The Object of an Assassin’s Affection!

It’s 12 noon on a cold January Sunday in Manchester. The year 1999. Old Trafford is bustling with the roars of their rowdy red devil fanatics. The icy winds won’t stop them from killing their football counterparts with chants and banners. The chill in the air will not dampen their spirits today.

But why the fuss? Isn’t this just a mere fourth round FA Cup match? Shouldn’t Manchester United be starting with a few reserve players in the starting XI instead of their usual stars? Why are there so many people here in attendance? It’s because this is not just any other clash. This is not just any other team they’re up against. This is Liverpool. The arch-rivals. The hated nemesis. A team they’ve not lost to in the competition since 1992. And they’re not starting today.

Not today, not this year. Not in 1999.

This is Manchester United’s year. This is their prolific super substitute’s year. It hasn’t happened yet, but they know that something special is in store. Something big. Something that doesn’t come in pairs. Something that comes in the form of a trio. It hasn’t happened yet, but it will. They know. They believe. What’s the word for that again? Treble, is it?

As the clock turns to the 88th minute, horrifyingly Liverpool are leading 1-0 thanks to Michael Owen’s third-minute header. This is preposterous. This is blasphemous. This is ridiculous. Liverpool should not be winning at Old Trafford. They should not be winning at Anfield. They should not be winning, period. Old Trafford will turn into a war zone in 5 minutes time. People will go crazy. There will be jeers. There will be tears. There might just even be a riot. But not for the reason you think.

Manchester United win a freekick. Who else to take it than David Beckham. David freaking Beckham. Surely, he’s going to fumble this up, says the Liverpool nut in me. Becks doesn’t know what he’s capable of doing, yet. He’s still three years away from dramatically grabbing the England team by the throat and hoisting them towards the World Cup. He doesn’t know yet that he’s going to make a whole nation rally behind him at this very stadium and then send them into an ecstatic frenzy when he buries that curler into the Greek net late in stoppage time. He doesn’t know. He’s not confident. He’s going to balloon this kick.

But, not today. Not this year. Not in 1999.

He takes the freekick and it finds Andy Cole who heads it towards goal for Dwight Yorke to equalize with a simple tap in. And just like that it’s 1-1. Surely, United can’t lose now. Damn, this can’t be happening. The resistance has finally broken. I’m hoping against hope that the score says at 1-1. It’s just been that kind of an evening. The Reds seem to have given up. Of course they have since they’re wearing their away “whites” today. But we need to be rewarded for our resilience as well, don’t we? I mean we scored at Old Trafford early and have kept those ravaging red devils at bay for the longest of times. A draw isn’t what we should be getting, it’s what we deserve. Au contraire!

It’s been 10 minutes since the baby-faced assassin has been on the field. Ole Gunnar Solskjaer is known to turn these things around in the dying minutes. At least save face and get a draw, some people think. Come on Ole, do your thing, say the others. It still hurts me from inside to think about the events that followed. It’s like someone took my soul, put it in a blender, churned it for a good twenty minutes, set it on a roller coaster, and finally took a knife and stabbed it multiple times in a haphazard manner. If I had one of those Men in Black red-light flashy things with me, I would erase the memory of this match from my conscience.

Stoppage time. Beckham has the ball. Not him again. Someone foul him. Take him down. Get a red card. Do anything, but just stop him. Do it now or forever hold your peace. But no one seems to be doing anything. Manchester United seem to have that trance that they very proficiently have mastered having over opponents. It’s almost poetic. Nothing seems to work against them in Fergie time. It would have maybe worked yesterday. It could maybe work tomorrow.

But, not today. Not this year. Not in 1999.

Beckham takes the ball from his half, runs towards his pristine right flank and chips the ball deep into the Liverpool box. The ball finds Paul Scholes. Another second half substitute. He collects the ball beautifully but seems to have stumbled somehow on the follow-up. The ball now rolls towards a boy in a red shirt. A boy who history has shown, and future will prove, only cared about his team and was in love with it. A boy whose selfless act in an era of unbridled ego led him to receive a standing ovation from fans for getting red-carded for a last man tackle when the opposition striker looked set to score and dent his team’s title hopes. A boy who despite being mocked for his super sub tag would go on to score 4 goals in a space of just 10 minutes after coming off the bench with 20 minutes to spare. A boy who for some outlandish reason is standing alone without being marked. He collects the ball with his right foot, gently nudges it towards his left leaving one Liverpool defender on the ground while sending another in the wrong direction and sinks the ball past keeper David James to win the match for his team.

