But as fate would have it, the valiant Iberian was seduced by the riches on offer at the nearby Kingdom of London. The alliance bore fruit, a new dynasty had been established, heaping more misery on the Scottish stallion who had so painstakingly reinstated Manchester as the centre of the Footballing universe in United-Kingdom, all this while nurturing United and transforming her from a tumbling toddler to a virtuous princess imbibed with ultimate respect for tradition and culture, becoming the apple of so many eyes, while turning other ladies green with envy.

In the meantime, the self-absorbed, brooding yet humorous Portuguese mastermind had, with his triumphant pursuits backed by his confident demeanour, made heads turn around, even charming United and her followers.

The Portugese Warrior (L) meets the Sorcerer

A perceived wanderer by nature, the ‘Special-One’ set sail for Italy, where, unsurprisingly, he was again pitted against the steely Scottish resolve, only for him to succumb this time around. But you could sense that his endearing qualities,coupled with his fearless persona, had struck a chord with the guardian, who, now in the twilight of his career, was on the lookout for a suitable ‘man’ capable of taking care of his beloved girl. The bond, it seemed, was growing stronger, a sense of inevitability heightened by Sir Alex’s candid confession that only three candidates, the warrior included, were suitable enough to forge an alliance with the lady in red.

Spring 2013. Life, it seemed, had come a full circle. It was the same stage where they had ‘rendezvoused’ for the first time, and there was a lingering sense of elopement this time around. Confessions of mutual admiration were publicly shared, and a seal of approval was ‘uncorked’ alongwith a bottle of wine between the Scot and his heir.

After all, the timing seemed just right, as the Scottish taskmaster had helped erase the scars inflicted, and had so vociferously rendered mute the verbal jibes of the noisy neighbours aimed at de-valuing the auspicious life of the lady. In Spain, tired of another tumultuous fling, the nomadic wanderer, it seemed, would have lapped up the prospect of the consummate union.

But alas! Traditionalist, more often than not, sound the death-knell for a love-stricken couple wishing to walk the aisle, as it did indeed turn out for the silent apprentice, and a homely Glaswegian, the epitome of stability, a certain David Moyes, who all his life had harboured feelings for United, had won, attaining the hand of the angel with the blessings of his God-father no less.

The Sorcerer (L) and his Apprentice

It signalled the triumph of sustained perseverance over fleeting evanescent passion, and for the warrior, it seems the long awaiting arms of a despairing Chelsea should provide some solace, hopefully driving away the ‘torn-in love’ blues.

It was supposed to be football’s best kept secret. It might have just been revealed.

In football, more than in many a sports, physical prowess, coupled with the ability to command your body to perform certain actions is paramount for optimum performances. Given that, every sports has its freaks of nature, people like Ryan Giggs  who embody longevity and exhibit youthful exuberance, which would put the younger generation to shame, even at the ‘ripe’ age of 38. Then there are genies like Paul Scholes, who are literally trapped in a wine bottle, but just like the wine tastes better with time, they too are able to treat us to the free-flowing football, which is doled out at consummate ease.

And then there is Rio Ferdinand.

Yes, Rio Ferdinand the ‘former’ England International, with seventy-eight caps to his name. A Manchester United stalwart with over four-hundred appearances for the Red Devils. The defender renowned for his acute reading of the game, propelling him to never put a foot wrong; a certain class and elegance oozing from his gait, coupled with the ability to think ahead of his target-men, leading him to be labelled as the Rolls Royce amongst centre-backs. But truth be told, this model seems to be high on cost, low on mileage, a ghost from the past, when he and his partner in crime, Nemanja Vidic used to form an impenetrable wall of sorts. When clean-sheets used to be the norm and, United could attack without any fear and with quite some aplomb.

For the former West Ham United youth-academy graduate, and the corner-stone of the Leeds United side who made it into the Champions League semi-finals in 2002-03, Rio Ferdy 5′s decline has now been pretty evident for quite some time. His carelessness and utter confusion leading to Micheal Kightly’s goal for Stoke City being a prime example; so was him being burnt for pace by a certain Gareth Bale. It seems that age is fast catching up with him, and as Sir Alex Ferguson rightly pointed out that he should give up on his England dream, and try to unite his forces to prolong his club career. Being part of the ‘twitter-ati’ has not helped his case either, as evidenced by the recent Ashley Cole controversy, coupled with the public backlash that he has to generally put up with due to his frank and out-spoken nature. Along with this niggling injuries like the persistent hamstring and back problems have not helped him either. With the loss of the excellent custodian that was Edwin van Dar Sar, coupled with Vidic’s prolonged absence, the onus fell on Rio to galvanise a frail and inexperienced defence, which appears to be lacking any real bite. With upcoming defenders like Chris Smalling and Phil Jones, and the sometimes cold sometimes hot Johnny Evans, Rio Ferdinand’s United legacy will be complete if he can ensure the successful integration of these ‘fledglings’, to lay a strong foundation for building the next great dynasty post Sir Alex Ferguson.

At 30m odd pounds, he may have been Fergie’s most lavish buy, and the symbol of United’s spending powers and ability to afford the most desirable rides, but he would do well to re-fuel his tank, tweak those engines, and recharge those batteries, to ensure that his replacements do not need to be test-driven and are ready to carry the gauntlet forward.

They say every story has a beginning, that everyone has a past which shapes their future, and sports which acquire a mystical aura due to legacies built over time, are no different. So without further adieu, I take you down memory lane, by plucking out five instances from the history archives, which according to me, represented a ‘Waterloo’ moment, the occurrence of which rendered their respective sports to be never the same again. Raising the all too-familiar head-scratching question:

What if?

1 – World Series Cricket (1977-1979):-

The game changer

Before cricketers were fully loaded, well-known global superstars, before cricket was an entertainment spectacle sans the IPL, before disputes between players and their respective country’s boards were the norm, there used to be a time when cricket boards were all-pervading divinity, exercising complete control over broadcasting rights and player affiliations, thus leading to poor remuneration for players, a decreasing standard of play and dipping audience numbers.

All this after the conduction of a fairly successful 1975 World Cup.

But in 1977, something happened. An uproar, a rising whose impact is still felt today in the cricketing world. Kerry Packer launched the World Cricket Series, a competition which enticed international players with the allure of striking gold. A legal battle ensued, and surprisingly, the ICC lost out to Mr. Packer, with the court decreeing the infringement of national loyalty upon the rights of the individual to earn more. This timely impetus galvanised Packer and his team, who in spite of great difficulties, managed to organise a world-class tournament, featuring titans like Andy Roberts, Dennis Lillee, Viv Richards, Imran Khan, Tony Greig, et al, which ensued a rapturous response from the public who flocked to watch matches. The WSC introduced novel concepts like drop-in pitches, day-night matches, coloured jerseys and large scale-sponsorships from franchises like McDonalds which provided the event with an ‘I am loving it’ experience. Though it ultimately ran out of steam in 1979, it seems difficult to ascertain the WSC’s impact on ODIs, and whether the ground-breaking success of the IPL would have been possible without the inclusion of all its constituent elements.

2 – The rise of the dust storms (1973):-

INDIAN WELLS, CA – MARCH 17: Rafael Nadal of Spain congratulates Roger Federer of Switzerland after their match during the semifinals of the BNP Paribas Open at the Indian Wells Tennis Garden on March 17, 2012 in Indian Wells, California.

Be it Bjorn Borg and John McEnroe’s heated encounters or Pete Sampras and Andre Agassi’s relentless duels, history has seen men’s tennis bear witness to many a great rivalry. But there is one clash which has defined two careers like none other.

Roger Federer versus Rafael Nadal.

