Djokovic Rules, but Stan’s the Man!

The mood was set, the ambience was lit and the Philippe-Chatrier court was buzzing with excitement. For only the second time in 10 years would the prestigious Roland Garros be devoid of a certain Matador contesting in the final. His conqueror, Novak Djokovic, though was all set to script history.

Who is Novak Djokovic, you ask? Novak Djokovic is a beast, I reply.

He’s so much of a beast that the name “Djoker” does not suit him anymore. He’s dead serious on court, there’s no room for recreation and a lapse in work ethic is frowned upon by him. Gone are the days when a match was followed by an ebullient episode of mimicry. Gone are the grins, gone are the smirks!

It’s all down to brass tacks nowadays with him and his jovial smile seems to have lost its melodic charm.

At the other end is Stanislas Wawrinka. Who is Stan, you ask? Stan’s the man, I reply. Period!

All eyes are on this match. Mostly to see 8-time Grand Slam champion Djokovic complete his career Grand Slam. Roland Garros is the only tournament missing from his prodigious portfolio and what better way to get it than to tame the king of clay en route to it. Rafael Nadal fell to Djokovic’s wrath in the quarterfinal. Andy Murray was a victim in the semifinal. Who finer than Djokovic to win this one?

As Novak warms up on the court, we get to see the graphic on screen that shows his achievements during the year. Australian Open, Indian Wells, Miami, Monte Carlo, Rome. Too much of text to fit in one small aston on screen. Almost taunting the opponent in the most intimidating manner, it seems.

Then comes Wawrinka’s graphic. Chennai Open and Rotterdam. That’s it! Reaching the French Open final was a brilliant way to mark his erratic year. Winning it would be a dream come true for the Swiss.

Wawrinka did lose to Djokovic in the Australian Open semifinal earlier this year - a match that truly tested the fortitude of both players. However, today was a chance to negate the Melbourne heartache and scribble some Paris ecstasy. To do so, Wawrinka would have to derail the Serbian juggernaut.

“Time,” says the chair umpire and both players head towards their respective ends. The people at the court for the first time ever are not sure who to support. The last time when Nadal missed out, the crowd knew who they were backing. But, today, they’re torn! June 7th was the day in 2009 and June 7th is the day today. Federer completed his career Grand Slam that day. Would it be Djokovic’s turn today?

The second point of the first game shows a glimpse of what both players are made of. A 39-stroke daunting rally gets the 2015 final underway and promises some heart-stopping action in the sets to follow. Consistency is what made Djokovic who he is today and he displays a fine sense of flawless forehands. Wawrinka, meanwhile, just proves that he is an epitome of power-packed precision.

An unlucky error from Wawrinka gives Djokovic the break who then serves out the first set. He tries hard not to smile. “Not yet,” he thinks. Coach Boris Becker, whose immense aura has transformed an artist formerly known as ‘Djoker’ into an exhibit of beastly immorality, agrees. There still is a lot left to do.

15-40 in the second game of the second set and Djokovic was set to break Wawrinka early. The concealed smile on the Serb’s face was as revealing as the red clay on court. Grand Slam number nine was in reckoning. More importantly, Djokovic could smell the shoal of legends he would be a part of.

But little did Djokovic know that he would be smiling for a whole different reason 14 games later.

Never before has it happened that Djokovic has been on the receiving end of himself. But it was happening suddenly in front of the capacity crowd in Paris. Not only were Stan Wawrinka’s one-handed backhands ‘orgasmically’ scintillating, but they were also infringing Djokovic’s consistency with ease.

At 4-5 in the second, Djokovic starts to serve to stay in the set. Seemed like a pretty ordinary thing to do at the time. But Wawrinka was in no mood to let this one go the distance. Being 30-0 up, Djokovic throws the ball in the air and connects well. He feels good. His mind tells him “Good serve. Now rush to the net to finish this one off.” Djokovic does that only to be slapped in the face with a colossal backhand down the line.

“It’s ok. There’s still time to regroup,” thinks Djokovic. He serves again and this time Wawrinka’s stunning forehand down the line triggers Djokovic’s earthward plummet. “Bring it on,” murmurs Stan to himself. A jittery Becker adjusts himself in his seat. Things just got serious. It’s often a case of one big game that turns a match around and Becker somehow knows that this is that game for the Swiss.

In no time it’s set point for Wawrinka. After a rally that seemed to be ongoing till eternity, Djokovic finally hits his shot long. “What?” Djokovic asks himself while he tries to put up a show by spinning his racquet. Becker couldn’t help but stare helplessly into the abyss of oblivion.

Wawrinka turns back and looks towards his coach Magnus Norman. He points a finger to his head almost in a manner to acknowledge an intellectual regime that outsmarted the World No. 1 in stupendous manner. This was tennis at its cognitive best and no one could have executed it better.

To beat a person as grand as Novak Djokovic, one needs to fashion a strategy that is indeed very special. Of the three matches that Djokovic has lost this year, all came to men with one-handed backhands. Not only does that shot constrict the genius of Djokovic’s concrete defensive tactics, but it also creates an angle that is unmatched in supremacy if effectuated perfectly. And that is exactly what Wawrinka did!

Wawrinka’s “Come Awwnn” chants were beginning to get on Djokovic’s nerves. It was more than just a chant now. It was sheer passion. This is what a sport that is so close to one’s heart does to you. One could get the sense that deep down Djokovic knew that Wawrinka was unstoppable as everything that the Serb was throwing was being returned with unrivalled precision.

Drop shots were being destroyed with devious deft, forehands were being barraged with piercing backhands and future tennis players were being given a new video to learn the immaculate execution of a “down-the-line” shot. 14 games after the second game of the second set the smile on Djokovic’s face was back.

Only this time he knew that it was over. He knew that his dream was shattered.

Stanislas Wawrinka simply overpowered World No. 1 Novak Djokovic at the Roland Garros. That’s a line that has never been used against the 8-time Grand Slam champion.

Never!

Wawrinka did to Djokovic what the Serb has been doing to the world as of late. The 2014 Australian Open champion dictated points in a manner that even the great Roger Federer would be proud of. Being powerful and consistent is what lifted Djokovic to the pinnacles of success, but little did the world know that Wawrinka would exploit the same qualities to push the great man to the brink of a total blackout.

One can’t say that Djokovic did not deserve the Roland Garros title. In fact, the prowess of skill and constancy that he has displayed this year can still make him one of the greatest of all times. Unfortunately for him, Wawrinka was unreal and disturbingly good on Djokovic’s most important day.

In 2005, Djokovic was playing in a meager qualifying tournament for the Australian Open and Wawrinka won the Boy’s title at Roland Garros. 10 years later while Djokovic is a beast winning the Australian Open title for the 5th time, Wawrinka, in one of the greatest finals in French Open history, proved that Stan’s the Man!

Things will never be Red again!