For anyone who grew up watching football in the late 1990s and early 2000s, liking a player belonging to a team other than your own was next to impossible. During that relentless attitude era for sports, liking an opposition player, especially one from your arch-rival team who knocked you out in the dying minutes of the world’s oldest national football competition when you were on the cusp of scripting history, would be nothing short of committing treason. It’s as if this rule was etched in stone. It was part of the sports-fan philosophy. I knew the rule as well. I still broke it. I knew that doing so would go against the whole principle and ethical conundrum that fans all over the world face. However, I couldn’t help it. Ole Gunnar Solskjaer made me a fan. Not of his team. But of him.

Solskjaer probably was, and probably still is, one of the very few footballers on this planet who, regardless of the team he played for, was liked by everyone associated with football. People might have hated his team, but they wanted the best for him. Just like Thierry Henry and Arsenal. All English football fans would have rooted against Manchester United in the 1999 UEFA Champions League final against Bayern Munich. I know I did. But when Solskjaer came on, deep down inside, didn’t everyone want him to score? Doesn’t Solskjaer in some spooky way represent the underdog in each of us? The stalwart who despite not being the first choice goes on to make an impact after being turned to in the dying minutes.

His romantic obsession with his team resonates with each and every sports fan around the globe. It shows how a relation is supposed to be. There were times when he was irritated being just a substitute, but he still came out at that 80-minute mark and pulled his team away from the jaws of defeat. There were times when he was thwarted not to start an important match, but he still understood why it was the way it was and gave it his all when asked for. There were times when he was poised to leave the club to join a rival team, but he stuck around proving his undying loyalty toward a club he so fondly loved. And, there were times when injuries plagued his career and playing time, but he stubbornly refused to go down with a fight. He came back. Always. And he scored. Always.

There’s a 1 minute 35 seconds long video on YouTube that captures that first time Solskjaer returned to Old Trafford after being appointed as Cardiff City manager in 2014. It shows him walking from the tunnel towards the dug out with the fans giving him a standing ovation and singing the “Ole Ole” chant the whole time. Never might that have happened for an opposite team’s manager at Old Trafford. Because never was the opposite team manager a legend like Ole Gunnar Solskjaer. The smile on his face is unmissable. He loved being back. Even if it was in a competitive capacity. Just shows the mentality of the bloke who wants to be there as opposed to a bloke who has to be there.

Solskjaer was never on the charts of becoming Manchester United manager when Sir Alex Ferguson stepped down. He was never in the fray to make the starting XI. He wasn’t even on the substitute bench. He just wasn’t glittery enough. He didn’t have the necessary aura that comes with being associated with a big club. He didn’t have what it takes to follow the footsteps of the greatest wizard of all time. He didn’t have that enchanting effect that was needed to cast a magical spell on the fans.

He doesn’t have glamour, but he has a persona. He doesn’t have the credentials, but he has substance.

The red devils have super subbed in their baby-faced assassin yet again in their time of need. An assassin who loves the club and will do anything to defend its honour. An assassin who never stopped loving the club despite having flings with others. An assassin who kept thinking about this club despite being in bed with others in the same league. An assassin who “united” a team divided by its most loyal fans and its most starry players. An assassin who has the chance to save his club yet again in the dying minutes. An assassin who has a point to prove. Not just for himself, but for all the underdogs around the world.

This is your time Ole. Because you’re the assassin that Manchester needs right now. And to some extent, deserves!

Turning Over a New Leaf...

 “The puck gets through. He cuts on his left, moves into the middle. He shoots, he scores! What a goal that was. A quick play to the outside just short of being offside. A quick stop-up. And those three strides that create that separation. Leafs lead 2-1 against the Montreal Canadiens.”

That move. That play. Those three strides. That’s all it took for me to fall in love with Hockey. That’s all it took for me to fall in love with the Toronto Maple Leafs. Those three strides by that man. John Tavares!

I’ve always been intrigued by Ice Hockey (or just Hockey as the true fans call it). The first exposure I had was when growing up I had the pleasure of playing EA Sports’ NHL video game. Since the version I had was a demo version, it only allowed me to play one match with the Dallas Stars. One match against the Buffalo Sabres. The one match that I played over and over and over again till the time the names of Mike Modano, Jere Lehtinen, Brett Hull, and Miroslav Satan resonated with me more than it did with locals.

