The village tavern where I occasionally drop in to buy beer is always brimming with customers. In a way it’s not a bad thing because it allows one to savour juicy tit bits of local news before the Bar lady attends to you. But since the last two months, the proceedings of the house have been completely dominated by football with Anton, a football veteran home grown in the paddy fields of Arossim & Cansaulim, taking centre stage. Rarely does anyone dare to challenge Anton’s analysis as he was a regular with the village club when footballs had laces and referees could be influenced by something as little as a masala dosa with tea at the local Udpi restaurant. Any referee suspected to be partial was promptly abused and booed as “chayea Gontacho”.
The other day as I stopped by, a clinical analysis of Team FC Goa was in progress and expert advice for Zico and his men was flowing like feni… I realized that the same guys who were once abusing Zico and Robert Pires with the most colorful of Goan expletives had made a dramatic Parrikar turn to become unflinching Zico fans. But the toast of the afternoon was undoubtedly the young Romeo Fernandes who everyone agreed was Goa’s answer to Brazil’s Neymar! “Did anyone of you ever dream that a legend like Zico would come down to coach Goans?!” exclaimed Anton, as he generously helped himself to roasted cashew nuts from Salu`s plate. Indeed Goans have come a long ways since our ancestors kicked pig bladders, not to forget football legends of my childhood like Bernard and Catao.
Back home, Rekha, the young lady who takes care of my old mother was eagerly waiting to know whether Fikru was playing that day. Initially she could not figure out the logic behind so many guys running after one ball and also thought the cards were actually shown in appreciation till Chennaiyin Goalkeeper Shilton Paul was red carded and sent off. Thanks to the ISL, Rekha can now discuss the finer nuances of the game a la Mayanti Langer, the Sports Anchor who makes her demure appearance during half-time and even rattle off names like Slepicka, Djemba-Djemba, Shylo Mama and Durga Boro with equal ease.
As kids we along with the bigger boys would gather in the clearing amidst the cashew plantation by the sea waiting for someone to turn up with a ball. Many a times we had to bottle up our passion for the beautiful game and return home disappointed.
Jack Santan the sailor often proved to be a saviour and we eagerly awaited his return as he always came with a brand new ball on every trip. Not much of a footballer but more of a football himself, Jack would generously leave the ball with us when he joined back. But the problem with Jack was that whenever a decision went against him, he would simply grab his ball and walk home in a huff. Nobody and nothing could deter him once he made up his mind and all we boys could do was patiently wait till Jack`s urge for kicking the ball got the better of his egoistic tantrums!