“You always remember your first. But no one ever talks about their last. The last time you lace up your boots. The last time you walk out the tunnel. The last time you celebrate with your fans. I’ve always given everything. Every season. Every game. Every minute. I’ll do that one last time.”

It’s a day that everyone knew was coming. But no one quite knew how to prepare for it. Of course there was the traditional celebration planned - the guard of honour, enormous banners, colossal posters, strategic synchronization of placards, etc. But nothing could give justice when it came to commemorating the career of a staunch superstar.

Nothing could come even remotely close.

After 17 years, 708 games, 185 goals and 10 trophies, Steven Gerrard was set to make his 354th and final Anfield appearance. Tears would flow. Emotions would flare. And of course, a crucial link between Liverpool and its past would be severed. A link so priceless that even the Koh-I-Noor diamond seemed insignificant in front of it.

As the players lined up in the tunnel before the match, one couldn’t help but notice that there wasn’t a speck of emotion on Gerrard’s face. The intensity in his eyes looked the same as any other week. Those eyes locked tightly on the wall in front and the mind tearing apart the game plan for the match. Whether it was an inconsequential Premier League match or the second leg of the Champions League semifinal, the vigour in those eyes never diminished.

Only today was the last time ever.

Today was Gerrard’s day. It was a day when the whole world would acknowledge his immense contributions to the club where he grew up to be a legend. But that surely did not mean that a compromise was in store when it came to beating Crystal Palace. Work came first. The club came first.

As always!

Both teams, sans Gerrard, made their way out to the field. Good ol’ Stevie stayed behind. Not because he wanted to, but because he was told to. He takes this time to click some final photos with his daughters in front of the Liverpool badge. Perhaps the last time at Anfield the girls would see their Dad in the full red suit of armour.

So red that it was hard to tell whether the colour was from the dye or from his heart bleeding.

Day in and day out Gerrard has bled the kind of red that epitomizes Liverpool Football Club and all that it stands for. You cut his veins and you won’t find the conventional red. You’ll find Liverpool red. The kind of red that radiates the essence of love and endearment towards the fans, the club and the game itself!

The announcer finally says those two magical words that send the crowd in frenzy. “Steven Gerrard!” Gerrard walks down the steps amidst roars of applause and while walking out touches the “This is Anfield” sign - a momentous gesture that means the world to him. Something he does every time he walks out. Something that has been ingrained in him like a flashy black tattoo on white skin!

Only today was the last time ever.

For close to two decades Gerrard has been a wizard living among less-blessed mortals. True that his final season in the Premier League hasn’t been  one to remember him by, but the Kop knows that he needs to be “judged” for the blood he’s shed for 17 years rather than just a couple of unfortunate seasons.

There have been numerous instances when it was Gerrard’s sheer tenacity to not accept defeat that lifted the Reds from the abyss of annihilation to the pinnacles of prestige. Olympiakos, Istanbul, West Ham to name a few! But instances like the infamous slip that cost Liverpool the Premier League title and the red card after just 38 seconds against Manchester United nonetheless have really dented his image.

Meanwhile, Gerrard walks out to the Anfield turf amid a guard of honour. Only last week was he giving one to champions Chelsea at Stamford Bridge. It must feel awkward to him to change sides in just a week’s time. His youngest daughter, in his arms, covers her ears with both hands to shield herself from the deafening roar that engulfs the stadium. A roar so loud that it would even give the mighty Super Bowl the blushes!

The fans always have something or the other to cheer about when it comes to Steven Gerrard. They always appreciate the precision that he demonstrates with his passing. They always applaud the aggression that he exhibits when playing rivals. They go ballistic when he scores those incredible screamers. And they always have found a suitable reason to make their captain courageous feel special.

Only today was the last time ever.

Gerrard’s life can be looked upon as a constant struggle to overcome obstacles and being prepared for whatever strange bounces life threw his way. He might not have been an emperor at Anfield, but during his time there he truly proved that he was without shadow of a doubt worthy of being called one.

He belongs to a rare clan of footballers who have proved that, despite the impediments, they have what it takes to get the job done. He has proved that not only does he thrive at every challenge thrown his way but that those challenges made him better than if he had never faced any adversity at all.

As the game progressed, nearly after 30 minutes of play, Adam Lallana’s eyes scanned the whole stadium. He knew what he was looking for; it’s just that he couldn’t find it. The ex-Southampton winger had just scored Liverpool’s opening goal and was now looking for Gerrard to celebrate it with. Probably doing his bit to honour a legend from whom he draws inspiration. Gerrard couldn’t be more jubilant.

For years Anfield has seen the influx and exodus of footballers who have played with Gerrard and have celebrated goals together. They know that he is never shy to celebrate a goal. He’s never under the pressure to think about the consequences of an erratic celebration. The camera-kiss at Old Trafford created quite a stir, but who cares. He’s always the first to celebrate with his teammates at Anfield.

Only today was the last time ever.

Gerrard might not be the greatest ever Red to have graced the footballing fraternity. But there truly was no one more passionate than him. He could have abandoned us for another team just for the sake of laurels and glory. But just like a true gentleman who never deserts her lady, Stevie chose otherwise.

When it came to hunger towards playing the game, there was no one better than him. When it came to undying dedication towards the club, there was no one better than him. Steven Gerrard was the heart of the team. He was the glue that held everything together. Things made sense when he was on the field. A match was never over until it was over when he was on the field. No one counted us out when he was on the field and no one, no matter how big, dared to write us off when he was on the field.

Things at Anfield will never be the same because Gerrard will never walk that tunnel again. Things abroad will never be the same because Gerrard will never deliver us from doom again. Things in the dressing room will never be the same because Gerrard will never give a pep talk again. Things at Melwood will never be the same because Gerrard will never train there again.

And lastly, but most importantly, it’s sad to come to terms with the fact that things at Liverpool Football Club will never be ‘Red’ going further because Steven Gerrard will never bleed his heart out for us again!

Man for All Teams, Man for All Seasons!

It’s a rowdy evening at the Stamford Bridge stadium where the clock has just stuck the 90-minute mark. The wind blows gently as Eden Hazard looks at the giant screen at the corner and sees 2 minutes come on as stoppage time. The Blues have been “boringly” shielding their 1-0 lead ever since half-time and it’s now just a matter of time before the club celebrates its fourth Premier League title in 11 years.

It was only logical that Hazard, Premier League’s best player this season, scored the winning goal that would gift Chelsea what would be termed by pundits as the dawn of a new “old era” under their prodigal son Jose Mourinho. The confetti is about to engulf the pitch. The same pitch that strived endlessly to see a league title celebration before the “special one” turned the club’s fortunes in 2004.

The crowd is going wilder by the second. The pre-party jollifications seem to have started quite some time before the final whistle has actually blown. Jose, in a move termed as “spite” by foes, chooses this moment to take Hazard off to a resounding ovation. It’s only natural! Hazard deserves every bit of it.