Being a sports fanatic, experimenting with a new sport has always excited me. While Cricket, Football (or Soccer), Tennis, and Formula 1 grasped my interest quite early, I was always drawn towards “western” sports like American Football, Rugby, Basketball, and Luge. But Hockey was another creature in itself. How hard could it be? It’s just about scoring goals, right? Well, not according to EA Sports. They had a short segment programmed in that game that had two players enter a full fight mode (with power bars as in a Mortal Kombat game) just before both received penalties and were catapulted into the penalty boxes. That had me believing for the longest time that fighting, with the referee officiating, was a legitimate part of Hockey. Because who wouldn’t want to watch that, right? After all the sport is quite rowdy and the true definition of a core fan watching it consists of the characteristics like “enthusiastic”, “passionate”, and “aggressive”. It’s for fans who just long for a good fight all day long.

Well, no!

While EA Sports was being a little too literal to their motto of “if it’s in the game, it’s in the game,” the reality is quite different. Hockey is more than just fighting. It’s more than just a sport. Just like Football, it’s about those moments of genius that separate the wheat from the chaff. It’s about those moments that give you goosebumps so bad that you feel that tingling sensation all the way from your lower back running straight up to the back of your ears. Those moments of glory. Those moments of genius. Just like those three strides. Those three strides. John Tavares. Arjen Robben. Roger Federer. Ahh Bliss!

It might sound strange that I fell in love with a whole new sport in a moment of adrenalized passion. It took just one move in one match by one player of one team to make me a believer? Hmm. well, yes! Ask anyone the reason they started supporting a club. Ask anyone the reason they started watching a sport. Ask anyone the reason they started following a team. And the results can be equally surprising. That Bergkamp twirl (Newcastle), that Tendulkar century (Sharjah), that Federer tweener (US Open), or that Hamilton overtake (2008 Brazil) it’s moments like these that make people adherents of a sport/team.

And it was a moment like that which turned me into a Leaf!

Let’s get one thing straight. People don’t become fans of a team or a sport by researching into it. It just happens. I didn’t research about the Toronto Maple Leafs before deciding to call it “my team”. Just like I didn’t research about Liverpool FC before deciding to bleed red. Had I done that, I probably would have never watched a Leafs match because of the grammatical mistake in their team name.

Is it Leafs? Shouldn’t it be Leaves? What is going on? In fact, those who hear about my choices of teams look at me with eyes full of a mixture of disgust, pity and derision. The Leafs haven’t won the Stanley Cup since 1967. Liverpool haven’t won the English Top Division since 1989. But I am not into this for the win. I’m not into this for the trophies. Don’t get me wrong, winning is important and trophies do prove to be an integral part of measuring success. But, it shouldn’t be the reason for supporting a team or a player. I support my teams because I can connect with them. I connect with them because they give me a sense of belonging. The teams don’t know that I support them. They don’t care about me. For them I’m just a part of a bigger collective that they care about. I’m getting nothing out of this personally. Shouldn’t I then at least support a team that wins trophies regularly? Why am I doing this again?

It’s because of those moments and make you go “aww yeah”. It’s because of those moments that make you go “cooomee awwnnnn”. Those moments that make you forget about your woes. Those moments that make you scream at the top of your lungs. Those moments that bring out the rage in you. Those moments that bring out the tears in you. Those moments of passion. Those moments of perseverance. Just like those three strides. Those three strides. John Tavares. Steven Gerrard. Lewis Hamilton. Ahh Yeah!

I didn’t know or research about Tavares before “choosing” the Maple Leafs as my team. I didn’t know his story. I didn’t know that he grew up as an avid Maple Leafs fan only to never get the opportunity to play for them. I didn’t know that the New York Islanders selected him as their number 1 draft pick in 2009. I didn’t know that he was their captain for five years before finally deciding to move away. And I certainly didn’t know that his story is a classic case example of the prodigal son returning home after taking a hefty a pay cut. A pay cut that was necessary to realize the dream of playing for his home team. A dream that was so much above money or the number of teams interested in signing him. There were six teams in the fray to sign Tavares. There could have been 600, but the answer would have remained the same. John Tavares wanted to play for the Leafs. He wanted to follow his heart. He wanted to come home. It just felt right. It felt natural. And it the end it’s reaping benefits for the team who’ve got off to a great start.

