Jabulani! (Bringing joy to everyone!)

In three days, South Africa will play host to the biggest sporting extravaganza of this planet: the FIFA World Cup. Some might argue that the Olympics are bigger. “Bah!” I scoff. Americans might scream Superbowl. Idiots! Few numb-skulled Indians could be forgiven if they believe Tendulkar is God. “Father, forgive them for they no naught.” The truth: There is no bigger tournament than the football World Cup, and in this 2010 edition, 32 teams will bleed for a month to get their hands on the most coveted trophy the sporting world has ever known.

My earliest memories go back to 1986 and the controversial “Hand of God” goal, which denied England a place in the semi finals. Maradona and Argentina went on to triumph over West Germany in the finals to take the trophy that year.

Almost poetically, the next World Cup in 1990 began with minnows Cameroon denying the reigning champions Argentina a successful start to their World Cup campaign. Francois Omam-Biyik stunned millions of fans around the world with his goal against Argentina in the opening match. And many Englishmen – still smarting from their wrongful defeat at the “hands” of the Argentineans four years earlier – found their most unlikely hero in the virtually unknown Cameroonian.

For me, the only team I cared about was W Germany, with personal heroes such as Andreas Brehme, Thomas Hässler, Rudi Völler, Lothar Matthäus, and the blond bomber Jürgen Klinsmann! (Apparently, I wasn’t the only staunch German supporter in the family. A cousin, born soon after the tournament, was named Klinsmann by his football-crazy dad).

That year, the Germans avenged their 1986 defeat by snatching the trophy from the defending Argentineans by a single goal in a tightly contested final.

Growing up in Bandra, the run-in to the FIFA World Cup was always characterised by blokes getting out their boots and having them double-stitched at the nearest ‘mochi’ to last the mucky outfields of our monsoon-riddled, water-clogged grounds.

My immediate cronies found themselves cloven to form factions: one that swore their allegiance to the Brazilians, and the other which believed anything other than Argentina was blasphemy. And there would be matches, and we called them “friendlies”. The games were anything but…

Me, I was usually relegated to play for the faux Argentineans, who were usually fewer in number. And I was ridiculed for my German loyalty even by teammates, never mind that I had scored inspired goals for them (so what if I was off-side?).

My biggest fantasy at the time – and I daresay till date – is to be on one of those lush world-class pitches; suitably attired in knee-length hose and sponsored Adidas gear; feinting one defender only to dribble the next and immediately sidestep the third before launching a missile into the back of the opposition’s net, beating their veteran goalkeeper by a tantalizing smidgen. And then, to soak in adulation of a worshipping crowd that ecstatically scream my name: 80,000 stadium fans in unison, while across the globe, soccer-crazy parents simultaneously decide to name their sons ‘Savio’; and damsels across borders suddenly begin looking for excuses to dump their existing beaus.

Sadly, India does not look like it will qualify for the tourney in my lifetime, and Adidas has never heard of me. To say nothing of the fact that now – at almost 35 years of age (and thanks to ITC) – I doubt I’ll last even five minutes running around the field.

But starting Friday, I know I’m going to be on that pitch before the first whistle is blown. And although I wont be running for the stipulated 90 minutes, I’m definitely going to be living vicariously through each of those players whose moment has come.

And yes, Ballack or no Ballack, I’m still going to be cheering the loudest for Deutschland. My next-door neighbours have been warned.

Note: The match ball for the 2010 FIFA World Cup, manufactured by Adidas, is named the Jabulani, which means "bringing joy to everyone" in isiZulu

Rant: In the Bombay Times today, a certain Simi Chandoke wrote: “It is fun to watch Rafael Nadal win the French Open but all the same it was pretty annoying to keep watching him pull his veggies out. If only he would stop touching his butt while in public with all the cameras on him…”
Well Ms Chadoke, if it was “veggies” he was pulling out of his butt, I’m sure it would make bigger news than his French Open win. The word you were looking for, I think, is “wedgies” derived from “wedge”. Veggies, however, are usually green and are not found around arses.
It’s annoying when such mistakes are made by people who are Editor in Chiefs. C’est la vie!