“Another ploy from Jose to waste time,” I think. “This is going to rob the Eagles those precious seconds to equalize,” adds the Liverpool freak in me. Maybe! But then again, who was I kidding? If not today, Chelsea would have won the title next week - the weekend when they play the Reds at home. I don’t think I had it in me to see Chelsea win “something” at our “slipping” expense two times in a row.

The truth is, however, Chelsea have had a solid season and downrightly deserve all the glory. They’ve led from start to finish and never showed even remote signs of slowing down. They’ve had starlets in every department and a skipper whose stellar persona is something that every club and fan envies.

Back at the Bridge, eyes were fixated more on the referee than on the action on the field. In this case referee Kevin Friend’s whistle is getting all the attention. In a move that some think to be ridiculously unpardonable, Friend teases the fans by taking the whistle to his mouth and then back down. He gives a smile to reiterate that while they might be winning the title, he’s still the law. Truly Webb-esque my Friend!

Chelsea’s legendary striker Didier Drogba can’t help but laugh thinking about the journey that he’s had with the club. After he grabbed them by the throat on a zealous May evening at the Allianz Arena and hoisted them to their first ever Champions League title, the striker just like the club has had an erratic journey. However, despite the ups and downs Drogba is back where he belongs – among winnings ways!

Finally Friend takes the whistle to his mouth. Even though it was just the one whistle whose “tweet” had the power to end the match, the fans had other ideas. In an act of staggering unison some 40,000 whistles tweet at the same time thereby ending a four-year wait for the prominent Premier League title.

All I could see next was a barrage of confetti covering the air above and a horde of players running amok on the ground below. It had finally happened. With three games left, the Blues had sealed the title. It was a time to celebrate. It was time to freak out. It was time to shut the critics up. And most importantly, it was time for “boring ol’ Chelsea” to party like compelling champions.

Only, one man had other ideas!

Amidst the entire hullabaloo, a reporter somehow manages to get hold of Chelsea skipper John Terry for a candid one-on-one. After the procedural questions and the diplomatic responses, Terry says something that might be etched in the hearts of every football fanatic for a long time to come.

“I would like, on behalf of myself and everyone at Chelsea, to send our condolences to Rio Ferdinand and his family.”

Almost immediately, in one of those impulsive spine-chilling moments, Terry managed to add yet another fruitful dimension to his glittery persona that makes him one those few stars that teams would pay millions to have in their ranks. Not just because of the immense talent that he possesses, but because of the manner in which he perceives the beautiful game and gives it his all in playing it.

For a team like Chelsea whose dominating presence can be “villainous” at times, John Terry is one of those few indispensable valiant knights who will always rescue the club from being inundated by undesirable mirages. Because no matter how much one hates Chelsea or loathes their Russian moolah, one just can’t hate a player like Terry who will embody true competitive spirit till the end of time.

Having the highest scoring defender in Premier League history in their ranks is without doubt a matter of great pride for Chelsea; however, to have a rugged stalwart like him, whose irrefutable dedication towards his club and job is the stuff that legends are made of, is truly what they can bet their fortunes on.

From literally taking a boot to the head in an FA Cup tie to making a silly penguin dive at the international circuit, Terry’s commitment when it comes to keeping the ball out of his keeper’s reach is a remarkable example of unquestionable diligence. Time and again Terry’s perseverance has been tested to the core, but his unequivocal ability to “fly mask” the trauma and play the game is what matters the most to him.

His passion to give it his best has driven him to play every minute of every game for Chelsea this season and has reaped valuable results as well. Come to think about it, John Terry is an epitome of “doing-what-you-love-and-let-the-results-do-the-talking” quite simply because of his impetuous instinct.       

Captaining a team to four Premier League titles not only consolidates his position as one of most influential players of all time, but also puts his critics in their place. What Rafael Benitez and I have in common, other than being Liverpool fans, is that we both thought Terry was done and dusted in 2013. However, from that time, Terry has roared back into the thick of things in unimpeachable manner and his prime touch makes him one of the greatest English defenders of all time to have surged out.

With the whole Anton Ferdinand saga and the Wayne Bridge fiasco under his belt, John Terry clearly does not have the best of images in the eyes of people. But it’s at times like these that a player should be judged for his knack and on-field performances rather than events that make for good theatrics.

Whether it’s those notorious chants against their own or that applaud that honours their special ones, the crowd at Stamford Bridge always has something or the other to cheer about. But the chant that will matter the most for times immemorial is the one cherishing the heart of their team. It’s the chant that signifies the heroics of their stoic leader. The chant that taunts the world that the man for all teams and the man for all seasons is and forever will be a “Blue Baron”.

Haters Going to Hate, Players Going to Play!

Sania Mirza just cannot stop winning. The past one year has been a testament of her talent and, keeping in mind the events that have rocked the tennis fraternity, if she was a game show host then she would by now be pointing towards a fanciful door on a pretense set shouting “all Sania haters, come on down.”

 She would be laying down the red carpet on the choppy Indian roads and be personally handing out “Who’s your daughter-in-law?” pamphlets to all those who doubted her and never believed that she could be where she is today – touching the pinnacles of success and that too with unmatched charisma!

Instead, Sania has let her racquet do all the talking, has made her country touch the heights of glory and is now almost on the verge of becoming the first ever Indian woman to scale the world no. 1 rank in tennis.

All this despite being looked down upon with judgmental eyes and being let down one too many times!

Don’t get me wrong but our country is never supportive when it comes to underperforming athletes, especially women. What good is a floundering Sania Mirza when we’ve had the audacity to make a certain Sachin Tendulkar endure ignominious headlines like ‘Endulkar’? What good is her undying dedication when we’ve had people question the heart that Baichung Bhutia put into the game?

From the infamous ‘Jama Masjid’ controversy to her ‘legs pointing towards the Indian flag’ fiasco to the ridiculous ‘cannot play wearing shirts and skirts’ claptrap, Sania has been amidst the center of storm far too many times. However, what’s even more baffling is the appalling fact that she never gets the credit she deserves when she manages to weather that same storm through her wondrous achievements.

True that she’s had her share of controversies and has let her emotions get the better of her at times, but let’s be honest that the flame in her when it comes to playing the sport she loves, for the country her heart thrives for, is truly beyond doubt inextinguishable and essentially the only thing that matters

Ever since Mr. Laxman’s invigorating comments, Sania’s bandwagon has been on an impressive roll showing no signs of derailment whatsoever. For India’s good, let’s hope it stays on that path for a long time. Apart from being runners-up in 2014 at Indian Wells, Canada and China, she won the US Open, the WTA Championships and helped India bag a bronze and a gold medal at the Commonwealth Games.