Not everyday you can live a childhood dream pic.twitter.com/YUTKdfMALl

— John Tavares (@91Tavares) July 1, 2018

Maybe finally I’ll get to be a part of a team that does well for a change. Maybe the Toronto Maple Leafs might go all the way and lift that evasive Stanley Cup. Maybe not. Maybe they’ll lose to another Atlantic Division team like last year. Liverpool might just win the league elsewhere. They’re off to a flying start in their campaign as well. They had a stellar year in the Champions League last season too. Maybe it’s time to take that form one step forward. Maybe not. Who knows maybe it’s time for the fortunes to change for both teams. God knows it’s been quite a while since any of these teams has won anything.

But then again, that’s not why I’m into this. I’m into this for the long haul. Till the time that the world stops spinning, and the air starts getting really thin. For I might cease to exist one day, but the game would definitely go on. The teams would have new fans. The teams would have new heroes. Because that’s the beauty of sports. There will always be those moments. Those moments of love. Those moments of respect. Just like those three strides. Those three strides. John Tavares.... Well, you know the rest!

R for Roger Federer, R for Redemption!

It was pitted as the greatest Grand Slam match of all time. It was built as the greatest Grand Slam final of all time. They even said it had the talent, history, and persona to be the greatest match in history.

The build-up was lionized. Rightly so, it had to be. Records were on the line. So was pride. Comebacks had to be vindicated and withdrawals needed to be justified. The chance to become the greatest player in Brad Gilbert’s list of the best tennis players in history was a greedy incentive as well.

Then again, Brad who?

Nothing else mattered that day. Nothing else could come even remotely close. Presidents could have resigned and aliens could have landed, but nothing would have made the world stop from what it was doing and take notice. Because all eyes were at the Rod Laver Arena where two of the greatest tennis players to have ever graced the court were set to lock horns in yet another engrossing battle.

It was the ninth time that Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal were playing in a Grand Slam final. The first time since the 2011 French Open final and the first time at the Australian Open since the 2009 epic. Nadal was looking to become the first man in the open era to win all four Grand Slams twice. Federer, on the flip side, was looking to be the first man in history to win 5 titles at more than two Grand Slams.

The amount of numbers being flashed on screen was painfully perplexing. The magnanimity with which those numbers were being talked about didn’t help either. This match was that big. It was Federer versus Nadal afterall. The same Federer and Nadal who tore hearts and bored holes in logic when they wrested each other deep into dusk at the 2008 Wimbledon final – The greatest tennis match in history.

Federer, playing his unprecedented 28th Grand Slam final, was cooler than the icy -30 degree celsius winds back home in Switzerland. So cool that during the pre-match photo he had the nerve to ask the mascot whether he was feeling nervous getting his photo clicked? The audacity of that man!

“Are you nervous,” asks Federer?

Umpire James Keothavong looks shocked. The mascot looks bewildered. Federer just smiles. That’s the confidence he has heading into this match. Six months out of action and just one warm-up tournament before Melbourne hasn’t dampened his spirit one bit. If someone gave him a bongo and put him on camera at this very instant, there’s a 90% chance that he would not back away from beating the life out of those things in the same manner in which he beat men half his age en-route to the final.

That’s what makes Federer more than just a player that people support and want to win. It makes him a player that people see themselves in. It makes him a player who connects with them to levels that weren’t palpable before he stepped on the court. This is who he is. This is what he stands for.

He knows that this match could be his last chance ever at a Grand Slam title. This match could be his last shot ever at beating Nadal in a Grand Slam final. Ah Nadal, the arch nemesis. The palladium to my Iron Man. The kryptonite to my Superman. The outside-off ball to my Virat Kohli. The same Nadal who made Federer cry at this very venue after this very match 8 years ago. The same Nadal who hasn’t been able to win another Australian Open title ever since that doomed night in January.

This is Nadal’s 21st Grand Slam final. He’s won 14 of them. He seems to have been stuck there for ages now. Since 2014 actually. Another title would take him above the great Pete Sampras. The same Sampras who couldn’t win on clay and kept winning on grass. The same clay on which Nadal made his legacy and the same grass where Federer has his only Grand Slams final wins (2) against Nadal. Come to think about it, it’s really wondrous how things fall perfectly into place when history comes into play.

“Time,” says the chair umpire.

There’s pin drop silence. Time starts to tick away as the players move to take their positions behind the base line. Tick tick tick. Every second can be heard. All watches synchronized. Time seems to have slowed down. The match hasn’t even started yet. Tick tick tick. Nadal looks up, bounces the ball. Federer looks ready. Then again, he was born ready. He looks possessed. Full passion, full spirit. Finally, Rafa makes a sound. He serves. And that marks the start of a special match. A match that would be talked about 30 years from now. Make that 50. No, make that 100.

