Even God can't hit a woman

I was waiting excitedly for October 30th. The birthday of Diego Armando Maradona. Born in 1960, the Argentine legend would turn 54. I was going to post it on Scoopwhoop. Together with the epic song from his documentary.

I even had a headline ready:

The Pele vs Maradona Debate Will Rage On Forever. But For Those Of You Who Worship The Argentine, Your God Just Turned 54.

And I would play this song below:




That was all that was needed. That song gives me goosebumps every time. Especially the part where the fans sing, "Marado! Marado!"

But I couldn't post it. Why? Because on the eve of his birthday, he was trending on Twitter. For all the wrong reasons. He was caught on video assaulting his girlfriend.

I didn't give up. I tried to find a way around it. Maybe tweak the headline and mention the incident in way that the article wouldn't get flak.

For A Man Who Courted Controversy All Through His Career, Nothing Has Changed Even As He Turns 54.

It's true you know. His debut World Cup ended when he kicked an opponent in the crotch. His international career ended because of a failed drug test. His most famous goal was scored with his hand. Off the field too, stories abound of substance abuse and tax evasions.

But that's the thing. We forgive him for everything. All the cheating and the drinking. All the drugs and even the tax fraud. We overlook all that and treat him as a God because of how good he used to be with a football. He still is by the way.

But even for him, there is absolutely no excuse for hitting a woman!



He used his hand to score a goal and we hailed it as the Hand of God. But when he raises the same hand on a woman, we don't tolerate it.

Long story short, even God cannot hit a woman!

You can switch off the television now!

There was a time when I hated cricket. Absolutely hated it. Despite my best efforts, I just wasn’t good at it. I couldn’t connect bat with the ball, and neither could I bowl straight. And the less said about my fielding, the better.

But I had to watch cricket.

No, I am not saying that I was a hardcore fan who couldn’t bear not watching cricket. What I mean to say is that there was a time when I had no choice but to watch every damn match that India ever played.

Because my dad had this ridiculous idea that India would win if I watched with him. There was no escaping this ludicrous notion of his. Absolutely no way: If I had an upcoming exam, I could sit on his lap and study while he watched the match on mute. The one time that the TV stopped working (Hallelujah!), he went out and bought a new one in time for the toss. I kid you not!

And so it was that every single time India played - be it a weekday, a Sunday, in the middle of my summer holidays, my Christmas break, the eve of my final exam - while the other kids were out playing in the park, there I was, sat on his lap, watching cricket.

I used to hate it. And then, I started missing it. I missed my dad all the time after he passed away but I missed him more when a match was ongoing. I was supposed to feel liberated. For the first time in my life, I was free to join the other kids at play but somehow I didn’t want to. It just didn’t feel right. Not when a match was on...

Soon after my dad passed away, we started living with my grandparents. And I realized where my dad had got his addiction from. Just like him, my grandfather too watched every single match. But this time, I voluntarily joined in.

And one of the first matches that I watched with him had me convinced that he was a genius. India were batting first, and after 30 overs, he predicted what our final total would be. And at the end of 50 overs, he was just 7 runs off the mark. Just 7! And I couldn’t believe it!

He explained how the team batting first usually scores as many runs in the last 20 overs as it did in the first 30. Unless the team had lost too many early wickets, he added. It didn’t make much sense then but gradually I began to understand more and more about the game. And I began to love it too. Mainly because it reminded me of my father!

While my dad was more of a purist, my grandfather was more pragmatic. Maybe I was too young but I don’t remember my dad analyzing a batsman’s footwork or his back lift. All I remember is him shouting “Did you see that?” and “Now that’s what you call a shot!”

There is, however, one line that I distinctly remember both of them saying: “Sachin’s out! Might as well switch off the TV now!”

It was the common refrain of the Indian cricket fan whenever Sachin made the long walk back to the pavilion. The collective acceptance of impending defeat was indeed justified. For a huge part of his career, Sachin’s wicket was almost always the turning point in a match.  But despite that comment, both my dad and my grandfather were the eternal optimists. Suffice to say, until the last run was scored or the last ball was bowled, the TV in our house was never switched off.