On the contrary, many think that the reason for her recent success on the circuit is Mr. Laxman. Now I understand that coming from a country that is dramatically ruled by the “chutzpah” of a certain organization called “Bollywood,” majority would be inclined towards that explanation. However, if I may be allowed to shatter this whole idiotic fabrication, Sania Mirza has always been one great tennis player.

The fact that she has represented us internationally for so long consistently only speaks volumes of the talent that she possesses. This after the sore fact that our country boasts of a population of 1.2 billion. Not only has Sania Mirza been India’s face globally when it comes to women’s tennis, but she must also be given credit for putting us on the map.

So to all those haters, who have nothing better to do than just submerge her in their bucketload of nonsense, it’s time to come out and smell the sweet aroma of your own foot lying deep inside your own mouth. It’s time to show some appreciation towards a world class tennis player rather than just sit back and wait for her to mess up and then trash her. Because no matter how positive we say we are, we have to come to terms with the ugly truth that it might actually be quite some time before we could have the privilege of walking tall among the tennis powerhouses.

Hence, if you want to judge her then judge her by her immense forehand and not by the legs that she displays while sporting a skirt on the court. A forehand so strong by the way that even the great Serena Williams had trouble braving her adroitness on a sunny afternoon at the Rod Laver Arena.

If you want to judge her, then judge her by her immaculate on-court presence of mind and not by her off-court marriage to another human being. A mind so technically sound when it comes to tennis acumen that hitting a deft drop shot even made his majesty Roger Federer stand back and applaud.

If you want to judge her then judge her by her prodigious baseline angles and not by the fact that she likes to click selfies and upload them on Instagram every now and then. Some angles so acute that even the best of the best – Swiss legend Martina Hingis – could not help but appreciate the genius in her.

If you want to judge her then judge her by her phenomenal winners and not by useless nugatory comments that she made on ‘safe sex’. Winners that are so staggering in execution that Svetlana Kuznetsova was left stunned in the middle of Wimbledon’s prestigious center court.

And finally, if you want to call her names, then call her by her own one and not by farcical slangs that disrespect her. Because quite frankly the name “Sania Mirza” says it all and is just that damn good!

For Roger Federer, Greatness is Vengeance!

“Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them.” – William Shakespeare

For those who remember that dreadful evening at SW19 when Roger Federer came within striking distance of winning his eighteenth Grand Slam title, the pain and anguish would have been hard to endure. The next opportunity to avenge the defeat seemed eternities away. And when the occasion came, the dream final at the US Open was abrogated by the heroics of Marin Cilic and Kei Nishikori.

True that there were other matches like the ATP Shanghai Masters semifinal, the ATP World Tour Finals and the International Premier Tennis League, but nothing could come even remotely close to matching the supreme aura that a Federer-Djokovic “final” exudes.

Until two nights ago!

Dubai seemed the perfect place for two stalwarts of the game to renew their epic rivalry. Clash of the titans, world no. 1 takes on world no. 2, seventh heaven versus Djoker fifer, call it whatever you like but nothing said it best like Roger Federer vs. Novak Djokovic.

While the country was still trying to recuperate after the loss at the hands of India at the ICC World Cup, a different set of fans (read tennis fanatics) were making their way to the Dubai Duty Free Stadium on a clear night to witness a stellar clash - a rematch of last year’s semifinal when the Federer juggernaut was too hot for Djokovic to handle. Would this year be any different? Current form would state differently.

As the players line up for the pre-match photograph, one could feel the butterflies in the stomach of the kid who has been “ordained” for the coin toss. His first flip of the coin is a disaster. One can’t blame him though. He’s standing in the presence of the best tennis players in the world right now. I’m just glad he didn’t throw up. Federer looks at the kid and smiles. That should calm him down. Djokovic pats him on the back to comfort the lad and give him a sense of belonging. Time for the toss again. No pressure kid!

Any match between Federer and Djokovic promises to be a thriller and tonight is going to be no exception. Time now for Federer and Djokovic to pose for the players’ photograph. Time for the fake smiles to come out. Click! Now it’s time to get serious. Djokovic places his hand on Federer’s back and says, “Good game.” Federer returns the favour with nothing but a smile. “Let’s do this,” he thinks.

The match begins with Federer’s serve that seems to be teeming with meticulous precision. The intent is clear. It’s a slow start to the match but it’s a sign of things to come. It’s never easy to push a player like Djokovic, whose immense emanation on the court can deflate even the best, on the back foot so early in the match. But nonetheless Federer is doing it and doing it in style. It’s the kind of greatness that Federer was born with and it’ll remain unparalleled till the end of time.

Meanwhile, the camera focusses on Switzerland’s Davis Cup and Federer’s personal coach Severin Luthi. Stefan Edberg is not here tonight. Hence, the onus is on Luthi to lift Federer’s spirits should he feel low - a fanatical paradox that is ineffable when it comes to an explanation. Luthi knows that his job is easy considering the manner in which Federer is playing. Djokovic’s coach Boris Becker, on the other hand, seems to have a task cut up for him. Things just got serious in the Djokovic camp after just two games.

The Serb retaliates in emphatic fashion and rushes to earn one break point. Djokovic waits for Federer to serve. He knows the gravitas of the next point. An early break could have a crucial impact on the match. Federer knows it as well. He looks up and then back down. Just like he always does. He knows exactly where to hit his serve now. But Djokovic is not just any opponent on the other side. In a world of incisive competition, players tend to know their opponents more than they know themselves.

Federer serves! It’s one of those boomers that just zip right past without giving one a chance to even breathe. But Djokovic is ready for it. He fashions an unbelievable return that looks too good to be true. This one seems to be bagged. “Come Awwnn,” almost yelled Djokovic only to have his bubble shattered by the sheer audacity of a phenomenon called Roger Federer. Not only did Federer manage to get an immaculate angle on his one-handed backhand there, but he also managed to flatten Djokovic’s ego.

It’s not often that one sees the world no. 1 Novak Djokovic spellbound thinking what needs to be done next. Everything that he’s hitting is being sent back with equal or better magnitude. Federer, on the other hand, is getting better and better as the match is progressing. Not only is he slapping immaculate volleys, but he’s also killing those crucial points with his 1-2 angle combinations and with his one-handed backhands that have power, precision and that “dear-lord-did-that-just-happen” prowess.

Djokovic has this dazed look on his face. He knows that on his day no one can come even close to reaching Federer’s level. Let alone surpassing him. Just like a batsman who has been stupefied by a bouncer-yorker combination, Djokovic too seemed to be knocked out senseless. “This can’t be happening,” he tells himself wondering how old Federer is. May be 31, 32! Nope! Try 33! At some level Djokovic knew that he had a good chance of losing today, but this just seems to be an inequitable riot.

Almost in an act of reprisal, Djokovic hits his traditional two-handed backhand to silence the crowd who is going wilder with every Federer shot. The Australian Open champion thinks he has a chance now considering that Federer has missed a couple of easy shots. Momentum shift? No way! Federer’s just too good today. He hits yet another pristine 1-2 combination. This time resembling the jab and hook!