This is it. No turning back now. It’s real!

They say greatness doesn’t age. They said right. Federer is 35, Nadal is 30. And they’re still producing greatness out there. This isn’t 2007 anymore. It’s 2017. Yes, time has lapsed. Yes, people have grown. Yes, people move on. Yes, people forget things. But everyone remembers the last time they saw these two stalwarts battle it out on a hard court in a Grand Slam final.

“God, it's killing me,” sniveled Federer that day. He couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t too. There’s nothing more disheartening than too see someone you respect and idolize break apart right in front of your own eyes. Tonight, he would be crying again. Definitely. But it could be for a different reason. Or maybe not.

4-0 down in the second set and Federer is down a double break. He’s already won the first in exemplary manner. Routine stuff for him. Nadal’s just another player out there tonight. Federer’s aggression is ridiculous. Ridiculous for 35-year old father of two sets of twins. But Nadal is in no mood to let this go that easy. He’s roared back in dominating manner. Carlos Moya, the latest addition to the Nadal camp, looks disturbed though. He’s been on the receiving end of Federer’s wrath one too many times. 7 times if memory serves me right. He knows that one can’t take Federer lightly. Not tonight, not any night.

With a chance to take the second set as a bagel, Nadal starts serving to go 5-0 up. But Federer produces some magic that has made him who he is today. 0-30 down Nadal gifts Federer a juicy backhand winner with the court wide open. It’s like gifting a shark a titillating piece of meat in open water. All that needs to be done is to bury the teeth deep inside the flesh and taste the goodness of purity. Only Federer nets his backhand and sends painful shrieks out every household in the world. Meh! Just one of those days.

Nadal takes the second set. He had to win one. Then Federer takes the third. Just a matter of time before the king would finally ascend back to his thrown, I think. Nadal has never beaten Federer after being two sets down. Surely he can’t rewrite history tonight. Especially with so much already on the line.

But then, Nadal takes the fourth set to take this match into a decider. This is getting too close for comfort now. We’re going the distance. And there’s nothing more in this world that can take this away from me now. When you start tweeting about every point, you know greatness is in action. And that’s exactly what these two legends are.

Nadal breaks Federer in the first game of the fifth set. This after the Swiss maestro took an extended medical time-out after the fourth. Damn! How did this happen? This strategy worked wonders against Wawrinka in the semifinal. What went wrong today? Ivan ljubicic is tensed. Federer fans would hope that the sweat on his bald and shiny head would maybe reflect light and cause a distraction for Nadal. Hey, anything at this point to make Federer win. All is fair, right?

But that doesn’t happen. Nadal races to a 3-0 lead. He can smell it. It’s that close for him. Mirka Federer looks unimpressed. She’s calm as a mountain here. She’s been through too many of these nerve-wrecking moments to lose her composure. She knows what’s about to happen. She smiles, she’s ready!

Down 3-1 in the decider, with his legs rickety and already treated twice by the doctors, Federer decides to rally on. Swaying along the edge of disaster, he produces pristine winners that changes the course of the match. His forehand has been a disaster tonight. But he’s made up for that with his legendary backhands. A backhand so flawless that it makes people reach for cushions to keep under their jaws, which would otherwise break after dropping down with mesmerizing awe.

It’s match point now for Federer. Scratch that. It’s championship point. Nadal’s already saved a couple of them. Damn his defiance. But the Spanish matador’s only delaying the inevitable. It’s just a matter of time before the truth hits everyone. Federer serves. That serve that’s troubled thousands. Nadal returns. Federer’s already at the net. Serve and volley 101. He volleys the ball for a crushing winner. He raises his hand in disbelief. The crowd starts to go wild. I almost throw the remote in jubilation. But wait. What’s happening? Nadal’s challenged the call. Hawkeye time. He’s still trying to delay the inevitable.

Damn, his defiance!

Federer was a break down when the world lost hope, but he believed. Everyone thought that he had left the arena, but he stuck around. Everyone had written him off after the fourth set, but he seemed to be writing his own script. Everyone thought that he didn’t have it in him to reach another Grand Slam final, let alone winning one. But, he came, he saw, he fought, and then finally he got that ‘Number 18.’