Like every other Indian (well, the sane ones at least), both of them absolutely loved Sachin Tendulkar. They just couldn’t get enough of his batting. And for that reason, I grew to love him too. It is thanks largely to my grandfather that I actually started paying attention but I remember my dad ‘Ooh’ and ‘Aah’ every time Sachin struck a boundary.

Like I confessed in Paragraph 1, I never played much cricket. Not enough to fully appreciate Sachin’s technique (though that has never stopped me from doing so). But you’d have to be blind to miss the grace and finesse in his batting, the authority, the elegance… (I could go on but I would hopelessly digress from my topic.)

As much as Sachin signified runs and centuries and Indian victories, watching him bat always made me feel closer to my dad and my grandfather. By the time of my grandfather’s passing, I was a full-fledged fan. I had started watching every match. Out of my own free accord.

And now, the time has come to say goodbye to Sachin too.

Longevity has always been his hallmark. That his career outlived both my aforementioned forefathers is testimony to that fact. But now, his time has come too. And as much as it is about never getting to see the best-batsman-there-ever-was bat again, I feel like I am losing a connection that I had with my dad and my grandfather.

Sachin’s gone. But this time, it isn’t just about switching the television off. I might as well cancel my DTH subscription!

(This was written a couple of months ago. I admit it should have been published at that time too but hey... better late than never.)

Holding out for a hero!

Have you heard the lyrics to the Ella Mae Bowen song with the same title as this blog entry?

“Where have all the good men gone

And where are all the gods?

Where's the street-wise Hercules

To fight the rising odds?

Isn't there a white knight upon a fiery steed?

Late at night I toss and turn and dream of what I need

I need a hero

I'm holding out for a hero 'til the end of the night

He's gotta be strong, he's gotta be fast

And he's gotta be fresh from the fight

I need a hero

I'm holding out for a hero 'til the morning light

He's gotta be sure, he's gotta be soon

And he's gotta be larger than life, larger than life”

The script is getting annoyingly familiar. Come to think of it, even the Arsenal summer pans out like the season. The league campaign starts with early promise, fancy footwork and memorable goals before it fizzles into another overhyped non-affair; the team getting knocked out of one cup competition after another. Then they gather pace, fighting valiantly in the home stretch, only to secure last-gasp Champions League football for the forthcoming season. Fourth place is like a trophy declares Wenger as the players rejoice like they’ve won a trophy. Five trophyless years, they say. Five became six. Six became seven. And seven just became eight.

What follows is just as monotonous. The summer begins with talk of marquee additions. We have the financial power to buy, assures the board. Wenger reiterates that if quality is found, money will be spent. Cue for the media to begin speculating.

But just like there is no silverware at the end of a campaign, there is no stardust when the summer ends. Players arrive but none of them world class.

This summer however had one glaring difference. Wenger mentioned names. Higuain, he said. Rooney. Suarez. The names rattled out one after the other.

So I began to dream. I won’t forget the theatrics that wrongly stopped the unbeaten run reaching the half-century mark. But if he switched sides, maybe just maybe, he could begin to make amends. He would play with a point to prove to his old employers, I told myself.

And then, talk of Rooney cooled. The Higuain signing gathered pace. Practically his entire family and support staff confirmed that the Argentine had agreed teams with Arsenal. Everyone was speaking of his impending medical and unveiling. That is until he joined Napoli.

So the attention turned to Suarez. Him and Giroud upfront in a 4-4-2, I thought to myself. The Arsenal attack will never want for bite, we began to joke. Call us toothless one more time…

But May became June. And June became July. And July became August. And August will soon become September.

But where are they? No one has arrived. No one, unless you’re going to count Sanoga, a hitherto unknown who arrived on a free. So where is my hero? Where is the Hercules who will win us the league? Where is the white knight who’ll prevent eight from turning into nine?

Time is ticking. The season beckons. Like Ella said: I am holding out for a hero!

How badly do you want to be a footballer?

Nike ran the campaign during the Euro 2008 build up, the same tournament where it all started for Andrey Arshavin. The irony was that the advert had Arsene Wenger asking the question.

Having just guided Zenit St Petersburg to UEFA Cup glory, Arshavin took Euro 2008 by storm, leading Russia to the semis. Ending the year sixth in the Ballon d'Or poll, the world was at his feet. Courted by Barcelona, he signed for Arsenal after a much protracted transfer saga.