The umpire calls for new balls. The old ones have taken quite a beating it seems. Federer looks upon this opportunity as a time to change his racquet as well. The crowd goes wild at this unscheduled break. Djokovic does not seem happy waiting. His impatience is pertinent. Some in the crowd suggest that this is a ploy from Federer to play mind games with Djokovic. The Serb hits an unforced error followed by a double fault. Mind games affecting him already? But boom! An ace! “He’s back,” say the Djokovic fans.

But alas! Federer bounces back with an angle so deep into Djokovic’s court that even the 6 feet 2 inches 2-time Wimbledon champion could not reach it in time. Break point Federer! His first of the match and what a time to get one! The pressure builds on Djokovic. He needs to put in his all to save this one. Djokovic serves! Not a good first serve according to Djokovic standards. “This one is mine,” thinks Federer as his pounces on the ball to convert the break. Djokovic is left fuming. The world is enthralled!

Federer serves out the next game to take the first set. Djokovic tries to put up a fight but I guess it’s a little too late. The Serb hits an unimpeachable return to save one set point. But Federer follows it up with a scintillating first serve. Federer is just that damn good tonight. A dejected Djokovic starts his slow walk back to his dugout with a mind heavier than the weight of expectations on his shoulder. His body language gives an impression that he needs a reboot. Just like his tortured racquet needs to be restrung.

The crowd at the stadium erupts with joy at the onset of the second set. Two of the greatest at present are giving them a show that will last in memories for a lifetime. Djokovic begins serving in a hope to implement a new strategy. It’s time for him to start calling the shots. Literally! But Federer is in no mood to let the momentum shift. He starts charging up the net. Something that the Swiss maestro is quite uncomfortable with at times. Edberg might not be in the stadium, but he’s still evident on the court.

Federer starts running Djokovic all over the court. An out-of-this-world drop shot is followed by an angle. A sliced return followed up with a powerful cross court passing shot. Everything that was deemed impossible is happening on court. This is vintage stuff from a stellar persona and that too against the world’s best according to ATP. Becker’s edginess is as apparent as Federer’s fluorescent orange t-shirt. Djokovic somehow holds on to win the game. Deep down inside he knows that he might have won the battle, but he’s losing the war.

Djokovic catches Federer’s eyes at the changeover. They stare at each other for about 2 seconds. Too little to count on a watch perhaps, but when it comes to evaluating a tense rivalry those 2 trenchant seconds become long enough to last an eternity. “How many times will I have to win a point to actually win it?” Djokovic’s eyes ask. “One too many times mate,” reply Federer’s. Almost immediately my mind drifts to the World Cup Titantron with David Warner saying “Game Awwnn” in his thick Aussie accent.

Djokovic is now trying something new. He’s started hitting his serves to target Federer’s weakness – his backhand. Something that Rafael Nadal exploited quite brilliantly at the 2008 Wimbledon final. Djokovic shoots a commanding first serve. So robust was its speed that it could derail a freight train. Federer returns it with ridiculous ease. Almost in the effortless manner that Rahul Dravid used to leave a 160 kmph Shoaib Akhtar delivery. The crown goes wild. The commentator goes wild. Djokovic just applauds.

Greatness is not targeting others' weakness with your strengths. It’s killing others' strengths with your weakness. And that is what makes Federer who he is. Djokovic serves again to Federer’s backhand - his weak spot they say. Federer hits it on the opposite side as a return ace. “Leave Djoker alone,” frustrated Djokovic fans shout from the stands to Federer. The joy of greatness comes for a price and for Federer’s benefit it’s Djokovic who’s paying the price tonight. He knows it! Becker knows it! The world knows it!

Federer begins the next game with an ace. His fifth of the night! That makes it 9000 career aces for him. For the world it’s a big accomplishment. But for Federer, it’s just another number. Djokovic gets a passing shot of his own on the next point, but soon realizes that he did not win the point because of himself. Federer misjudged that one. Even greatness is accompanied by gaffes. Federer hits a stupendous lob on the next point. Probably the greatest in Dubai’s history. Title number 7 beckons!

Djokovic now looks at Becker. Becker with his stone cold eyes can’t help but applaud the genius of Roger Federer. In his mind though, he is already planning the next tournament. Meanwhile, the tables seemed to have turned suddenly. Djokovic rushes to a 15-40 lead on Federer and has earned two set points. All the pressure has suddenly shifted base and is now on Federer. He serves and then charges to the net. The crowd cannot believe this move. 2 set points to save and you rush to the net after a slow serve?

Djokovic thinks that this is in the bag but he still hits it out. That’s what demoralization does to you. Next serve time. Boom! Federer with a killer serve saves both set points. Fortune favours the audacious it is said. But aggression, on the other hand, is the final nail in the coffin. Federer knows it! Djokovic knows it! Even Brendon McCullum knows it. Djokovic looks lost. He looks defeated. He looks out if this one.

There have been numerous instances when Federer has been written off because of ludicrous reasons. But what makes a champion is the inspiration he derives and the manner in which he derives it. Djokovic could do nothing but smile in this match. Not because he did not have the talent, but because the 17-time Grand Slam champ, who was on a “no-mercy”, mode had derived his inspiration from vengeance.

Federer is always at his best when he has revenge on his mind. Whether it was the year 2009 when his Australian Open sob was followed by his career Grand Slam achievement at Roland Garros or the 2011 Wimbledon exit at the hands of Jo-Wilfried Tsonga that led up to his prodigious form in 2012, every action has an equal and sublime reaction for Federer. His mind just like his persona is a tennis legend.

Roger Federer never shows his frustration on court. He never loses his cool on court. He rarely throws a tantrum on the court. Even when he does, his quietness follows his rant. But for all Federer haters and opponents, who think that they’ve succeeded in taming the virtuoso, just remember one small thing.

Federer never gets mad. He just gets even!

The curious case of ‘Murreysmo’

It’s been quite a while since I’ve heard those ‘three little words’ that sometimes bring a smile on my face. Those words that were meant to ease the pain in a manner that would make even the boring into something interesting. Those words that showed that there still was a ray of hope in the world and that all relationships could last despite partners being complete opposites.

Prepare. Attack. Destroy!

Remember them? For people across the globe they were just ‘words’ on an Adidas t-shirt, but for me those ‘words’ signified the prodigious fusion between a certain Scottish goody and an American badass. I don’t know when, how or why Adidas came up with the idea, but they sold it at the best possible time as it summarized an amalgamation that to the tennis fraternity was the start of something spectacular.

8-time Grand Slam winner Ivan Lendl joining forces with Andy Murray was a match made in heaven it seemed. For a tennis player as bland as Murray nothing is better than winning a Grand Slam (let alone the 17 that Roger Federer has) and for the Scot to have the epitome of ambushing brilliance on his side meant things had gotten serious in camp. So serious that “raw aggression” seemed an understatement.

