Football and Friendship

Two Friends united by their love for Argentina, Manchester United and East Bengal

This is a story of friendship and football. Or football and friendship. Or perhaps it's not a story at all. On the occasion of two months of Argentina's historic triumph at the 2022 FIFA World Cup, I ask you to accompany me for a trip down the memory lane, to an entirely different era. 

The year is 1998. Argentina are preparing to run riot at the World Cup in France. We have Roberto 'El Raton' Ayala in defense. Ariel Ortega is the new Diego Maradona. Juan Sebastian Veron is pulling the strings in midfield. What could go wrong? Well, everything, it turns out. 

The dream crashes against the Dutch in the quarterfinals. Ortega receives his marching order after head butting Edwin van der Saar. Dennis Bergkamp toys with Ayala and scores a typical worldie in the 90th minute. 

Following the defeat, thousands of miles away, two Ninth Standard boys sit dejected at the Caesar School Assembly Hall. Two La Albiceleste supporters, with the colors sucked out of their world. What did me and Sauvik Dasgupta talk about that mundane morning years ago? The words are lost in the tides of time, although the tears hung around for quite a while. I can neither confirm nor deny that an over enthusiastic Brazil fan did make the day even more miserable for us. 

It was the start of an initial bitter journey, with little cause for rejoice. 

We sped through school, varied degrees of attentiveness in class. Playing pranks, getting admonished, forging unbreakable bonds. Friendships were made and broken on the school grounds on sultry afternoons. Our days were eventful and busy. Studies. Sports. Cultural Program. The Undertaker’s Choke Slam. Stone Cold Steve Austin’s Stunner. Badminton, Football, Basketball, Pen fights. Kick ups and Round kicks. Lucky Ali’s songs, especially Anjane Rahon Mein. 

But at the back of our hearts remained an ageless agony, a yearning. A dream. We craved to see Argentina win the World Cup, grief fortifying our bond by the day. There were perhaps muffled cheers when Angel Di Maria and Lionel Messi helped lift the Olympic Gold in 2008. For years we believed that would be our only moment of glory with the Argentina national team. 

Life went on. We did too. From desk drumming in class room to an amateur singer-guitarist pair. From Mohiner Ghoraguli to Fossils. Tomay Dilam to Ekla Ghar Amar Desh to Summer of ’69. Yet the wait continued. We celebrated the Copa America win, revelled in the Finalissima triumph. But it was still the Holy Grail of football that we craved. 

Little did we know that there was a golden end to the painful trip. Perhaps even an ode to a friendship steeped in Football. When you want something so bad in life, well, yeah... 

Two months ago, on this day, the wait ended. Gonzalo Montiel’s strike cured the heartbreak of '98. Maybe it put a smile across Roberto Ayala's face. Perhaps it made Ariel Ortega take a deep breath and finally relax. 

It also helped two friends rest their demons. Today I close my eyes and head back to that day almost 25 years ago. I walk through the green school gate, past Krishna Da's shop, the lush green ground to my left. I step across the old library and reach the end of the Auditorium. There I find two friends immersed in pain and I tell them it's okay to be sad. I tell them that their story does take a glorious turn. That their friendship will last longer than the pains. 

Because what is life without friends who help you cross the treacherous bends? 

So here I am, taking this moment to give a shout-out to this “Asshole” and all my other friends who have stuck around, making life worthwhile. Here’s to life and friendship, and of course, football.

N. B. - This picture was taken the last time we met, years ago at Lokopriyo Gopinath Bordoloi Airport in Guwahati for a brief chat. It has been republished without permission, without remorse, without apology, as friendship should be.

To Mesut Hancer and his daughter Irmak

 

Mesut Hancer clings on to Irmak

I don’t know you, Mesut Hancer Sir, but my heart goes out to you. How painful it must have been to hold Irmak’s cold, lifeless hand through the wreckage. How heavy her little fingers must have felt. How you must have yearned for one little sign of hope. To hear her voice again. To feel her palm wrap around your index finger one last time.

15 years of her life you held her close, protecting her, guiding her, ushering her through the crazy, cruel world. And yet on this day, this dreaded sense of helplessness creeping in through the corner of the door….

This is a moment every parent dreads, and it is a nightmare you are having to live.

There are no words to console, nothing can be said to make things right. To make the day a tad brighter. To numb the pain. To stop that hollow feeling in your chest. Time? Time’s healing power is overrated.

We look through the window and find our eyes moist. But you, my poor Sir, you are living that terrible dream that wakes us up in the middle of the night, breathless and in despair, scrambling for a glass of water.

It must be like walking through hell. Strolling barefoot over broken glass scattered on the ground. The air unbreathable. The sky overcast. Grey and dark.

To find the light of your life gone and gone forever. And to feel the helplessness of a parent, a father. To feel weak. Incapable of protecting your life’s most precious possession. For the father needs his child as much as the child needs his father. They are both feeble without each other’s warm embrace.

What is the value of life without someone worth living for? And yet we fail to decipher how brittle life can be. We chase material dreams and forget the fragile bonds that hold us together. Until someone’s sorrow bursts the cocoon. Like a simple picture of a poor father clinging on to his dead daughter.

It throws my life into perspective too. As I drop my child off to school, my fingers linger on his little hands a little longer. I reach ahead of time to pick him up. My heart melts when he rushes out the door with a big beaming smile. I hold his hands a little tighter, refusing to let go, as we head home.

What is life’s worth without the one you are willing to die for?

I don’t know you, Mesut Hancer Sir, but my heart goes out to you. My heart weeps for Irmak. I hope you both find peace.