"Tennis is a tough sport. There are no draws. If there were, I would have been happy to accept one and share it with Rafa,” said Federer during his victory ceremony.

Sorry Roger! No turning back now. It’s real.

The Bold, The Brave, The Beautiful

The year, 1986

“Good morning, gentlemen. The temperature is 110 degrees.”

“Holy shit, it's Viper!”

“Great, he's probably saying, "Holy shit, it's Maverick and Goose."

Tom Cruise in the movie Top Gun played the role of a nonconformist, free spirit pilot. Such was his aura that his call-sign ‘Maverick’ became an instant hit with eccentric souls worldwide.

People wanted to dress like him. People wanted to walk like him. People wanted to talk like him. Heck people even wanted to cry like him. Girls loved him. Guys idolized him. He was probably the first man to defy the rules and follow something as ‘petty’ as his instincts. Atleast that’s what the world thought.

He wanted to be everywhere. He wanted to do everything. Best of all, he wanted to be seen doing it as well. His decisions irked people. His results pissed them further. But in the end it was his charismatic demeanor that made him stand tall. He wanted people to follow him. To be drawn to his persona.

The audacity of that guy!

The year, 1997

Max Verstappen is born.

The year, 2016

“Jesus Christ! And you think I’m reckless. When I fly, I’ll have you know that my crew and my plane come first.”

Verstappen seemed inconsolable following his team Toro Rosso’s decision to not let him pass teammate Carlos Sainz Jr. on the grid. ‘Strategic decision,’ they said. ‘Stifling character,’ they never said.

For someone who’s just 18 years old (2 of which have been in Formula 1), it was indeed unbelievable. Why wouldn’t they let him fly? Was it because of his age? Maybe! Was it because of his boldness? Let’s hope not. Or maybe it was because they wouldn’t let him have a driver’s license till last year.

It’s true. Max’s father had to drive him to work in a car just so that Max could race in one. Imagine a father driving his own son to a Grand Prix where he could race in a 300 kmph supersonic speed-craft so mercurial that one can experience the line where life meets death.

Seems twisted, doesn’t it? Not to the Verstappen household apparently.

Max Verstappen was taught how to drive before he could walk. His foot would fit an accelerator much better than it would fit into a new shoe. He could put a car into reverse in his sleep and his steering wheel maneuvering prowess would have saved the Titanic from those freaking icebergs.

But who cares about that anyway? Rules are rules, right?

A team is always supposed to favour their No. 1 driver. Schumacher over Barrichello, Alonso over Fisichella, Vettel over Webber, Hamilton over Rosb…. Ahem, excuse me!

Carlos Sainz Jr. is Toro Rosso’s No. 1 driver. He drives safe races. All energy and effort needs to be put in helping him thrive. Not only that, Sainz also outranks Verstappen. Not just in terms of age, but also in terms of “Dad Experience”. Sainz Sr. trumps Verstappen Sr. and therefore the same rule will be applicable to their sons as well.

Wait. No. That’s not right!

If anything Sainz Sr. never even drove in Formula 1. Verstappen Sr. on the other hand has 2 podium finishes. Also, did I write Sainz Jr. drives safe races before? That would have been an amazing asset had we been handing out trophies to just finish races.

While one can’t argue that Sainz Jr. is definitely more ‘safe’ when it comes redeeming those no claim bonuses on car insurance, Verstappen is subliminally more supreme in all senses. His driving is as serene as the clicking sound a seat belt makes when things fall into place.

It’s bold, it’s brave, it’s just that damn beautiful!

No offense to Sainz Jr., but when a team such as Toro Rosso, which seems to always be in the shadows of big brother Red Bull, is given minimal resources then one just does not have options other than firing all cylinders.

Case Point – United States Grand Prix 2015

“You’re everyone’s problem. That’s because every time you fly, you’re unsafe. I don’t like you because you’re dangerous.”

“That’s right, Iceman! I am dangerous.”

For those who are regulars on the circuit, it is a well-known fact that one just does not mess with Kimi Raikkonen. After all they call him the ‘Iceman’ for a reason. He is a stone cold driver and can scorch even a wet track beyond recognition. Everyone fears him. Everyone bows down to him. People assemble at his behest.

Everyone except Max Verstappen!

Verstappen, racing for the first time ever in Austin, seems cool. He’s calm, he’s composed, and he’s all over Raikkonen. For a circuit as erratic as the Circuit of the Americas Max has everything in control. Sushine? Check. Rain? Check. Pitstops? Check. Tyre management? Check. Fending the iceman? Check.