At 28, he arrived at the peak of his powers. He took to English football like a fish to water; the maiden goal against Blackburn from an acute angle after a jinking run was followed by the infamous four goals at Anfield. Arsenal had a new hero.

In four and a half seasons with Arsenal, he scored 31 goals. But his career never took off. He did have his moments: the assist in the Carling Cup final, the winner against Barcelona, the assist for the returning Thierry Henry against Sunderland. But he never touched the heights Wenger had predicted. The Frenchman had even likened him to Ronaldo and Messi.

There was nothing wrong with his technique. His dribbling was flawless, his shots had virtually no backlift and his balance was immaculate. The problem, however, lay in his attitude.

Arshavin never looked like he wanted to try. He wanted to play football. But he did not want to try too hard. Training, tracking back, defending… these things didn’t interest him really. He just wanted to turn up and score. But football doesn’t work that way.

There is no denying the talent he possessed. He was one of those few gifted players who had an uncanny knack of coming up with something out of nothing. And for a while, he thrived on that. But even the best in the business put in hours training and toiling to become the complete footballer. The Russian simply didn’t want to try.

"My talent, my technique, is God-given and all I do is keep it going. It is a natural talent. I knew I had it from the first day of training at the age of seven, because I found football easy," he once said. That suggests how he rated himself. In his head, he was a star, better than those around him. He expected to just turn up and dazzle. It worked for a while and then it vanished.

What he lacked was not skill or application. He knew the play, he performed it too. But his heart wasn’t in it. He lacked desire.

I am going to miss it all. His tiny frame scampering around the Emirates turf, jinking and jostling, wrong footing opponents. The powerful shot that fired off his boot, irrespective of which foot he kicked with. That finger to the lips celebration as he scurried towards the corner flag every time he scored. They were far and few, but he did have his moments.

And so he leaves Arsenal, nothing but yet another entry in the list of what might have been. But unlike others who fell prey to injury, bad luck or circumstance, his sorry plight is of his own making.

After all, for all the talent and all the opportunities, in the end it boils down to this… How badly do you want to be a footballer?

Goodbye Andrei!

Give him a ball and a yard of grass,

He'll give you a move with a perfect pass.

Give him a ball and a yard of space,

He'll give you a pass with godly grace.

I am going to miss Andrei Arshavin. He might have left Arsenal distraught and overweight and the club most probably won’t suffer because of his departure. But I will miss him nonetheless.

I am not going to discuss what went wrong with his Arsenal career. Maybe it was because he was played out of position. Maybe he was uninspired by Arsenal’s slump. Maybe he was past his prime.  Or maybe it's because he was just plain lazy.

I don’t care about that anymore.

The reason I love Arshavin so much is this. There are many players who I keep wishing Arsenal would sign up. But the Russian happens to be the only one from that list that Arsenal actually went ahead and signed. For a club record!

I first saw him play for Zenit St Petersburg in the 2008 UEFA Cup final. He set up both goals in the 2-0 win. Then, at the Euros, where he dazzled everyone with his pace and imagination. Holland were favourites till Arshavin singlehandedly ripped them apart in the quarterfinals. After shining at the international stage, a move to England or Spain was imminent and there were rumours of a January bid from Arsenal. I never thought it would happen though.

I still remember how the transfer deadline was extended because of the unrelenting snow and how, against all odds, the little Russian put pen to paper and joined Arsenal. I remember the first interview too, where on being asked about Arsenal’s recent goal drought, he cheekily said, “I am here now!”

Things didn’t pan out too well for him. After a promising start, he fell out of favour. Initially making headlines through goals and assists, feints and dribbles, it was his refusal to track back, his lack of application in training and his expanding waistline that later made the news. But I still didn’t give up on him. I’ll tell you why…

When Arsenal desperately needed a goal and there were 20 odd minutes left on the clock, bringing Arshavin on was never a bad move. (In the Manchester United game, his entry wasn’t booed; the fans were protesting Chamberlain being subbed off). Arshavin could be out of form or returning from injury or on a goalless streak, but you still wouldn’t be surprised if he set up a goal or scored it himself.

