February 11, 1999 was the day I had been waiting for all my life. It was my last day of school and, more importantly, Salgãocar FC were coming to town. Graduation party happened in the afternoon, as always, in the big art room with bamboo mats covering the floor and newspaper covering the windows. I remember every detail of my outfit that day. Blue and white Nike sneakers; tan corduroy trousers that used to be my brother’s and, therefore, had to be held up at the waist with a black belt; black tank top; and a light blue cardigan sweater that belonged to my mother in Paris and was over 12 years old. (Improbably, it was a pretty good look as far as the Orphan Annie couture of the day went.)
No one was leaving on the bus, this being the decadent high spot of our wilderness-school lives; everyone was staying later. But I got my backpack and slipped out at 4:00. For want of a better plan, I got off the bus at Richmond Circle and walked the entire length of Residency Road to get to the Park Residency Hotel. Indian football could only be mourned in the sad clichés of Deccan Herald sportswriters. It was unfavored by the media and the despair of its few meagre sponsors. There were four miniscule regions of the country where football meant anything, and Bangalore was not one of them. But to me the stadiums, the fixtures, the transfer rumours, Amal Dutta's Diamond formation, the struggle, and the glory were a heart-racing obsession in those years, and Salgãocar of Goa were my most favorite club. They were here to play what were referred to as (but never with much enthusiasm) “local giants,” ITI, in just the second or third ever National Football League.
It was a white hotel with a car park, potted palms, a marble desk, and an intercom. I walked into the lobby, painfully aware of the strangeness of my impending request (and my lack of legal majority). “You have the Salgãocar team staying here. Can I meet them?”
There was only the briefest flicker of puzzlement on the receptionist’s face, “Which... one of them?” Okay, that’s how it was going to be; I had to pick one... “Bruno,” I said without hesitation. He consulted a sheet of paper. The philistine had Bruno Coutinho living under his roof and he needed a rooming list to remember where! He dialled a number and was about to hand me the receiver when he suddenly remembered that they weren’t here; they’d left over two hours ago for a practice session. (It was only later that I learned, to my cost, that you don’t get to be a hospitality professional by being completely oblivious to the itinerary of your biggest and most important party of guests at any given time.)
Now I was slipping through a grill shutter, up the front steps of the familiar Karnataka State Football Association stadium with the peacock coat of arms on the gate. I entered its echoing vastness, the sweeping curves of grey concrete overhead, the stadium smell mingling with my trepidation. Through another grill at the far end, I could just see a strip of turf and some footballers on it. There was a musty, cluttered office and a portly clerk with long silver hair and a touch of madness in his eyes. “Are Salgãocar practicing here?” He said they were. Slightly incredulous, I pointed a shaking thumb back in the direction of the field. “Can I…” He shrugged. If he had known the expression, “Knock yourself out,” this is where he’d have used it. I walked out the shutters into the daylight; I was in the VIP stand.
There they were! The whole pantheon!
I saw Savio Medeira in the midfield. I saw Roberto Fernandez, that pillar of the defence. I saw S Venkatesh and Jules Alberto. I saw Juje Siddhi, black and splendid in the goal, hollering at the ball boys in perfect Kannada. And there was Bruno Coutinho, the then captain of the national team, and my highest god, in a Juventus shirt. I ran down the steps to stand on the paved boundary, right behind the bench, clinging to the wire work of the fence. I called his name; he turned with a smile and a wave. Two officials came striding by and one fell out of step and unfolded a plastic wicker chair for me. I did not sit down. I watched. Every pass and cross-in, the shouts and curses, the thump of the ball, heightened and amplified through the wide-angle lens of being level with the field.
I scanned the field for Alvito. There he was, left and forward, curly liver-red hair flying. He was just 19 that year, just transferred to Salgãocar, first time in the Premier Division, the left-footed rising star in the number 9 shirt. He’d been in the city the previous year with Sesa Goa in the Second Division League. I’d caught a glimpse of him walking down Victoria Road and stood leaning half out of the bus window staring after him till we turned the corner.
The practice session ended. The team were winding up, sprawled on the turf resting or packing up their kits. Bruno strolled over to me, wearing the revered green and white team jacket. “How are you, all right?” He asked, smiling good-naturedly. Dizzy and slightly nauseous, as a matter of fact.
I faltered, “I’m a huge fan,” and he obligingly signed the piece of paper I offered.
“You study here in Bangalore?” he asked without looking up, in that sweet, sweet Goan drawl that I came to know so well: one part father-figure, one part flirtation. I asked if I may take a picture of him and he smiled for it. Then, as if my cup was not running over already, he casually handed the camera to Seby Coelho as he passed by and asked him in Konkani to take a picture of the two of us. He put his arm around me and the awesomeness is frozen in time. “Come to the game on Sunday,” he told me and I wished him luck for it and he ran off through the gate in the fence.
I was standing on the edge of the turf now and when I looked up, the angel-faced number 9, Alvito Rolando Correia D’Cunha, was standing in front of me in all his glory and he said, “Hi.” I had always thought he would be arrogant and superior (and I adored him for it all the same) but he blushed perceptibly now, right down to his hands. I asked if I may take a picture of him and he smiled shyly for it. As most of the team filed past and up the stairs on their way out, Alvito stopped and turned and asked my name. His exact words were, “Your name, please.”