Almost immediately one could sense the changes in Murray’s game. The intent to win every point was instilled. An aggressive approach to the game was adapted. Those drop shots stated serving the purpose they were destined to serve. Andy’s net-play that never was a major part of his game suddenly became his “go-to” move. Perhaps for the first time ever Andy could smell the glory of a Grand Slam success.

The world waited with baited breath as to what Lendl had planned next. Every move was scrutinized. Every shot was analyzed. Murray started getting the “oohs” and “aahhs” that differentiates the good from the best. Lendl was clearly visible in Murray’s persona. “That shot had a Lendl tinge in it,” said the people. There was no place for emotions. No more pain. No more crying. The path was set for the Andy Murray bandwagon and it showed no signs of derailment. The dream reignited. A knighthood loomed.

Not only under Ivan Lendl did Andy Murray reach the Wimbledon final in 2012, but he also won an Olympic Gold Medal in London a month later, won his first Grand Slam, the US Open title, the same year beating Novak Djokovic in a gruesome 5-setter, reached the Australian Open final in 2013, where he gave a much better fight to Djokovic than the year before, and ripped the Serb apart in straight sets later that year at Wimbledon to give Great Britain a new song to sing ever since the “Oh hail Perry” anthem.

The term “first win since Fred Perry” started making an appearance more often than it did when the great Tim Henman was on the circuit. Great Britain could finally cheer for someone who could give something they’d waited for since forever. Ever since the lowest low in January 2010 when the words “I can cry like Roger, its shit that I can’t play like him” were muttered by a tear-faced Andy Murray amass the picturesque Rod Laver Arena, the world had been waiting for the prodigal son to bounce back.

And now, the time had come! The only problem – it lasted just two years.

In September 2013, Murray took probably the most treacherous decision of his career when he decided to have back surgery. Although at that time the Scot did not see the same as a career-threatening move, it did turn out to have quite an impact on his career. Not physically, but mentally. His comeback was not a fairytale one and unfortunately for British fans it was Ivan Lendl who had to pay the price.

Since the inconceivable and intense final at the Flushing Meadows against Djokovic in 2012 and the spanking finale against the same opponent at SW19 a year later, all eyes had been on Murray to have an  extravagant encore. However, ever since his back surgery, Murray’s ranking tumbled from No. 2 to No. 9, his form was nowhere near to his intimidating best and he was characterized as a player who did not have a style of his own. To make things worse, he had to play consecutive ATP 250s just to make the cut for the ATP World Tour Finals.

Needless to say, Lendl was on the first flight home, which probably turned out to be the worst decision good ‘Ol Andy has made in his entire life. Lendl’s departure was bigger a loss for Andy than any final he ever played as it brought back the demons that not only took possession of Murray’s feeble mind but also gave birth to a virus that infected the Scot’s game. He started losing matches from winning positions. Fred Perry’s name seemed lost in history now and Great Britain went into gloom again.

However, the one quality that Andy Murray has working for him is his will to not throw in the towel. Something that was clearly evident at the Australian Open this year. Apart from the fourth set in the final against Djokovic that saw the Serb fashion a blitzing bagel, Murray has been known to grind it out until the end of time. Before heading into Wimbledon 2014, the Scot got 2-time Grand Slam winner Amelie Mauresmo on board as her coach. A move that was probably aimed towards setting the records straight that Murray thought he still has a lot to offer when it came to top quality tennis.

Andy, of all people, knew that working with Mauresmo was going to be looked upon with questioning eyes at all times. Yet, he still went ahead with the move because he actually has a lot in common with the Frenchwoman. Just like Murray, Mauresmo too had to spend her life being an underdog and always having to cope with handling pressure. Mauresmo too has just 2 Grand Slams like Murray. And best of all Murray, just like Mauresmo, believes that winning a match is about variety and not aggression.

Such was the variety conjured by Mauresmo that even a pretty one-dimensional Murray inculcated some wicked and acrimonious angles into his game that left his opponents at the Australian Open fuming at the other end feeling as if a brutal bruiser had stolen their lunch money. Melbourne was witness to the new-old Murray when he demolished the likes of Grigor Dimitrov, Nick Kyrgios and Tomas Berdych with scintillating artistry which was something even Lendl, the man who for eternity will be attributed with turning Murray into a Grand Slam champion, could not ingrain.

Andy Murray and Amelie Mauresmo also found common ground on how to effectuate a strategy when it comes to finishing a tennis match. As there are incalculable views on the subject in today’s power-driven era that sees the gym-bred physicality rule the courts, Murray and Mauresmo are moving forwards with a strategy that believes in quality, not quantity, and in keeping things simple.

Now it is left to be seen whether or not that strategy will work wonders for Murray, who at 28 does not have a lot of time in hand to create a facade of being called a legend, or whether he can rediscover the intensity and vigour that led him to the breakthrough US Open victory and the earth-shattering Wimbledon triumph; however, at the end of the day what matters is that the player and coach must have the same views on how to play the game.

Something that ‘Murreysmo’ has already mastered!

The Indian Express….. If Only!

January 8, 2015. The time 2045 hrs. As I adjust my chair in front of my ‘idiosyncratic’ television in office, I can’t help but remember the good old days when the term ‘Indian Express’ meant more than just the newspaper. I gaze around my ‘estranged’ workstation hoping to find at least one soul with whom I can share my feelings. I find the abyss of nothingness instead – in terms of passion, knowledge & commitment.

Was it just I then who was excited about what was in store for the next 1.5 hours? I guess so!

Sitting in the office of the biggest ‘Sports’ broadcaster in the country, I look towards the bevy of televisions behind me. I hope against hope that I don’t have any channel to work on. I don’t want to miss even a second of what was about to be shown. I end up disappointed. I see 2 of them free.

Dejected I dash towards them in a sense of urgency to fire something that I think brings emotions like me to watch something that comes once in a blue moon. Anything I write would not bring justice to the magnanimity of the situation. Friends-turned-foes! Indian Legends Collide! CTL v IPTL! Anything else?

In the end, I keep it simple. Leander Paes versus Mahesh Bhupathi! That says everything. That says it all!

Who to support or who to boo? I ask around people for their thoughts. “No idea!” Of course! 2011 was the last time that the Indian Express played together here. They won! The crowd cheered like crazy. The pair had just re-united then. All differences were kept aside. Both wanted to win the 2011 Australian Open crown to complete their career Grand Slams and had played in Chennai as warm-up. Things didn’t work out for long though. The misunderstandings had crept back in. The pair couldn’t go on. If only!

They have played against each other many times ever since. This time around though, it was different.

For the first time in the history of the tournament, Chennai Open was set to see Paes and Bhupathi battle it out from opposite ends. Never before in its 20-year tenure had such a situation occurred. Chennai did not know how to react to it. Vijay Amritraj didn’t know how to commentate on it. The broadcasters did not know how to produce it. And I did not know why the world was not going crazy.