Face it! If it wasn’t for Arshavin’s precise cross, Thierry Henry wouldn’t have scored that late, late winner against Sunderland. Arsenal wouldn’t have had the much needed 3 points. And Henry wouldn’t have had his fairy tale finish to his EPL career. Yes! In his last Arsenal appearance, Arshavin came on in the 87^th minute and still managed to set up the winner.

The departure is untimely but it is ironic too. For someone who arrived after the transfer deadline, it is only fair that he should leave after it too. His stint at Arsenal might not be the most memorable but it had its moments.

He scored some real beauties in an Arsenal shirt. His maiden goal against Blackburn. The four against Liverpool.  The long ranger against Manchester United. His fifth at Anfield. The late brace against Atletico Madrid. And of course, the winner against Barcelona.

Goodbye Andrei. Thank you for all the memories!

How it all began!

I almost became a Manchester United fan.

Till 2003, the only football I watched on TV was during World Cups and Euros. Club football wasn’t a fad in school back then. I heard a few friends discuss Manchester United and a certain David Beckham. They lavished praise on his crosses and freekicks. I decided to find out for myself and tuned in to ESPN over the weekend.

And I saw Henry score for Arsenal.

It was a goal elegant in its simplicity. A teammate released the ball into space and Henry raced past the fullback on the left. Shoulder to shoulder one instant, blistering pace saw Henry get to the ball two paces before his rival. He didn’t pause to control the ball or look up at where the goal was. One touch was all it took. 

Effortlessly he curled the ball around the advancing goalkeeper. The ball lay spinning just inside the far bottom corner of the net as Henry ran past the Highbury faithful, arms outstretched. I had just witnessed a classic Henry fadeaway. Elegant in its simplicity.

I didn’t know the player or the club then. Two minutes of rapt attention to the commentary enlightened me on both details but I cannot remember which match it was. So many of his goals in red and white were scored in this fashion that I cannot be entirely sure which one it was.

At that moment, I had been baptized as an Arsenal fan. One touch with the inside of his right ankle and Henry had ensured I would be a Gooner for life.

I almost became a Manchester United fan. But I saw Henry score for Arsenal.

Arsenal till the day I die!

You want me to come over, I got an excuse,

Might be holding your hand but I'm holding it loose,

Go to talk then we choke, it's like our neck's in a noose,

Avoid the obvious when we should be facing the truth,

Start to think it could be fizzling out,

Kinda shocked because I never really had any doubts,

Look into your eyes and imagine life with out ya'

And the love kick starts again... kick starts again!

-Example

I once read somewhere that love is like temporary madness. It erupts like a volcano and then subsides. And when the lava subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether the roots are so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.

The Invincibles is distant memory now. A six-year trophy drought definitely indicates that the lava has subsided. And the nightmare that unfolded at the Theatre of Dreams (the irony, eh?) last night suggests that the honeymoon period is well and truly over.

And so I ask myself... Why do I put up with all this? All the pain, the agony, the humiliation? Why do I invite the jeers of the rival fans? Why do I lose my sleep and appetite over a club on the other side of the globe? Why?

I would be lying if I said I don't care about silverware. Ofcourse I do. Who doesn't? I pine for a time when they are hard pressed for space in the Emirates trophy cabinet. I wish Arsenal were ruthless on the field. Untouchable even. Or (God forbid) Invincibles again.

But like Nick Hornby wrote in Fever pitch... After a point, the brand of football that your favourite club dishes out cannot be compared to the food they serve at your favourite eatery. Quality takes second place. Consumption is top priority. It is all that matters. While I would be overjoyed if they won a trophy or two, I am happy as long as they take the field every Saturday night.

On nights like these when I've lost my appetite and sleep seems unfathomable, I just have to remind myself about why I used to rush home to the television after chemistry tution in tenth grade. Or why I took three buses to my friend's place in the other end of chennai when I barely knew the friend or the city well enough.

I think of these and a other million instances when Arsenal took centre stage and everything else in life was mere background detail. And then for a moment, I pause to think of how empty life would have been without Arsenal. Then the love kick starts again.

I am Arsenal till the day I die!