Two champions who have acquired mythical status due to their other-worldly ability to conjure magic on the court. Roger Federer is widely considered to be the greatest tennis player of all time. A freak of nature, his elegance and panache make tennis look so simple and a joy to watch. But then there is the Spanish Matador, the eternal warrior, the king of clay, and Roger Federer’s Achilles heel, Rafael Nadal. The Spaniard holds a significant edge over Federer in head-to-head meetings with an overall record of 18-10, with 14 of these matches having been played on clay, Nadal’s breeding ‘court’. Shift this rivalry back to 1972, and you have a clear-cut winner in the form of the Swiss maestro. Yes back in an era where three out of the four Grand Slams were played on grass and the other one on a hard court, the sport would have surely benefited Federer, for he takes to the grass as a fish takes to water, his seven Wimbledon triumphs bearing testament to that.

Besides, the doing away of clay courts entirely would have robbed tennis of players like Gustavo Kuerten, Guillermo Coria, Carlos Moya, and the mercurial Justine-Henin, all of whom could truly call Roland Garros their adopted home. Who says that the grass is greener on the other side, when you have the finely crushed clay on which you can seamlessly glide?

3 – The Montreal Screw job (1996):-

Bret Hart

“Bret screwed Bret”.

These immortal words still resonate strongly within the WWE universe. December 1996, Survivor Series, Montreal, the homeland of the champion, the face of the WWF, Bret the ‘Hitman’ Hart, facing off against the Heart Break Kid Shawn Michaels with the WWF championship on the line. A lot of bad blood has been spilled, the Canadian flag has been nose drilled, rumours were abound of the hit man moving on to the WCW in three weeks time. The battle began with aplomb, but the shocking turn of events which were to follow were akin to the blasting of a megaton bomb.

HBK, Vince McMahon and the referee contrived against Hart, stripping him of his WWF title, even though he had never tapped out. But the baton was effectively passed on, heralding a new dawn. Gone was the clean fight to your last breath concept, and in came the Attitude era. An era defined by the beer-guzzling, foul-mouthed, ice-cold, Texas ‘stunner’ Rattlesnake, the party spoilers, advocates of the devil himself, the DX, and the autocratic yet erratic boss Mr. McMahon, which effectively made WWF the hard-core, adrenaline pumping, no holds-barred entertainment package that we have come to know of.

With greater twists leading to the blurring of the boundaries between a heel and a face, unpredictable and eccentric story-lines  an ensemble cast also comprising of the American badass The Rock and Eddie “I lie, I cheat, I steal” Guerrero, the action on display kept the audiences on the edge of their seats, while the banter off it intrigued them to no end. More importantly, the upsurge in fortunes of the WCW were reversed, and Vince was able to buy-out his rival franchise in 2003, to render the WWE the sole flag-bearer of the Sports Entertainment business. Truly a what-if (it had not happened) moment.

4 – The 1950 FIFA World Cup:-

MANCHESTER, ENGLAND – APRIL 30: Ji-Sung Park of Manchester United is tackled by Vincent Kompany of Manchester City during the Barclays Premier League match between Manchester City and Manchester United at the Etihad Stadium on April 30, 2012 in Manchester, England.

When Sepp Blatter had announced that India ‘may’ one day host the FIFA World Cup, excitement ran high amongst the masses at the mouth-watering prospects of the future of the ‘beautiful game’ in our blessed country. But the wait could’ve been over long before, had our men’s team boarded the plane to Brazil in 1950. In a world torn with strife, and still reeling under the devastating effects of World War Two, India was officially invited to participate in the tournament proper, due to Indonesia’s last minute withdrawal.

The ‘tryst with destiny’ never materialised though, either due to lack of funds to fuel their flights, or their stubborn refusal to don their boots which could have kick-started a glorious chapter in the still incomplete Indian football odyssey. Who knows what the exposure and enormity of the achievement could have done in the overall development of the game on a nation-wide basis, which is still equally popular amongst the youth, when compared to the religion that is cricket?

One only has to look at fellow Asian countries like Japan and South Korea, who not only are regular fixtures at the World Cup, but can boast of players like Park-Ji Sung and Shinji Kagawa who have represented a certain Manchester United, and Ryo Miyaichi, Junichi Inamoto and Park Chu-Young, who either played or currently play for Arsenal.

Who knows what the impetus at that time may have done in terms of providing a greater platform for our youth to excel, beginning from the grass root levels? But the wait is still on some 62 years later, for the Indian Park who can bear the Indian flag in England with pride and a little style.

5 – The San-Marino Grand Prix (1994):-

The writing was on the wall. The echo of his clamours were crystal clear. And yet they went unheard, leading to his demise, leaving behind a vacuum, filled with only silence. Rubens Barrichello had been critically injured just a few weeks earlier, while Ronald Ratzenberger had crashed to his death a day ago. He had been apprehensive about his car all along. It was like a wild horse, full of speed, yet difficult to tame. But still, he went on to meet his God, for nothing could separate him from his love. Ayrton Senna is regarded by many as the greatest motorsports driver that there ever was. The three time-champion, with the the second-highest number of pole positions, the Brazilian was as quick as they came and was a peerless ‘under the shower’ driver.

Known as the man who dethroned Alain Prost, it is only tragic that the world of motorsports missed out on an epic rivalry that could have been between him and the then relatively unknown German Michael Schumacher. It is debatable as to whether Schumi would have waltzed his way to back-to-back championships, which paved the way for his unprecedented dominance of the circuit for five straight years with the race-horse that is Ferrari.

What the calamity did do is improve regulations for driver safety, leading to tweaks in the Imola circuit. The GPDA was also reconstituted, which has ensured that that any untoward incidents in the future have been minimised to the greatest extent possible.

R.I.P. Ayrton Senna.

The lone ranger

Finally, I would like to say that the beauty with the past is that it is constant. That it never changes, just like the bitter-sweet emotions imbibed within a photograph, a remembrance of what we were, what we did and what we could have possibly done, that is in this bright future we don’t forget our past, and learn from it, derive strength from it, to incite hope and carve a niche for us, leading us to the road of self-discovery.

I see United winning this one comfortably, with ‘at least’ a two goal margin. After all they had smashed seven against them last season”, exclaims an expressionless Steve Mcmahon, KOPing remarkably well for a normal Liverpool fan.

Meanwhile an old gentleman on the screen pitches in, “I think the Asian markets are providing very good value on United keeping a clean sheet, and since the match is being played at Old Trafford, the fortress should be impregnable.” His taut brow lines coupled with his grey hair, makes his otherwise ‘thoughtful’ musings and his ‘extra-ordinary’ prediction a lot more ‘believable’.

The end result though turns out to be a bit of a surprise, for the fortress is not only breached but conquered. Seven goals are scored, but United manage a paltry three, and no points for guessing who was cursing himself for the huge summer spending spree. The very next day, that was Monday, the ‘verdict’ is delivered with aplomb. The previously infallible United back-line, and the ‘unflappable’ David De Gea are pronounced guilty by, you guessed it: Steve Mcmahon, who surprisingly still looks devoid of any emotions.

Welcome to the amazing world of the ‘Pundits’, who are rather poles-apart from their religious namesakes. For the ‘religious’ gurus chant sacred hymns, and deliver ‘sermons’, which adds to the auspiciousness of the ceremony in progress, even if they are the only ones who are able to comprehend them while we simply incorporate the chants owing to their significance. In stark contrast, the football ‘Pundits’ enlighten us on well, football. So their rumblings are both looked forward to and scrutinized, while any ‘blasphemous’ remarks against a sacred club of the average fan leads to an uproar.

But just like no ceremony is complete without the blowing of the shell by the priests, similarly the footballing world, without their ‘pundits’, would become mute, loosing out on enigmatic characters who do play an important role in strengthening the connection that the fan has with the game and his favorite team in general.

For be it Gary Neville‘s orgasmic roar at Torres’s Goal which silenced the Camp Nou, or Alan Hansen’s now infamous, “You Will never win anything with kids”, rant which galvanized the fledglings, turning United into a force to be reckoned with while propelling those ‘kids’ into the lime-light.

