Football shootball hai rabba

Ed Note: Very, very blogcked right now. So the choice is between hibernation and recycling. So recycling it is.(Why doesnt blogspot allow import of old posts? bah!) This was written in Jul 2006 at the height of the World Cup fever.

I have always been a daddy’s girl through my childhood. I used to try and imitate everything he did which was probably the reason I ended up watching, understanding and actually being quite passionate about sports (the play rather than the players- except Stefan Edberg of course who I loved with a deep, enduring passion which went beyond his play!).

Lately though, the fiancée feller is doing his damndest to cure me of this fervour. I love watching sports but I DO object to playing fifth fiddle to his sundry sports pursuits. He has been known to wax lyrical and poetic about the worn handle of his racket (the closest he has ever come to poetry with me is “teri jheel jaisi peeli ankhen” in atrociously accented Hindi). I remember I had mildly remonstrated once, he came back with the argument –stopping “well wouldn’t you much rather play second fiddle to my racket than to another woman?”

Anyways, I digress, like I was saying, I love watching sports but never get the remote control thanks to mother dear. Football season has resulted in some sort of a compromise. Having assured all her friends that she does understands football after staying in Brazil; she sometimes feels obliged to actually watch it. Which is pretty good for me!

So the other day, I am sitting and watching the Germany- Argentina match with her, and two of the players get into a spat. I turn around and I see my ma, pumping her fists into the air, bloodlust in the eyes and yelling: “FIGHT, FIGHT YOU *#*@#*#&@" (Ma-version-of-gaalis)

Hmmm. Interesting I though. She learneth!

A bit later in the match, her interest waning, I thought I should get her involved once again (otherwise run the risk of the channel getting changed).
Best way to do that is to needle her a little bit.
“Ma, isn’t that Ballack guy really hot? I wish I could marry him. I would do that tomorrow if I could”.
Ma, completely outraged at this affront to S starts off. “What is wrong with S, this Ballack is probably a doped out, philandering drunkard. You don’t know what you are saying …..”
“Ma, but S also has the hots for Ballack. He told me the other day that he wanted to get married to him as well”
Silence!

The match continues, one yellow card is flashed.
Ma turns to me and comes out with the clincher. In all seriousness asks –“Tell me, when does the red and green light come on?”