I was among the last few players walking through the grill, into the building, and out into the evening. There would be hell to pay when I got home so late. As the last of the light faded, a thin rain began to fall, as if in tribute to the club that would go on to win the League, and the orchestra took up My Cherie Amour in my head.
No one was leaving on the bus, this being the decadent high spot of our wilderness-school lives; everyone was staying later. But I got my backpack and slipped out at 4:00. For want of a better plan, I got off the bus at Richmond Circle and walked the entire length of Residency Road to get to the Park Residency Hotel. Indian football could only be mourned in the sad clichés of Deccan Herald sportswriters. It was unfavored by the media and the despair of its few meagre sponsors. There were four miniscule regions of the country where football meant anything, and Bangalore was not one of them. But to me the stadiums, the fixtures, the transfer rumours, Amal Dutta's Diamond formation, the struggle, and the glory were a heart-racing obsession in those years, and Salgãocar of Goa were my most favorite club. They were here to play what were referred to as (but never with much enthusiasm) “local giants,” ITI, in just the second or third ever National Football League.
It was a white hotel with a car park, potted palms, a marble desk, and an intercom. I walked into the lobby, painfully aware of the strangeness of my impending request (and my lack of legal majority). “You have the Salgãocar team staying here. Can I meet them?”
There was only the briefest flicker of puzzlement on the receptionist’s face, “Which... one of them?” Okay, that’s how it was going to be; I had to pick one... “Bruno,” I said without hesitation. He consulted a sheet of paper. The philistine had Bruno Coutinho living under his roof and he needed a rooming list to remember where! He dialled a number and was about to hand me the receiver when he suddenly remembered that they weren’t here; they’d left over two hours ago for a practice session. (It was only later that I learned, to my cost, that you don’t get to be a hospitality professional by being completely oblivious to the itinerary of your biggest and most important party of guests at any given time.)
Now I was slipping through a grill shutter, up the front steps of the familiar Karnataka State Football Association stadium with the peacock coat of arms on the gate. I entered its echoing vastness, the sweeping curves of grey concrete overhead, the stadium smell mingling with my trepidation. Through another grill at the far end, I could just see a strip of turf and some footballers on it. There was a musty, cluttered office and a portly clerk with long silver hair and a touch of madness in his eyes. “Are Salgãocar practicing here?” He said they were. Slightly incredulous, I pointed a shaking thumb back in the direction of the field. “Can I…” He shrugged. If he had known the expression, “Knock yourself out,” this is where he’d have used it. I walked out the shutters into the daylight; I was in the VIP stand.
There they were! The whole pantheon!
I saw Savio Medeira in the midfield. I saw Roberto Fernandez, that pillar of the defence. I saw S Venkatesh and Jules Alberto. I saw Juje Siddhi, black and splendid in the goal, hollering at the ball boys in perfect Kannada. And there was Bruno Coutinho, the then captain of the national team, and my highest god, in a Juventus shirt. I ran down the steps to stand on the paved boundary, right behind the bench, clinging to the wire work of the fence. I called his name; he turned with a smile and a wave. Two officials came striding by and one fell out of step and unfolded a plastic wicker chair for me. I did not sit down. I watched. Every pass and cross-in, the shouts and curses, the thump of the ball, heightened and amplified through the wide-angle lens of being level with the field.
I scanned the field for Alvito. There he was, left and forward, curly liver-red hair flying. He was just 19 that year, just transferred to Salgãocar, first time in the Premier Division, the left-footed rising star in the number 9 shirt. He’d been in the city the previous year with Sesa Goa in the Second Division League. I’d caught a glimpse of him walking down Victoria Road and stood leaning half out of the bus window staring after him till we turned the corner.
The practice session ended. The team were winding up, sprawled on the turf resting or packing up their kits. Bruno strolled over to me, wearing the revered green and white team jacket. “How are you, all right?” He asked, smiling good-naturedly. Dizzy and slightly nauseous, as a matter of fact.
I faltered, “I’m a huge fan,” and he obligingly signed the piece of paper I offered.
“You study here in Bangalore?” he asked without looking up, in that sweet, sweet Goan drawl that I came to know so well: one part father-figure, one part flirtation. I asked if I may take a picture of him and he smiled for it. Then, as if my cup was not running over already, he casually handed the camera to Seby Coelho as he passed by and asked him in Konkani to take a picture of the two of us. He put his arm around me and the awesomeness is frozen in time. “Come to the game on Sunday,” he told me and I wished him luck for it and he ran off through the gate in the fence.
I was standing on the edge of the turf now and when I looked up, the angel-faced number 9, Alvito Rolando Correia D’Cunha, was standing in front of me in all his glory and he said, “Hi.” I had always thought he would be arrogant and superior (and I adored him for it all the same) but he blushed perceptibly now, right down to his hands. I asked if I may take a picture of him and he smiled shyly for it. As most of the team filed past and up the stairs on their way out, Alvito stopped and turned and asked my name. His exact words were, “Your name, please.”
I was among the last few players walking through the grill, into the building, and out into the evening. There would be hell to pay when I got home so late. As the last of the light faded, a thin rain began to fall, as if in tribute to the club that would go on to win the League, and the orchestra took up My Cherie Amour in my head.
gosh, you remember the names even today...every Goan should read this and so should all the other football fans in India
ReplyDeleteOf course! How could I ever forget my Salgaocar playa's :)
ReplyDelete