For, let’s not be fooled by the serious demeanor and the exotic suits and forget that as much as they read the game, they, at the end of it, are fans too, probably with the added experience of facing the music in front of the advertisement boards rather than only chanting ‘niceties’ from from the stands. But the analysis provided nowadays pertains more towards speculation of the results, and everyone in the studio seems interested in only justifying their stance as to why they think that a particular team should prevail, or why a rolling juggernaut will be derailed.

Though this adds excitement and anticipation leading to an upsurge of adrenaline, somewhere down the line the essence of football is lost. For football is a game full of vivid characters, and unpredictable scenarios. It is as much about putting the ball into the back of the net as it is about defending with panache, and dazzling your opponent with the ‘tiki-taka’. Nowadays the pundits use the Tiger telestrator and other computer aided imagery to decipher team-tactics and formation. But amidst all this, the human element, the ability to manually dissect the strategies on display is lost.

For now, facts over-ride instincts. Precision is valued more than skill. For now nobody bothers to explain to the audience how an off-side trap is kept and how zonal marking happens. Instead, a blame-game ensues, which usually rests on the manager. Everything goes on so smoothly that you yearn for the friendly confrontations in the studio which sadly seem like a thing of the past. Be it Paul Masefield’s intelligent rebuttals, or Shebby Singh’s assertive claims, gone are those engaging debates.

And this brings back memories of a certain show which used to be hosted by a suave gentleman. Yes you guessed it right, it is indeed Football Focus with John Dykes. With his ability to moderate a ‘healthy-discussion’ like none other, he used to serve us an assortment of football goodies on our ever expanding platters. The all in one package gave due weightage to lesser talked about issues, like the managerial tactical battles, the need of technology in football, international selection conundrums, the ‘financial’ activities of the clubs and so forth. With razor-sharp analysis, informative dossiers, coupled with the right mix of humour, made this living room-experience an endearing and engaging ritual, especially for the Asian fans. While a solid core of pundits, who with their witty remarks, lurid descriptions, and non-conventional interpretations, made this program a winner on all fronts.

Compare this to the ‘Monday-Night-Verdict’, which portrays pundits as crusaders of footballing justice, who discuss whether to send someone from this world to the gallows, or whether the punishment meted out could be a little mellow. Essentially, their decisions being based on the score-line City-six, United-one. Nobody remembers Evans culpability in the attacker’s run, the analysis appearing more and more just for ‘fun’. Besides that, the multitude of football television shows on air leads to a repetitive and dour experience, clearly lacking the innovation and ingenuity of a  ‘New Edition’.

But do not lose hope, for while your mother cooks Aloo-Gobhi in the Kitchen, don’t worry if you can’t Bend It like Beckham, for you can surely punt on it like a ‘Pundit’!

On researching more I found out that National Sports are classified on two basis: One is the de jure (by law) like Rugby in New Zealand and de facto (by fact) like Field Hockey in India. That hockey had been glorified and hailed as our national game, having played an important part in our cultural integration and prosperity, by the official website of the Indian government came as a no surprise.

Sweeping gold!

Only 3 people had gone to see them off at the Airport for the 1928 Olympics , and a million greeted them on their return, for the Indian men’s hockey team had conquered the world, sweeping aside all opposition and struck gold in the pinnacle of sports. But this was just the beginning. Another gold medal was added in 1932, and arguably the greatest hour in Indian sports history arrived four years later in Berlin, where under the gawking eyes of the ”fuhrer”, India thrashed Germany 8 goals to 1, to cement their legacy in the sporting folklore forever.

Besides a new icon, a symbol of excellence, and a proponent of how to weave the magic stick appeared in the form of Major Dhyan Chand.

The Wizard of India

The sporting community along with the fans were be-witched to the extent that any hockey game involving India was no less than a magic show and Major Chand the show-stopper. Such was his dribbling skills and ball control, that a team from Netherlands broke his stick to apparently look for a magnet inside that never was. Meanwhile seeing him ‘dictate’ the play against his team, the ‘dictator’ offered him a post in his army which was duly rejected. It is believed that he even scored with a lady’s walking stick. Such was his influence that a brilliant crop of players emerged under his tutelage like Roop singh et al, thus ensuring that India remained light years ahead of the pack and won the hockey gold every single time till 1956. To honour his contribution to the game, and in increasing India’s fame his Birthday 29th August is celebrated as National Sports Day, when sportsmen are lauded for their excellence and awards like Khel Ratna , Arjuna Awards, etc are conferred upon them.

Thus hockey had become more than just a game. The sticks had become the new source of strength; the strength to break-free, and express yourself. The instruments which led to social harmony and national unity for the common goal. The goal of restoring India to its former glories, while working towards a better future. Post Independence hockey gave our country an identity. An identity that had the characteristics of good-will, self-confidence and the will and desire to compete. Thus hockey became the face of our nation. A face exuding calmness and a grounded persona, inspite of conquests galore; the one thing that India was recognised by.

But elsewhere a new sun was rising. A sun whose brightness would over-shadow all in its vicinity. It is only ironic that cricket’s rise coincided with hockey’s downfall in our nation. The 1983 World Cup marked the rise of cricket in our country while the 1980 Moscow Olympics would be the last time when our hockey team would taste gold.

“Cricket is our religion, and Sachin our God.”

There is no denying the fact that the little master has been carrying the mammoth hopes of an entire nation for 23 years now. That he is revered the world over for his off-field persona, and that he is lauded as the greatest ODI batsmen ever is never under doubt. But still it seems that the aura surrounding Major Dhyan Chand has eluded him, one that would have seemingly made him the mascot of the game.

Moving on from the old-guard to the new poster boy, M.S.Dhoni who was able to win both the T-20 World Cup against Pakistan, and Gen. Musharraf’s heart, which provided a faint reminiscent of Berlin 1936. But it has not always been plain sailing.

ecstasy

We have had the highest of tides, the euphoric ones as experienced after the 2011 World Cup triumph and the lowest ebbs like the match-fixing scandal in the late 90′s which tarnished both the game’s and our country’s image. But there is no denying the fact that even though the ball may have retained the colour white (in most cases that is), the bat has replaced the stick as the armour for our shining knights.

Cricket has infiltrated our lives like nothing else before, and we just can’t get enough of it, be it discussions in the office, the bus, with a distant colleague, or playing it to our heart’s content on the already jam-packed street, or hoarding the T.V. in large fleets, cricket it seems appeals to people of all caste and creeds. In this way it has furthered Hockey’s impact in dissolving boundaries and strengthening societal ties.

Bankrolled by the BCCI’s financial might, the cricketer’s be it the national teams one, or state representatives rake in huge salaries. And lest I forget, the IPL which is the new darling of the masses, providing non-stop entertainment, while giving a platform to upcoming budding cricketers to rub their shoulders with the best, and then let their hair down with Bollywood’s who’s who, ensuring a complete fest.

Opportunity galore!

This is a far cry from the PHL(Premier Hockey League), which had to be closed down due to lack of viewer’s interest, which mirrors the general perception that people nowadays have regarding hockey. This coupled with below-par performances in International tournaments, like the failure to qualify for the 2008 Beijing Olympics, and the last place finish in this year’s edition which was followed by our U-19′s cricket World Cup truimph has ensured that even “Chak De”‘s patriotic sermons has failed to uphold hockey’s profile in our country.

Time to ring the change?

On the other hand with opportunities aplenty, the youth are flocking towards the net rather than diverting the round ball in the rectangular net. This has led to an increase in the number of cricket coaching academies, as parents feel that investing in cricket is worth a punt that has a greater chance of paying of in the longer run.

The dilemma associated with awarding the status of a national sport to a particular game, is what takes precedence over the other. Do we consider how the the international community views us in correlation to the game under consideration, which somewhere down the line depends on the results obtained and our stature on the global scale. Or do we give preference to the connect that the country’s masses feel with the game, their identification with the sport, its impact on their culture, and how its growth has helped elevate them, and how their ideology is best represented by the game under the spotlight?

