The joys of street football

After having spent several decades watching football from press boxes, I have discovered the magic of the game which brings joy to its countless players in the most unlikeliest of places: parks, streets or any other patch of space left open to the sky by builders.

In fact, this is not a discovery at all. In reality, this magic has always been there; it’s just that I have only realized the full force of it now, as I watch kids in the age group of 5 to 15 years dribble and pass every evening on a dusty grassless patch of land no bigger than a tennis court in the place where I live. Often keeping me company is a gentleman, pushing 90, who nostalgically recalls his own days as a boy when he would play the game barefooted on the unpaved street near his home. And how he enjoyed doing so.

The players divide themselves into teams in such a way that the opposing sides are equally balanced. Except for that cardinal sin of ‘hand ball’, there are no other rules to follow in these ‘street leagues’. It’s just one mad scramble for the ball, but with the bigger boys taking due care that the little ones don’t get hurt. The dribbling skills and body feint techniques that the young footballers have acquired are truly amazing. But that is only natural. You have to be a good dribbler of the ball in order to keep possession of it on an under-sized ground. To prevent damage to cars parked nearby, residents have chipped in to provide wire netting. On occasions when someone kicks the ball over the netting the guilty player is made to sit out for a few minutes as a punishment awarded by mutual consent. There is no referee to hand out the punishment yet the rule is strictly observed.

In the absence of coaches, the players are self-taught. Six-year-old Neel wiggles his hips to get the ball past a bigger opponent. But he gets a sharp rebuke if he overdoes the dribble. “Oye, Messi mat bano!” Moonis, 12, can juggle the ball from right foot to left and back and receive it on his chest. He can execute back-heeled passes on demand. Where else does one get such wholesome fun to watch? The little ones have acquired the skills watching the stars on the TV.

These timeless matches don’t get over when the players are tired, but only when mothers turn up to remind the children it is time to get back to their lessons and do their school homework. But it is not always to remind children of homework that mothers make an appearance. On one occasion a lady turned up with a cake and sweets for the budding footballers. It was her son’s birthday. What better way to celebrate it?

Another neighbourhood park is taken over every evening by boys from a nearby ‘madrasa’ who uninhibitedly enjoy their football in their skull caps and pajamas. Call it pajama football, if you like. No football boots or shorts for them. So what? All they need to enjoy their evenings is an inflated ball. For them the fun comes to an end when they hear the call for the evening prayer.

That also reminds me of the days when I enjoyed observing a bunch of Afghan boys, forced to flee their homes rendered unsafe by the violence there, playing football in their baggy ‘salwars’. Playing football was their way to forget the conflicts raging in their country, their faces pink with effort. They are no longer to be seen. They must have back gone back to the country they were forced to flee. But peace or war, there can be no better way to spend your evenings than a game of football. I was not surprised that Afghanistan could field a team good enough to enter the final of the recent SAFF tournament final.

When the great Pele was on a visit to London last August he eagerly accepted an invitation to 10, Downing Street for a kickabout with street league children on the manicured lawns of British Prime Minister David Cameron’s official residence. All footballers in Brazil are born street players, Pele said. He himself was one. What is true of Brazil is also true of cities with teeming population like Delhi. Let’s hope and pray the city produces its own version of Pele.