For the last 5 turns Kimi has put up failed attempts to overtake Verstappen. Kimi tries the outside route at turn 7. He knows that it’s a long shot. But he sees an opening. Max, however, is too fast to block him. Too fast for a minnow like Toro Rosso. Why doesn’t he fly like that all the time? How’s he doing that?

Turn 8 up next. This is it, thinks the Finn. He tries the inside route now. He implements a textbook maneuver to shove that pesky rookie off track. But Max won’t be shoved around. He might be a rookie, but he’s pulling off blinders on those hairpin turns. It’s as orgasmic as watching Kohli hit a cover drive.

Turn 9 sees Kimi make up some ground. He’s back on the outside though. A natural disadvantage for drivers. But not for him. He’s used to these situations. He’s the king afterall. These jesters stand no chance of withstanding the wrath, fury, and sorcery of the iceman. Something is up, it’s a trap!

For the next three turns Kimi stays on the outside. He’s not doing much it seems. He’s waiting for the 0.62-mile stretch between turns 11 and 12. This is more than just racing now. This is dogfighting at its best. Like a cheetah skillfully prowls in the bush waiting for its prey, Kimi has set Max up beautifully.

Time for DRS to do its thing. Zoom go the cars. Just a matter of time before the rookie is shown his rightful place. If this was some other driver, he would have stopped the car by now, turned off the engine, prepared a speech on Kimi’s greatness, and then probably retired from racing.

However, good ol’ Max had other plans.

He sees what’s happening. He’s on top of it. He read Kimi. He read the iceman. This isn’t natural. This is something new. Is this even possible? Three-fourths of the stretch and a full DRS later Kimi is still on Max’s tail. This is unconstitutional. This is tyranny. This is supersonic evasion. Why won’t he fly again?

“You were in a four G inverted dive with a MIG-28?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“Lieutenant, what were you doing there?”

“Communicating. Keeping up the foreign relations. Giving him the bird.”

“So, you’re the one?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

If Max Verstappen’s repulse against former world champion Kimi Raikkonen was not a racing equivalent of showing him the finger then what happened a minute later at turn 12 definitely was. Kimi has had enough. He’s completely weathered. This is unchartered territory for him. It should be the other way.

He tries too hard to overtake and BOOM! Wheels bang, wings break, gravel flies, and Raikkonen finds himself beside a barricade. How did this happen? Well atleast it’s over. The dogfight has finally ended. There was no winner. There won’t be any awkward glances in the pits now. The pride is still intact.

If only!

Raikkonen looks up to steal a glimpse at Verstappen. It would be good to see the spoils of the enemy war craft. Only Max isn’t there. He’s nowhere. Nowhere in near sight. Wait, where is he again? He’s driving an impeccable race enroute to finishing fourth on the grid. World champions for breakfast!

‘Max’imum power, ‘Max’imum brutality!

The season-opening Australian Grand Prix too had its share of ‘maximum power’ moments. From ripping the qualifying session apart to stalling two-time defending world champion Lewis Hamilton during the main race. Max was everywhere. Max was what made sense.

Four laps to go in the first race of the season. Max is right on Sainz Jr.’s tail now. He’s burning more rubber every second than ever before. Maximum force, maximum power indeed. He’s on fire, atleast figuratively! Toro Rosso has been fitted with last year’s Ferrari engines. This is not the time to play it safe. This is not the time to go for that single point.

“Tower, this is Ghostrider. Requesting a fly-by.”

“Negative Ghostrider! The pattern is full.”

Sainz Jr. seems to be winning this war against Max without even participating in it. Verstappen can’t believe it. He knows he has a better chance than his teammate to overtake the Renault in front of them. But right now he’s been told to hold back his position.

Three laps left. Why wouldn’t they let him fly?

He’s spun. Max has just clipped Sainz Jr. on the back. Disaster has struck. The boss will be angry. Sainz Jr. races away. There’s no damage to his car. Max, on the other hand, has just effectuated a doughnut. Round and round and round he goes. Maximum power, maximum frustration, maximum doughnuts!

“I’m losing control. I can’t control it.”

“Mayday, Mayday!”

There we have it. That answers the question. He’s still too young. He’s still too immature. He should have just listened. He could have bagged an easy point. Now he’s losing seconds. Sainz Jr. has taken a 4-second lead over his teammate now. Make that 5 seconds. Now 6. There’s no coming back. Just two laps left and a healthy lead. Time to think of a good excuse and hit the showers a little early.