They say the beauty of the past is, that it cannot change, and that we can only learn from it. But why do we want to learn from it? So that we can ensure a better and brighter future. That cricket with its modern outlook, a promising platform, and economic benefits should be proclaimed as our national sports has been mooted many a times before. It’s time for the deafening roars, time for each man to search his own soul.

For as a ‘matter of fact’ it is upto us to decide whether we want the game which set the sporting ball rolling in our country, and brought us global recognistion and fame, to be pushed into obscurity, to be confined to the pages of history. It’s a question that every one of us faces. Bound by tradition or freedom to discover newer places? For the symbol it seems is losing its traces.

The world is adorned by awe-inspiring structures. From the stone-henge of yesteryear to the Burj-Al Arab which, frankly speaking, has no peers, architecture has come a long way in both concept and design. From the Palm-Jumerah which is visible from the moon, to the high rise sky-scrapers which stand tall and aloof, man has proven his credentials time and again to conjure something extraordinary out of the blue, by taking the game of building blocks to a level where it seems too good to be true.

They say God created man before woman.  But then you always make a rough draft before the final masterpiece.

Amongst the amazing ‘creations’ which abound in large numbers, there is one mural that stands out. Let’s face it, a woman’s body is the epitome of heavenly beauty, and the pinnacle of sublime craftsmanship. The perfect ‘dimensioning’ coupled with the beautifully carved out finer details, make it an engineering marvel unparalleled. Thus it is of little surprise that women are the face of the fashion industry. For essentially fashion is all about exuberance, a vivid portrayal of your inner thoughts, and painting them with vibrant colours for which women provide the perfect canvas.

Beauty when most unclothed is clothed best. - Phineas Fletcher, Sicelides

But an ‘innovation’ some sixty-five years ago has left the canvas barely covered. Even now the effect of it still makes people shudder.

It was the year 1946. World War II had just ended. Many pressing issues needed to be immediately attended. The time was ripe. Advocates of humanity as well as ideals like equality, liberty and fraternity were on the rise. Amidst the ‘uproar’, an ‘invention’ would lead to a widespread furore, so much so that its effect was likened to the atomic bombs being tested on certain ‘bikini’  islands far off shore.

Initially the response to the two-piece swimsuit was mellow, for women were fearful of their self-respect being sent to the gallows. The mindset was still not advanced, even if the bikini was invented amidst the romantic landscape of France. Women were a little uncomfortable, they were initially unable to shed their inhibitions, while men had never associated this with ‘women’ before.

But gradually with time, inhibitions were finally shed, sexuality and its depiction gained more acceptance. Bikinis became the new fashion statement, women’s liberation-attainment tool, while for men, they now had plenty to drool over. Seeing the upsurge in the popularity of the swimwear, Sports Illustrated editor Andre Laguerre decided to cash in on the opportunity. Sports Illustrated was a well reputed magazine, with a huge male following, owing to its coverage on well, uh, sports. But the winters always used to bring about a ‘cold’ response from the readers, their sporting ‘passions’ seemingly thawed by the vast expanse of the pure white snow.

It was then that Andre thought about an exclusive ‘swimsuit’ photo-shoot edition, which was to have a background of exotic locations, with pretty faces in the fore-front, to boost both his sales and the readers’ libido. With Babette gracing the cover of the first edition it seemed like ‘March’ had come a little too early. The first edition became a runaway success, the allure of the bikini proving too strong to resist. The bikini brought into limelight by Ursula Andress in James Bond’s Dr. No (1962) enthralled the male viewers all over again, thus completely stealing the show.

But the publication as we know it is not all about the pros. For it gave impetus to the ‘supermodel’ culture, objectified women and bred stereotypes about them, leading to the definition of the ‘desirable’ women as this tall, size-zero pin-up doll.

The wrong model?

Let us leave the beautiful women to men with no imagination.  ~Marcel Proust, Albertine disparue, 1925

Besides, male fantasies have always been catered to in the representation of women in various sports. Be it the scantily clad cheer-leaders shaking their legs, leaving many men breathless, or the women who in their appealing attire provide ‘shade’  to the men ready to race, ‘eye-candies’ as they are called are always present to fixate the ever-wandering male gaze.

But considering the fact that sports have become more and more revenue-centric, this ties in with the philosophy that the more the visibility, the higher is the saleability (though in the publication’s case, it is what is hidden rather than what is shown that intrigues people more). For similar reasons, beach volleyball is considered to be amongst the favourite ‘male sports’. While owing to their flattering dresses and confident demeanour quite a few female tennis players are able to garner huge support, which translates into greater recognition to their sport, while they get lucrative endorsements.

The Russian Beauty

And thus it comes as no surprise that the edition featuring Maria Sharapova‘s photo-shoot had sales which went through the roof, for it was the best chance for her male fans to see her up-close. Other famous athletes to have got themselves clicked include Steffi Graf, the Williams sisters and Amanda Beard, but they represent only a handful in comparison to the supermodels on show.

At first sight, the association of the name Sports Illustrated seems misplaced considering the content and its depiction. But it all boils down to perception. For some the ‘bikini’ is a metaphor for fun, confidence and comfort. The under-current of having confidence in yourself (as depicted by these models who are comfortable in the depiction of their sexuality), and honing your abilities to face the tough situations (as seen in the hard work they do on their bodies to face the camera) is where the beauty of sports lies.

On the other hand, claims pertaining to the complete objectification of women, treating them as toys desired by men, do not seem misplaced. For sports stand for equality, chastity and purity and according to the purists this publication is all about false vanity, far removed from reality.

It is a well-accepted fact that the most prized assets that athletes possess are their well-drilled bodies, perfected by rigorously exposing them to harsh tribulations, so that the efforts later on lead to jubilations. For the better the tool, the better the result. The sharper the knife, the better the cut. But let’s not forget that it’s their performances that immortalize these mortals, and not the mere show of their chiselled frames, for we are talking about sports and not about sports entertainment. But then to each his own, for sports without debates is like a boat without oars. And while the readers decide which path to tread, I have an edition lying beside me, which I still have not read.

THE DARK KNIGHT?

I will be joining the Champions League Winners, he had tweeted, which had got the blue side of London a lot more elated. They had got ‘their’ man, they felt rejuvenated. Everyone associated with Chelsea FC was raising a toast, oblivious to the blizzard which fast approached.

32 million pounds is what it took Chelsea to plunder Eden from the gardens of Lille. This coupled with a two hundred thousand pound per week wages, would according to Di-Matteo bring success and keep Roman happy for ages. But while Chelsea and a whole lot of clubs were busy splashing the cash, the LIBOR scandal had made the Barclay’s Bank franchise suffer a deep gash. Yes the primary sponsors of the Premier League were reeling, while we were having the poster boy’s unveiling. But Chelsea aren’t alone. For Manchester City have created enough of a furore.They have finally got the the Premier League trophy adorned with blue ribbons, but after having dispensed with money to the tune of nearly a billion, only on transfer fees and wages.

United, on their part, could not be left behind. They spent a whooping 73 million pounds for RVP, leaving us to wonder whether this was Danny Welbeck’s career’s RIP. No wonder England struggles in International competitions, because of a lack of patience and opportunity to play at the highest level. Coming to  the KOP which has been plundering clubs closer back home. Hefty prices  have  been paid for British players, and when they have not lived up to their billing, more players have been added for foolish money, rather than the squads being trimmed. While a certain Arsenal, like a diligent student, somehow manages to crack the Top four riddle every-time while exercising austerity, clearly the Professor having a ‘spur’-ing effect on them.

Meanwhile in Spain, where jobs are not available, the duo some of Barcelona and Madrid keep on recruiting people even though they may be well stocked  already. New Galacticos are presented to the Madridistas, and ‘smart’ acquisitions continue in Catalunya for ‘bargain’ prices, while Malaga the Spanish Manchester City, faces an impending crisis.

All these clubs are separated by their jersey colors, their style of play and all, but what unites them is hope. Hope of plying their trade in the Champions League season after season, and the thrills and magic of the nights like Moscow and Istanbul aren’t the only reasons.

