stopping £2.05 billion. I have my toes crossed so that Batistuta, currently on 10, crosses German Gerd Mueller's record of 14 goals. Bypassing the bookies, I'd stake all on the dancing toes of Latin teams as they dribble and dive, flip and feint, shoot and score, and execute a dance divine on that stretch of green.Between the flavours of sushi and kimchi, the event billed as `two countries but one World Cup' has turned me into a trivia freak. I know that Zidane, 30, was bought by Real Madrid from Juventus in 2002 for a dizzying £45 million. That most of the Senegal team play for the French premier league, almost rendering their tussle with France into an in-house bout. And that adrenalin spurs united colours of the world as Campbell scores for England, or Thierry Henry performs for France. And that first-time ever fines are on for errant boys who provoke yellow or red cards, including a $7,350 whopper for Rivaldo for `simulating' injury.
I've learnt to savour each World Cup moment, so that it lasts four years. Like youthful South African Quinton Fortune's sure-fire penalty to draw the match against Paraguay. Or Italian Vieri's two first-half goals against Ecuador. Or the shock American 3-2 drubbing of Portugal. Or Miroslav Klose's hat-trick for Germany against the Saudis. Or the irresistible drumbeats from the stands each time Cameroon takes the field. Or Chennai denizen Komaleswaran Shankar's debut as an assistant referee in the Mexico-Croatia match. Whom will watchers fete when the tournament's over?
Your guess is as good as mine. Inevitably, I've begun to wonder when a Bhagirathi or Badrunissa or Beulah will learn to bend it like Beckham. That's the goal I've set my sights on, even during World Cup 2002. Tot it up as one more reason why football fever makes me feint.
ADITI DE
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