Raman Bhanot, the sports anchor who it feels has been around since the dawn of time, is on court for the introductions. “First up are Mahesh Bhupathi and Saketh Myneni.” Saketh who? Myneni! The guy who Leander Paes recently replaced in the Davis Cup doubles. All the more reason for the lad to be fired up for this if playing amidst Lee-Hesh was not a big enough reason.

The duo starts walking out. Bhupathi, with a look on his face that resembles the sultry Chennai weather, walks out first with Myneni just behind him. The crowd gives them a warm reception. The look on Mahesh’s face shouts out loud that he’s more relieved and does not want to misconstrue the response as an insult. Myneni meanwhile just walks out with his head down eager to extract the ‘Paesy’ revenge.

Bhanot, whose job description also has him handing out cricket bats to winners for them to hit tennis balls into the crowd, gets ready for the next introduction. “And their opponents,” he pauses. As if to tease the crowd. The SDAT Tennis Stadium erupts with elation. My “who to support, who to boo” question has been answered and answered even before one half of the players have walked out.

“Leander Paes and his 99th doubles partner, Raven Klassen.”

Just standing up to applaud the greatness of a 22-year-old disguised as a 41-year-old legend seemed pretty little to me at that time. I wanted to shout. I wanted to hoot. I wanted to chest bump the freaking wall. I looked around (yet again!) and found no one even remotely interested. Here we have two of the greatest Indian tennis players in history, who have staggering 26 Grand Slam titles between them, walking out to face each other and not a squeak in office. I wanted to high-five some cheeks. If only!

Raven Klassen was feeling as if he had walked into a WWE arena. At least the look on his face when the players came forward for the toss seemed to tell that story. Team Bhupathi won the toss and chose to serve first. Mahesh stole a glance towards Leander as if to say, “Let’s see what you’ve got mate!” Leander just stared back with his big cold eyes. Maybe for a second, but God it looked like an eternity.

He didn’t have to speak. The raucous crowd did all the talking for him. The stadium began reverberating with the “Let’s go Paes, let’s go!” chants. If it wasn’t clear who the favorite was before, it was now.

Myneni hit the first serve. “Fault,” retorted the linesman. Myneni could not believe the call. Bhupathi felt as if the whole world had started to conspire against him already. The review showed the ball was miles inside the legal serve area. The umpire laughed. Leander laughed. Amritraj almost fell off his chair laughing. Mahesh was unruffled. The call was reversed. 15-0! The crowd enlivened. It was now time for Leander to come forward to the net and be inches away from Mahesh. The first rendezvous upfront.

Myneni served again. Klassen sent the ball back to Myneni who hit it straight to Leander at the net. Mahesh’s eyes gladdened. “This was it,” he thought. “Anything from Leander and I have to hit it no matter what.” Leander hit the most deft and unplayable slices in Chennai Open history. “The point is mine now,” Leander believed. Contrary to his belief, an out-of-work-for-close-to-9-months Mahesh reached for it in the most prodigious manner to effectuate one of the most immense returns possible.

“Boom,” Mahesh roared! Just two points into the match and a fairytale script was already in passage. The game went by and it was Leander’s turn to serve now. In a spur of a moment Mahesh went back to receive. Unlike the old days, it’s the receiving end who can choose who in the team wants to receive now. Looking at Bhupathi’s body language it was clear that he wanted to receive all of Leander’s serves.

It was ridiculously, obviously, patently unsaid.

Leander served! Ace! Almost instantly a fanciful scorecard read “Paes 1 Bhupathi 1”. An unimpressed Bhupathi stared at the scorecard as if to see how fast that one went past him. There was nothing there. He waited and waited and waited. Still nothing! He would now have to wait for Myneni to play out his point before receiving again. The wait seemed endless. He would have squandered the point if he could as receiving Leander’s serve right away meant more than anything else at that moment. If only!

Oh the sentience of perpetuity for Mahesh Bhupathi!

This was more than just a Chennai Open quarterfinal now. This was personal war. The appeasement of the situation was unendurably painful. I look around once again to find someone as exhilarated as me. Matthew Hayden, who was on the television for the umpteenth time, was my only smiling comrade.

It was really sad to be witnessing such a situation when two of the greatest stalwarts of Indian tennis had reached a point when you had to choose between one of them. With the skill level that was on display, just imagine where they would have been today had they worked out their differences.

If only!

Lee-Hesh grew up with each other. They helped each other mature. They helped each other reach the pinnacle of success and helped each other conquer the final frontier. They were always looking out for each other. They burgeoned in glory together. They agonized in pain together. They were more than just partners on the circuit. They were brothers in arms. They had it in them to be the greatest. Ever!

If only!

The Indian Express was the voice that India never had. It was an underdog movement against the atrocities of a cruel sport that showed no remorse towards the weak. A revolution that meant stopping at nothing until success was at your feet. We reveled with them. We cried with them. In a way, the Indian Express was the story that all sports fans could connect to. It was ‘us’ who was playing out there with them. That is how important they were to us. That is how indispensable they were to us.

If only!

Two guys from India conquering the world in 1999 was worldwide news. It called for fantastic television. They reached the finals of all four Grand Slams that year. They won the French Open and Wimbledon. Two Grand Slams that not only had completely different surfaces, but also took a phenomenal amount of talent, hard work and versatility to vanquish. We were there. We saw it happen. We rejoiced.

If only!

“India can’t produce good tennis players,” they said. “Indian tennis players do not have what it takes,” they said. “Indian Express silenced the critics and took the world by storm,” they never said. Put Lee-Hesh on the court today and it can be said with paramount certainty that they’ll still give the Bryan Brothers a run for their money. I might be getting carried away, but that is the kind of confidence that was instilled in us. They taught us to dream big. They taught us to win big. They taught us to rule.

If only!

Team Paes beat Team Bhupathi this time around. Needless to say, we were thoroughly entertained. Both players showed classy characters while handling themselves. Leander Paes, at 41, proved yet again that age was indeed just a number. Mahesh Bhupathi proved that a 9-month hiatus means nothing if one learns to put mind over matter. If this was a Grand Slam, the match could have gone forever.

If only!

Leander, in his post-match interview with Bhanot, said “I would like to give a huge shout-out for Hesh. He hasn’t been on the court for close to 9 months but has still come out and played a fantastic match.” Bhanot said nothing. “That’s a fitting end,” he thought. Pretty sure that Mahesh was smiling somewhere in the back on hearing that and would have said something similar had he won instead of Leander.

Deep down I feel that they still want to be with each other. They still know how valuable the other one is. They still know what India and the world missed out on because of their split. I know for a fact that I can sleep well at night knowing that if a day comes when the country would need its greatest tennis heroes to defend its honour, then Lee-Hesh would be the first ones to take the court.