For let’s face it, football in today’s world is more of a business than a sport. Oligarch and Tycoons spend fortunes on clubs so that they can rake in profits in the longer run. And we all know how important visibility, which ultimately leads to the establishment of a brand image, is for selling yourself. And the Champions League does just that. It gives global recognition, elevates you to an elite-level, while ensuring that your coffers remain full. It introduces the viewers to unheard names like Apoel Nicosia, while helping more established names like Manchester United expand their presence in markets previously untapped like Moscow.

This ensures that the clubs maximize profit while UEFA enhances its global-image. To reap you must sow, investment is paramount to growth. Thus football clubs have to pay exorbitant prices for talented players, to ensure that they have a very good chance of playing in Europe. Even smaller clubs like Sunderland splurge 12 million pounds on unproven players like Steven Fletcher, in the hope that he will help them qualify for at least the Europa League, the Champions League’s poorer cousin. Thus the clubs put youth development on hold, while they search for talent around the globe. Besides there is something more than hope that makes these clubs identical, it is the looming dark clouds of debt.

Debts which would make any organization fret, but these clubs treat them like an empty threat. Debts accrued year after year due to their unrestrained ‘window shopping.’

But lest the clubs forget, they would do well to remember LEEDS. For the club represented the ultimate failed dream. One season, they were rubbing shoulders with the elite, and the next year they were playing in complete obscurity, all owing to their European ambitions. It tried to achieve too much, too soon, by taking too much risks. Portsmouth FC, the winners of the 2008 FA cup too spring to mind, a club which held Milan to a 2-2 draw could not manage to hold onto its players because its financial policies were flawed.

Thus UEFA the Zeus of the footballing world, is angry with the petulant mortals, who have violated its code of conduct, and are also harming themselves in the process. And just like elders being strict with children, it is trying to steal their thunder to correct their blunder. Their whip is the FFP, whose lash may turn out to be very harsh. FFP also represents  three letters which quieten down’s Wenger’s temper. In essence, the FFP is  UEFA’s tool to reduce economic disparity, while at the same time ensuring that clubs spend in co-relation to what they earn, thus helping them to break-even.With owners not allowed to bail out their clubs in terms of loaning shares to generate revenue, a more frugal-minded approach will have to be employed, which will essentially make sure that clubs will not be able to ‘stock’ players, if it causes financial imbalance, which is essentially what happens now a days.

This will further lead to greater accessibility to talented players in the transfer market, and more number of clubs will be able to afford their services ensuring that the big boys do not get to pick whomsoever they want, though players could lose out on lucrative contracts in the process. With no restriction on the amount of spending on the youth academy, and the infrastructure facilities, both the national teams and the viewers experience as a whole will benefit.

Having begun in 2011-12, clubs will be expected to  break even by 2017, and if they don’t comply, then from 2014 onwards, they can kiss their Champions League ambitions good-bye. The policies incorporated seem noble in intention but may prove difficult when it comes to their implementation.

For Mr Platini,  unknown to you a storm may be brewing up, your valiant efforts may go in vain, for your supposed boon may just turn out be yours and UEFA’s bane.

21 st May, 2015: The Champions League final is being contested in Rome. But the usual uproar is missing. The Uefa officials look bemused. There’s not much crowd to cheer. And then the anthem plays. The team names are prominently visible on the board, it is CFR Cluj Vs Apoel Nicosia.

21st May, 2015: San Siro is jam-packed. It seems nobody is afraid of being ransacked. The players walk out of the tunnel. You can see reds and an army of whites. But a familiar background score is missing. This has to be a friendly, but it infact is the Super League final. It is Manchester United vs Real Madrid.

Well, in the battle between IPL and the ICL, BCCI’s strong-hand tactics ensured that the IPL trumped the ICL. But in the case of European football, the equations are far  more complex, fates more entwined. If the ‘super-clubs’ need UEFA for valuable money and ‘recognition’ in form of their brand enhancement, then UEFA needs them for the sponsorships and ticket sales which will enable it to function efficiently. The Champions League final is made bigger by the teams involved. Be it the all England final Moscow final, or an intriguing El-Classico Semi-final, these are the matchups which make the normal fan sit- up and take notice. Thus UEFA needs to be a little careful before implementing their ‘stringent- measures’, lest these clubs break away to form a super-league of their own. And dwelling on past experiences, in 1992 a certain PREMER LEAGUE had been established, and look where it stands now dwarfing the FA by its giant presence.

The Platini-led UEFA has always been an advocate for reduced disparity between clubs (especially between the ones belonging to the big and smaller leagues) and we all would love to see football prosper in these nations. But let’s not forget that we all enjoy the under-dog’s day out. Thus fairytale cup runs are embedded in footballing folk-fore, they bring back a certain romanticism back into the game.

But the fan would rather see a DAVID vs GOLIATH, or a GOLIATH vs GOLIATH, rather than two DAVIDS fighting it out for the pinnacle in club football. Fans are as it is displeased with sky-rocketing ticket prices and changes proposed in the EURO CUP from 2016, thus UEFA needs should tread cautiously lest they alienate the fans.

The FFP can effectively act as a double-edged sword, while the future of our game hangs in the balance, we can only pray  to the GODS.

Packed up. Time to move on?

Sixteen years have gone so fast. The ship is shaky, for it has lost it sturdy mast. Well as for the man, he gave it his all, till his very last. The irony with VVS Laxman’s retirement from Test cricket is that it has brought more joy and relief to Australian faces than evoking a sense of loss on behalf of their Indian counterparts. The gentleman as always, came about quietly, played along contently, and left on a sombre note, minus the furore.

But as the sun sets on his career, Indian Cricket may get a rude awakening, for it has well and truly lost a leader, a leader of a clan to which only he belonged. Tigers can be bred, walls can be rebuilt. But artists who can seamlessly carve out beautiful artefacts while smearing themselves with mud, cannot be replicated. Their talent is rare, for even without listening they can answer people’s prayers. They go about their chores with minimum of fuss, seemingly unaware of their own powers, and the impact that they can have, the change that  they can bring. The people are just as happy to turn a blind eye towards their situation, for they are seemingly interested only in the creation and not the creator.

But now that he is gone, having left a glaring hole in the middle, Team India may find it hard to crack the complex riddle. Having started as an opener vested with the responsibility to lay a solid foundation, he ended up almost always having to steer a sinking ship close to safety. His batting average of a shade above 45 may seem average when compared to the “Master” and the “Wall”, but his batting exploits when following on , an ignominy  too hard to take for most batsmen even usurped those of the “Don”.

Laxman had this gift, this ability to effortlessly bail out the team on his back, from near calamity,  a trait shared with only a  few like Micheal Bevan (who did it in the shorter format of-course).

“I hope his back’s pretty sore for next week as well and he can’t play.” Ricky Ponting.

Be it the 167 at Sydney, the 89 at Port Elizabeth, or the herculean 281 at the Eden, which heralded an new era for Indian Cricket as the nearly-men transformed into cadets. In tense situations, he would always be the tight-rope walker. While others would struggle, confused as to how to go about their innings, Laxman would keep moving on at his pace, unfazed. While others would seemingly shut down shop, he would flick the ball ‘dangerously’ on the on-side, when it was meant to be hit on the off-side thus keeping the scorecard running, something which he himself was not very fond of.  The bowler would always feel that he had a chance to get him out, but he himself would never be in doubt. Elegance galore, his exquisite wrist-work has become a part of the cricketing folklore. It wasn’t only about the hits, hits as they never were, more like caresses, but about the calm he exuded. A calm which used to bring about a belief amongst his comrades, who as fate would have it were mostly tail-enders uneasy at the crease.

If you get Dravid, great. If you get Sachin, brilliant. If you get Laxman, it’s a miracle.” Brett Lee.

Yes, we have all heard about the importance of the openers, the responsibility of the number three, the best man at number four, and the number five’s right to play freely, but with VVS at number six, tt was a position about which the management did not need to think, for they had no problems to fix. From the cute cameos, to the monumental epics, from the rightly paced, to the saving grace he could do it all.