But wait a minute. What’s happening?

Who’s that behind Sainz Jr.? Surely it can’t be him. But it is. It’s him. He’s back. He’s flying. He’s reduced the lead back to 1 second. How is this happening? Is this for real? How could he have gained so much so soon? Maybe Sainz Jr. slowed down. Are we sure that his car wasn’t affected? No, his car escaped unscathed from that collision. The lead’s now less than 1 second. It’s the final lap. Can he? Will he?

“Damn, this kid is good..”

Why ‘SanTina’ is not a Fluke!

“Our fairy tale continues…”

Following the Australian Open victory, Martina Hingis chose these words when asked to describe her prodigious partnership with Sania Mirza. Needless to say, she said it all, she said it right!

There’s something really defining about this merger. It’s quick enough to draw attention, intriguing enough to watch, charismatic enough to enthrall, and mesmerizing enough to make people gasp for breath. It’s kind of like a modern-day fusion between old-school dexterity and new-age audacity.

It’s solid, it’s stellar, and it just works!

Sania Mirza and Martina Hingis have been through a lot in life. They’ve basked in the glory of eminence and have scuffled with the horrors of society. They’ve scaled the peaks of success and have struggled with the dooms of failure. They’ve learnt the meaning of the phrase “Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” the hard way and have learnt to take things in their stride. Which is why when we combine the two, we get an impeccable combination that just cannot stop winning.

Till now, their staggering run includes a world record 36-match winning streak, has seen them win 12 titles (including 8 in a row), and has seen them bring home a hat-trick of Grand Slams. Compared to the 2014 season where each won just 3 titles with their respective partners, ‘SanTina’ indeed has enjoyed a fairy tale run.

However, with great power comes great responsibility!

While the exploits of Sania and Hingis have made them the top doubles pair in the world right now, the flip side states that the pair also has a bullseye on their heads as the prime target to take down. Andrea Hlavackova and Lucie Hradecka did come close to ‘dethroning’ the Indo-Swiss duo but could not get the job done. In reality, though, it might be quite some time before someone actually breaches the defense.

It’s not that Sania and Hingis are unbeatable to such an extent that it will take someone pulling off a “Djoker” to beat them; it’s that they’re so unmatched in terms of conviction and self-belief that beating them right now is next to impossible. The aura that they possess is something that many have tried and failed to achieve and their unique ability to complete each other’s game is beyond legendary.

Sania has power, Hingis has finesse. Sania has a forehand, Hingis has a lob. Sania has charm, Hingis has grace. It all complements each other so well that the points just beg to be taken away. The chemistry that they share is appealingly pure and it shows not just when they play but when they talk as well.

Their philosophy is pretty simple. They come, they play, they win. Period! They keep it meek and rely on their instincts. Instincts so adept that one just can’t help admiring the genius in them. They win matches on the court and they win hearts off it. Purely because they are that damn good!

Haters will always try to find reasons to hate them, but they won’t find any. Adversaries will always try to find chinks in their armour, but they won’t find many. Critics will write nonsense just because they need something to do, however SanTina is like a force that will just keep rolling through!

People need to understand that SanTina is not a fluke. They’re not even close. They’re not even in the same room were fluke stays. Unless of course the definition of fluke is a group of individuals who exploit their talents to the best of their abilities in order to get aboard a juggernaut that just thunders through and tramples anything and everything in its path. Then maybe!

In reality tough, they’re just an awesome amalgamation of skill, flair and poise. For their good and for ours as well, let’s hope that no one comes even remotely close to derailing their winning bandwagon. They give us something pretty to watch and something pristine to follow. The tennis fraternity owes them big time for their contribution towards the sport.

Sania was recently conferred with the NDTV Sportsperson of the Year award where she said, “If in a billion people a few thousand don’t like you, it doesn’t matter.”

Game, set and match Mirza on that one.

My dream, as a sports enthusiast, is to have a society where people cherish the immense sacrifices that Sania Mirza and Martina Hingis have made rather than just keeping talking about their past.

My dream, as a sports enthusiast, is to have a society where people respect Sania Mirza and Martina Hingis for what they have achieved rather than go out of their way to find flaws and bog them down.

And finally my dream, as a sports enthusiast, is to have a society where people feel proud of Sania Mirza and Martina Hingis for their never-say-die attitude in life irrespective of their winning streak.

Maybe one day. Maybe someday!

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!