If only... If only!

The ‘What’ of a Footballing Nation?

“Yaaawwnn! Yeh match penalties mein jaaega. (Yaaawwnn! This match will be decided by penalties)”

For a certain “dubious” dude watching the grand denouement of a revolution called the “birth of a footballing nation,” penalties seemed to be the perfect ending to an insipid formality. One could sense the excitement in the air on December 20th, 2014. Not because India was on the brink of crowning its first ever Indian Super League champion, but because not anymore would one have to make a spiritless effort to like something that made no sense to begin with.

                                                                                                                         

 YouTube could now be watched freely again.

Meanwhile, approximately 36 kilometers away, a ‘cricket’ stadium was busy buzzing with close to 36000 fans that, knowingly or unknowingly, were minutes away from being a part of a match that culminated in the most ‘Solskjaer-esque’ manner possible.

The official attendance was 42,840, but I quote the figure ‘close to 36000’ because trains were to be caught, taxis were to be boarded, autos were to be shared and ‘oolta chashmas’ were to be viewed. And all this had to be done once the game hit the 80-minute mark because let’s face it – “Sirf das minute hi toh reh gaye the. (Only 10 minutes were left)”

At the same time, somewhere inside the stadium, the greatest sports presenter in the country, while taking out his ‘Man United wallet’ and ‘Man United-cased iPhone’, was sitting back relaxing with his ‘Man United loafers’ on top of a table probably thinking about how cool it would be to buy a ‘Man United shirt’ with his ‘overtime incentive’ considering the match was heading into extra time. The time was close to 2045hrs and according to his ‘Man United watch’ he had a good 30 minutes before work.

“It’s 90 minutes,” he thought. “This one’s over. It’s heading into extra time. I shall open Wikipedia at around the 118th minute to research the goalscorer.” And maybe had things gone according to plan then we could have witnessed some top notch quality questions like “How did you feel playing amidst so many Bollywood starlets?” Or some other questions that would have involved stellar words like “long ball”, “clean sheet”, “through ball” and would have made John Dykes, Andrew Leci and Joe Morrison rethink their lives.

Little did he know that a lad from West Bengal would be cutting short his free period and be forcing him to do his homework a lecture early  - only there was no lecture.

“Podany takes the corner… Mohammed Rafique heads it in and it’s a GOOOOAAALLL.” The greatest presenter in the world almost choked on the water he was drinking from his ‘Man United bottle’ and rushed towards the field. He was now scheduled to be on air in approximately T-10 minutes wearing some sort of god forsaken sherwani asking the first thing that popped into his mind.

“Rafique, kya aapne pehele kabhi goal maara hai? (Rafigue, have you ever scored a goal before?),” came the question.

Mr. ‘Greatest Presenter in the World’ had just asked the ‘Greatest Question in the World’ on the air for a production that was being watched by close to 57 million viewers. So magnanimous was the question’s greatness that my colleague and I remained speechless for more than 13 minutes.

The above instances mean just one thing. That for a country that claims to be ready to start the whole “rejuvenation of football” process, it’s not really ready in reality. Neither are the people. The fact that we’re ranked a disappointing 171 in the world substantiates that claim. Don’t get me wrong, there are people who want good things for Indian football. But the majority wants something else. Abhishek Bachchan, John Abraham, Ranbir Kapoor. This dismal list goes on.

On the other hand, the broadcasters seem to have gone one step further. At a time when the ball was in their court to indeed milk the whole “birth of a footballing nation” phenomenon, they’ve cleverly shown it as just a piece of lucrative business that meant nothing but filling a slot on air that would have gone down otherwise as a waste of “hard disk” space. The ball has been dropped and what a time to drop it.

It’s been close to 20 days since the shimmering tournament came to an end. The ‘1st Champion’ has been crowned. All the promos have now become an epitome of being called ‘platitudinous’. But most importantly – the money has reached where it is supposed to reach. All the transactions have cleared.

People have gone around their usual business. They think that the football is done and dusted till next year. The marquee players have gone back. The redoubtable coaches have as well. Close to two months of continuous football is more than enough they think. The people want something new now they think. People are bored of the football now they think. After all, even Bigg Boss ends after close to 3 months.

They could NOT be any more wrong.

I know that I’m a ‘nobody’ when it comes to the governance of Indian football. What do I know? All I am is just another feeble character in the tale of the unsung story of football mismanagement. For what it’s worth, I might even be mythical as my tumultuous roar is what people call deafening silence.

But I know one thing for sure. What I want is what will save Indian football from the depths of despair.

The Indian Super League did award plenty of glorious awards to a handful of the Indian stars at the end of the league. They did even quote it as an “emergence of young talent”. Mission 2026 they said. But what now? Does anyone know where they are now? “They might be taking rest. It was a long season,” I can almost hear the broadcasters saying at this very moment. Oh! The chutzpah! Unrivalled indeed!

They might be taking rest. But during the half-time breaks when they’re playing the elite Federation Cup. ISL helped India see a number of prime players - Romeo Fernandes, Sandesh Jhingan, Baljit Sahni, Balwant Singh to name a few. Some of whom have scored goals in the Federation Cup as well. Wouldn’t it have been great if we could have seen them in action once ISL was over? But it cannot happen. Why? Because of commercials I guess. Who cares about sports when there’s no money involved, right?

Well I care. But do I matter? I guess not.

Asking for the coverage of the Federation Cup, or even the I-League for that matter, is a little too much considering that even the late Phil Hughes could not find his way on to the Broadcaster segments. We rather see some hackneyed “all-rounder” shows that portray the “triumphs” and the “great knocks” of legends that played during the time when TV was just a luxury instead of a necessity.

I know that I want to know each and every day before I go to bed what happened in 1996 when India took on Sri Lanka in the World Cup Group match in New Delhi. Or how “perfect” a certain Test temperament is. Or maybe how “awesome” an off spinner is. And let’s not forget a “swinging” virtuoso.

And if it’s not the case of commercials, it all comes down to the TRPs. What does TRP even stand for? Total Ridiculous Protocols!? Maybe!

I wonder what the TRP would have been had we been treated to an Indian Super Cup. I-League champions – Bengaluru FC – facing the Indian Super League champions – Atletico de Kolkata. But will it happen? I guess not. Why? I guess it’s too complicated.

Whoever came up with the idea of making the viewing of sports directly proportional to the TRPs was an idiot of the highest order who perhaps did not understand sport and had nothing to do while on vacation with his fifth cousin twice removed and decided to effectuate sport’s ‘perfect murder’.

There will come a day when commercials will force sports to die an untimely death. But the irony of the situation is that even then the sports funeral will not be televised because all that would be shown are the commercials. Am getting carried away, isn’t it? Nah! I’m just worried about the sanctity of sports.

What’s that they ask? My point I say. It’s moot. I’m not wasting my time anymore. It’s a lost cause.