Before a certain Dhoni, India had wicket-keepers which truth be told were their for their exploits behind the stumps, rather than their expertise at their front. This rendered the number six position to be of strategic importance. For the man walking in at number six, was  the final frontier, which if breached would expose the not so pleasant under-belly of the team.  In this respect VVS did a commendable job, for he always added invaluable runs to the board with the tail-enders in tow, even helping India win the Mohali test match with a last wicket stand with Ojha.

Moving on to the position beside the keeper, the slips. A position generally occupied by trusted veterans, with hardened hands. And Laxman had surely painted his hands aplenty with the red cherry, taking a healthy 135 catches during his sojourn. His assured presence in the slips, where margin for errors is minimum will be sorely missed.

But all is not gloomy. For life moves in cycles. Just like ‘Virat’ looks ready to emulate the colossal wall, VVS’s exit provides a window of opportunity to the young brigade aplenty. Cheteshwara Pujara with a proven domestic track record has just signalled his arrival, with a masterful century against the Kiwis at Laxman’s  home-ground.  S.Badrinath is a seasoned campaigner, with the necessary patience and nous to thrive in a ‘Testing’ scenario. Suresh Raina for once, can get an opportunity to replicate his ODI form in the longer format although he still needs to work hard against the short-ball. Rohit Sharma is brimming with talent, but needs to apply himself a lot more and readjust his stroke-play to suit the rigours of the 5 day game. While the prodigal son Yuvraj Singh‘s inclusion may give a lift to everyone involved and help him realise his dream of excelling in test cricket, although his health is a big factor. And how about Ambati Rayudu adding some  Hyderabadi flavour?

All in all, there are many pretenders to the throne. But in reality Laxman never sat on one. He was just like his mythological namesake, a subtle contributor to the Cricketing Gods.

Van the man or just another sham?

8th April 2012.

Six weeks left, there’s not much left to row. Manchester United go eight points ahead, the title is theirs for sure, for Manchester City has just  been mowed.

13 th May 2012.

The roller-coaster title race had come to a halt. The dream had been shattered. Elation had given way to a feeling of vacuum. The truth was finally sinking in. Puffed up chests had been deflated, the high rise shoulders had drooped, For Manchester City had performed the ultimate coup. The noisy neighbours had creeped in silently and seduced Sir Alex’s long time girlfriend. And alas she had followed suit, clearly impressed by City’s relentless pursuit. It’s not that she hadn’t had flings before, for in the past she had been swept away by Chelsea‘s allure and Arsenal‘s grandeur. But this time it was different. It was hard to take, for  the transgressions had come from closer back home. He simply could not allow her to go. She had to return. He had to woo her back, otherwise City could permanently make her adorn their rack.

It happened that day.

17th August 2012.

The twentieth solemnization had to be completed. With the number 20 adorning his back, he was signed for he would be Sir Alex’s self-appointed best man.

But had United, in times of desperation turned to a man they themselves did not fully understand? Had they been blinded by a false dawn last season? Or was it merely a signal of intent, a way to announce to the footballing world that we have not lost our charm, and that the theatre of dreams can still attract the very best in the business rather than churning out stars who leave for bigger brands?

At first glance, RVP’s move seems well suited. He has the deadly-touch, the know how, the finesse, the uncanny ability to find the net with unerring accuracy, and a certain Dutch connection which has only served United too well in the past. Besides ‘Roo’ and ‘Van’ together could surely replicate a certain ‘Ruud-Van’, and terrorise defences and opposition fans. But on peeling of a few layers, it seems he does not fit the plan.

Given he had won the most prestigious individual honours in English football last season. Given he had come close to emulating Ronaldo’s feat of 31 goals in 2007-08 season, given he was on his way to become an Arsenal great, but wait there’s still a lot to narrate.

Comparisons with King Eric have been ripe, but let’s not forget that United already have a talisman, who wears the number 1o jersey with immense pride. Besides, King Eric was epic, he was an enigmatic character. He demanded respect and his colossal figure had shielded the youth back then from harsh criticism and galvanised them completely.   RVP can never do the same. His transfer, on the other hand, could act as a big detriment to the burgeoning career of Danny Welbeck.

It has been repeated countless times that United lost the league because they had scored eight fewer goals than Manchester City, and that RVP will ease the pressure on Rooney upfront. But people seem to have forgotten the 3-4 vs Blackburn, the 3-3 vs Chelsea and the earth-shattering 1-6 vs Manchester City. These results were a far cry from the times when United used to be an impregnable unit marshalled by warriors like Owen Hargreaves. Granted that in football if you out-score the opponents you win, but the demanding nature of the League means that you have to be ready to grind out results.

The 1999 treble winning team was an epitome of that, their desire to win was unparalleled. While RVP does not lack the ability to conjure up magic with his boots and burst the net’s roof, still this sojourn will be a true test of his character and his mettle. He will have to adjust to a new system, show greater flexibility, and be ready to play as a lone striker (his preferred role) or as a part of a two man strike-force.  With all due respect, last season he was playing for a team striving for Champions League qualification; this season he will be expected to help United in their quest for salvation.

Besides, a poor showing at Euro 2012, where a lot more was expected of him, hasn’t clearly helped his case either, despite him having taken quite a breather for the pre-season. The pressure on him will be much greater, room for mistakes much lesser. Last season he was the main man, he was the captain, the free-kick specialist, the go-to man, this season he  may well have to be the Robin to our Batman (Rooney). Scrutiny will be at an all-time high. Every defeat will be magnified. Questions like what if the 24 million pounds were spend on an anchorman or a marauding left-back will begin to surface.

As a United fan, I can only hope that he truly turns out to be ‘van the man’ and ‘staam’-p his mark on the team, so that come next May, the foundations of a long lasting relationship between United and the Premier league trophy are well and truly laid, and as for Sir Alex he would have found his long lost soul-mate.

The Head-mistress’ roar had barely subsided, when a group of boys escaped, to partake their own actions, hurling themselves towards the multitude of joy-rides and swings on offer. There was a desire to get there first, while helping your friends along the way. No malice, no deceit. You come first, you go first.

Meanwhile a group of girls were honing their badminton skills, though the absence of a net did play a part in prolonging the rallies.”You are watching the zonal badminton champions,” beamed the head-mistress, a feeling of pride and elation having engulfed her. And why wouldn’t it, for her saplings had blossomed  into sturdy trees bearing fruits. “I hope, you won’t mind officiating  the events, will you”?  asked the head-mistress. “We will be glad to do so”, we replied in unison, having clearly forgotten about the manuscripts we had brought with us and the time constraint on hand.

It was 15th  August. Independence Day. An important day. A national holiday. A day where our passion is re-ignited, our resolve is strengthened and we feel rejuvenated and reinvigorated. There is an urge to do something good, good for the society, serve our nation and its people on this day. That is how we got here in the first place, for we had decided to visit this orphanage and teach the children some valuable ideals. But being the sports fanatics we were, the offer was to good to refuse and we decided to “let the games begin”.

First up we had volley-ball, and as per the norm the ladies got us under way. Their was an impressive exchange of shots, though again the glaring absence of the net was quite clearly felt. We were cheering and egging on both teams, to give it the best they could. One player in particular caught our eye. She had a short-frame, coupled with a lanky appearance which aided in her swift movement and cat-like reflexes. She was extremely skinny, but ‘boy oh boy’, she could pack a punch.

The sweltering sun was  heavily bearing down on us, clearly acting as a hindrance to correct officiating. All three of us were on a different page, luckily for us the players did not create an outrage.

“I think we should donate a net,” was all I could mutter before something startled us. The play had come to a halt, and the girls were taking of their dupattas. We thought that they might have been acting as an hindrance to proper play, but were amazed to see an act of complete ingenuity, for the girls had created a dupatta-chain and  were now planning to use it as a pseudo-net! Besides this net comprising of a wide array of colours, glistening in the sun, presented a stark contrast to the usual  dull white one. Besides the knots on this net showed a coming together of humanity, representing a sense of togetherness , rather than acting as a divide between two foes. The play resumed, the cheers returned, the game become more engrossing and thankfully officiating a lot less taxing! But in reality, I was feeling ashamed of my transgressions while at play, on seeing the truthfulness and good-will on show. There was no infighting, no hurling of accusations, no disputes, and no fake calls. There was a feeling of let bygones be bygones, and let the game roll on.

In the end there had to be winner and a loser, but the whole viewing experience had been enriched by the innocence and commendable spirit of the players. During the break, the headmistress enlightened us on the running of the institution. “We have to keep them focused, for if allowed they could play all day.” Suddenly a boy ran past us at a frantic pace, hurling dust all around and receiving a scolding from the head-mistress.

After the girls had all the fun, it was time for the boys to start their run, something which they would never shun.They chirruped here and there, but to avoid any mistakes they had to take some care. It seemed bragging rights were up for grabs, and they were ready to battle it out in the mud and sand.

The surroundings was complimenting their spirit perfectly. There was a rawness in their approach, there was no fear of a reproach. They were brimming with energy, just like the hot-springs rising from the rocks, if only someone could channelise this fountain, the fountain which could easily fill up the drying sporting reservoir of our nation. There were quite a few falls, but someone besides you was always there to lend a helping hand, and arrest the pall. While their never-say-die attitude was spot on.

After the match all enmity was forgotten, the barriers were dissolved and hand in hand they started to walk. While the winners were being felicitated, and the runners-up were having their sweet-tooth cravings satiated, I was clearly feeling alienated. Alienation brought about by my actions, actions in the midst of my sporting battles. I have always had this difficulty in distinguishing an enemy from and opponent, resulting in a sense of hatred and bitterness towards the side opposition when I am losing, an inability to let go of my vanity on being defeated, in the process losing out on the fun, and losing out on a potential friends that I could have made.

It was time to click photographs, and then say our “good-byes”, with our scriptures off-course which reminded me of the   irony of the whole situation. I had come to tutor these children, but had been tutored to instead. Some important lessons had been learned and some inhibitions had been shed, only their medium of instruction-sports had made learning a joy to behold.

P.S: I did not post any pictures, because the imagery in my mind is so vivid that no photograph would do justice to it.

You can sit down now

The world has been a witness to many a great sportsmean. We have had electrifying performers, brooding perfectionists, the ‘djokers’ in the pack and men with ingenuity and skill-sets embedded into their genes. This vast array of personalities and the epic clashes between them is what makes sports-watching such an intriguing prospect.

“The one thing that I really dislike, is being alone” – Cristiano Ronaldo

But there is one man who stands aloof and stands tall. One man who never lies or hides. One man who, unlike so many other sportsmen, does not fake modesty. One man who revels in the appreciation of his artistry. One man who has enhanced the legend of the number seven, and if his detractors could have it their way, they would have this prodigal son removed from the footballing heaven.

Alan Parry (BBC Sports and Sky Sports commentator):
– “He’s a gift from heaven, he is truly a gift from heaven. Whatever he touches turns to gold.”

He polarises opinion like none other in this world. People either love him or  hate him for what he does, but nobody likes him for who he is. His fans love him for his abilities and powers, the amazing skills  which he can  employ to completely decimate the opposition. While his detractors hate him for his so called petulance and perceived arrogance. But nobody likes him. Because liking would mean admiration. Admiration leads to inspiration. And people can’t follow his example, because the terrain is too rocky, the path full of abuse and ridicule, a path on which you walk alone. And it is brought about by his utter disregard for false humility and concealment of his true emotions.

“No one did what I did last season and for this, I deserve the Golden Boot and why not the Best World Player award?”-Cristiano Ronaldo

Amidst the barrage of hate and scorn the man rolls on. “For your love makes him stronger, your hate unstoppable.” Very often he has been accused  of unneccesarily mocking defenders with his shimmies and step-overs which rarely lead to an end-product.  But few realise the courage it takes to exhibit your skills, to show confidence in your abilities in a pressure-cooker situation. The bravery to go all-out and lose yourself to the rhythm of your own heartbeat, while capturing the ones of his ‘lovers’, the rhythm quelling the deafening jeers aimed at him by his haters; The jeers arising from legitimate fears. Fear for the havoc that this beast of a man can wreck on their time, the ‘termination’ that this well-drilled machine can carry out. The endurance to to stand up after being literally swept of your feet by a ‘knock-out’ blow handed over by your opponents.

Rio Ferdinand (Manchester United defender):
– “When you see someone like him coming on, with his great pace and desire to take someone on, it is a boost.”

The greatest accusations labelled at him are that he is not a big-game player, and that he is an incapable leader. His public perception brings out the hypocrisy prevalent in man’s true nature. How the greatest of contributions are forgotten and the smallest of ‘follies’ are over-hyped.  People have a short memory. For they easily forget his silencing of Camp Nou, his thumping header at the Mestalla, the leap of faith at Luzhniki, the dive against the Czech Republic and a plenty more.

As a leader he is always put forward as someone who does not give a damn about his team, and never assumes responsibility for its failures. What people forget is his belief in his actions rather than in his pep-talks. He doesn’t marshall or rally the troops from behind, but stands up and fights like a soldier at the forefront. His dedication towards winning is peerless, his obsession for perfection bordering on the inhumane. He epitomises the saying of help yourself, uplift yourself by performing your duty, and in the process others will be helped to. That is exactly what he does. His individual  genius propels his team to the  pantheons of success.

He is a rare breed, one that demands the limelight, rather than being a sidekick. He is unique, due to his openness and frankness. He  never hides his private life, rendering it no different from an open book. But on the playing field, he is an illusion who puts his opponents under delusions. His free-kicks powered by his air-filled lungs may not be the most accurate, but always puts the keeper in a dilemma. And that is the aura of him. He will proclaim that he will do it, and strangely you know too that he will, for he never lies.

He has that ability to conjure up something from the blue, the ability to get your adrenaline high. His pursuit of glory is unrelenting, it is the fuel for his tank. He has build his legacy on only one thing. And that is victory, while inciting  hope for victory in people who believe in him.  They say it’s hope that kills you, not fear. The light at the end of the tunnel is what propels you. You might fall, might fail but if you don’t try you will never prevail.

George Best (Manchester United former player):
– “The great thing about him, is that he will not quit.”

People proclaim a certain Argentinian maestro to be a saint. A god in fact. A proponent of how the beautiful game is meant to be played. They say he infuses a sense of playfulness and ease that makes football a joy to watch. They say he does not care. And I completely agree with that.

But for me, CR7 is perfectly human. And that too a flawed one. He strives to excel, to break out of his shell, and has an ego that needs massaging. He wants acclaim and appreciation from his fellow mates, the society in which he lives in.

Don’t we all need that? Wouldn’t personal satisfaction be incomplete without social acceptance? We all have that urge to be distinctly individual and portray that we don’t care, but at the bottom of our hearts we know the truth. CR7 epitomises this epic battle between being accepted for acting same, and being castigated for going your individual way, thus leading to a connection with him on a more personal level.

Besides. He can never be guilty of lying, for he is too proud to contemplate trying. He can never fake it, for he has given up too much of himself to make it.

]]> http://www.sportskeeda.com/2012/08/11/he-never-lies-cr7-uncovered/feed/ 21 212618132 http://www.sportskeeda.com/2012/08/09/shower-of-blessings-uniteds-moscow-triumph/ http://www.sportskeeda.com/2012/08/09/shower-of-blessings-uniteds-moscow-triumph/#comments Thu, 09 Aug 2012 15:56:20 +0000 rahulmohan11 http://www.sportskeeda.com/?p=573683

Where it all began.

It’s that time of the year again. Your eyes automatically wander outside the window to view the increasing dark that grows unto you. The room is well lit, the teacher is not a dim-wit, but the allure of the impending downpour hypnotises you like none other. “I think it’s going to rain”, my friend whispers into my ear, only for a sudden flash of lightning, roaring at its loudest, instilling immediate fear. And then it begins. You can feel a refreshing wetness on your face, a soothing influence that you always crave. “I simply love it when it rains”, I reply to my friend who quite clearly is not amazed.

The word rain evokes a myriad of images: Prosperity in the form of shining fields, traffic jams, angry mothers beckoning their children to stop playing and come inside (lest they fall sick), a huddle of paper boats amidst the puddles, love-birds walking hand in hand, getting drenched in their emotions, friends playing tug of war with the umbrella. And how can we forget the pakoras and the samosas with the irreplaceable tea.

But rain, for me, signifies ecstasy, and a  flurry of emotions due to triumph, triumph over adversity. It brings back memories which lead to elation, inexplicable joy, happiness that is unbridled, and a skin full of goosebumps. For the rains transport me back to 21st May, 2008, The Luzhniki stadia, Moscow. The occasion is magnanimous, the show on offer breathtaking; for it is the clash of the English juggernauts. Chelsea‘s first foray in the limelight, while for Manchester United, their third. This night was special, and the United players had to make it special. Forty years had passed since that magical night in Wembley, when Benfica had been tamed. It was the centenary of United’s first league triumph. It was not all rosy too. For  time may have moved on, but in Manchester, the clock had stopped. Fifty years ago a tragedy had conspired to rip off United’s soul, but United had passed the test of faith and endured the suffering to come a long way. History was beckoning, a new chapter had to be written, but the gods could definitely conspire.

The time was ripe. The man of the hour had arrived. But unfortunately he could not outsmart Cech, for he did guess it right. The shining knight looked dejected. He walked back towards the red-army, who still had not lost hope. But in reality the battle was no longer theirs to win, but one which now only  the blues could lose.

Another one went in, rather Lampard drilled it in. Hargreaves repeated the feat, while Ashley Cole just about managed to squeeze it in. Nani had to do it, and he did, he scored.

Terry lifts the ball and walks towards the spot, while Cristiano can barely watch. The referee blows. Surely the ‘Roman’ Army will prevail, but who would have thought of it: John Terry, of all people, fails! The water-logged pitch had played its part in the rumble. John Terry had taken a tumble. His head between his knees, he cries. The rain drops are unable to wipe the anguish deep within him. But for United, this was a symbol, a symbol to rise from the ashes and triumph.

Up stepped Anelka. You could make out from his demeanour that clearly, something was lacking. His shoulders were drooped, his stance had nonchalance written all over it. Van Der Sar guessed it right, and that was the very direction in which he had dived.The ball cannoned of his gloves and did not go in. Manchester United were now champions. The United players ran towards the sideline, to hug and congratulate each other, while the Chelsea players remained behind on the pitch. Terry was still sobbing uncontrollably, mentally scarred by the missed opportunity.

The Chelsea camp had an air of ‘what if?’ around them. What if Drogba’s shot had rebounded in and not cannoned out? What if he had kept his cool, and not unleashed himself on Vidic?

As Sir Bobby Charlton ascended the steps, it indeed appear poetic. He probably could not feel the same strength in his knees as back in 1968,  but the glow on his face was too radiant to ignore. That night will always be remembered for Ryan Giggs‘ induction in a league of his own, and justice being done to Paul Scholes after he had cruelly missed the 1999 final.

It had been a divine intervention. The Gods had been indeed very kind.  Manchester United had been showered with blessings, while one man was left distraught, wandering alone with his own musings. The fury and beauty of nature is  best epitomised  by the rain. It may appear to be a party-spoiler, but on this occasion the rains had been our guest of honour.

It should have felt perfectly normal. Her run was flawless, her jump majestic and her arch inch perfect. As she plunged into the waters, her team afforded the cameras a smile. They knew what was to come. But did she? Standing atop the podium, she appeared a picture of grace and calm. But her eyes were speaking the unspoken. They had a glimmer of pride, but were shrouded in anguish, and were clearly seeking answers. But who would answer them?

Wu Minxia, 26 was now a sextuple Olympic champion, something that not many could boast of. It’s not that other athletes don’t have to make sacrifices, it’s just that hers had happened without her knowing of it. She may have rocked the world, but her world had been rocked too. Her ‘golden’ day was to have no silver lining. She was informed of her grandparents demise and her mother’s terminal illness by none other than her father, who clearly believed in the in the ‘country before self’.

But what about the country itself? What about its feelings towards its heroes? A lot has already been said and written about the Chinese Government and it’s ‘stringent-policies’ involving a strict training regimen for their Olympians. Olympics, for one, raise the very important question as to whether we are humans first, competitors later or are we humans because we have this urge to overcome all competition?

But what makes Olympics, such a ‘big deal’ for them? Is it sporting supremacy? National pride and honour? Desire to be atop the summit in every venture? Or is it to indicate that they are the the true proponents of communism by taking up the Soviet Union’s mantle as the USA’s greatest sporting foe?

The reasons aside, the amount of effort and resources put in to train the athletes is huge. Approximately $400-500 million were spent in the years leading to the 2008 Beijing Olympics, for around 150- 200 ‘elite’ athletes. Compare this to the USA, where $200-250 million were spent to train a 2500-3000 people contingent.

Is this a contrast of their ambitions, or just a different set of working ideologies? Or is it the case of implementation of forced will against promotion of the free spirit? It is believed that sports should never be thrust upon somebody, lest they lose their love and respect for it. But the only common link between the Ronaldos and the Sharapovas is that they were gifted a football or a tennis racquet at an age when they could barely walk, and these instruments became their life-long partners. It is not just the initiation that matters, but the motivation to practice everyday until you become a champion. And that motivation can only be fuelled by inspiration. Patriotism, even in its misplaced form, kindles the fire, thus inspiring athletes to fight and strive for glory.

The Rings of Fire

Legend has it that the Chinese Government scouts young talent right from their formative years. The promising candidates are then shipped away to ‘military boot camps’ and undergo a Spartan training regimen to ensure harmony within the camp. Here, minimal family contact and a non-existent social-life are the norm. These places preach the ideals of only work, only dream, only believe; believe that you will sweep gold. The Government bears all the expenses and ‘looks after’ the young kids. Meanwhile, in the US, you prove your credentials and essentially climb the ladder to get a look-in. All the contracted athletes are funded by the USOC and other promoters and publicists.

Both systems may lead to the same outcome – victory, but the distinction lies in the fact that one makes you a champion, while the other coerces one from you. But before we start criticising Chinese policies regarding training as being too brutal and inhumane, we need to take a closer look back home and try and set our house in order first. Boasting a similar population but an entirely different framework, in India, the saying ‘Everything is Okay’ works. This apathy translates into a barrage of ‘ridicule’ and a motley jumble of medals. Patriotism is contagious, but somebody needs to spread the virus first. Not only is the funding not at par with China, it is also the mentality that involves settling for second-best. Treating victories as lotteries rather than possible realities, we essentially make failure an option.

Apart from that, the furore regarding the AITA and the players was shameful and dealt in the usual fashion – the ‘players will deal with it themselves, why get our hands dirty’ way – which ultimately led to our demise. Think about it, would China have allowed such a blemish? Can they be held to ransom by their athletes? No, because the athletes play for China and not for their personal gratification.

People believe that by adopting China’s model, individuality is compromised and players become emotionless glory-hunters. What people fail to realise is that the athletes transcend a level, they become something bigger, they become one with their country, ready to employ any means, to undergo any misery to triumph and drape their flag with glory.

The void in Wu Minxia’s life may be hard to fill, but when she stood on the podium she was not alone. The world had stood up and taken notice. Her tribulations may have scarred her, but the gold glittering beside her breast-pocket signified her undying commitment to uphold the trust reposed in her by her country. She had chipped away a part of her humanity to earn the elusive immortality.

They say to rise you must fall.