Growing up in Rajkot’s railway colony in the 1980s next to an all-purpose sports facility that was the centerpiece of our young lives – we had our own football heroes. There was a Siddi boy named Rafiq Baloch, whose legs were attached to a tree. Parasottam, fondly called Passio, was a fearless defender with an ambition to score goals. And Anandi Ahmed, a compulsive dribbler, loved to dodge goalkeepers and tap the ball into the goal.
All of them played for our team — called Jagjivan Ram Railway Institute. We rarely won the local league because the other sides outside our township — the Young Challengers Club and the Youth Club — were more consistent but less watchable. For reference, we were the Liverpool of Rajkot.
In the past, our introduction to the world of football was primarily through the written word. Englishman Brian Glanville, the best football writer of all time, was our guide. He took us to prestigious stadiums around the world, informed us about the ball skills of great players and made our young minds imagine what they did on the field, in the sea. His beautifully crafted, impressively authoritative articles appeared regularly in Sportstar, our youth’s sporting bible. We loved that glossy magazine with the popular centerfold. We rub our cheeks against the magazine’s glossy pages before devouring it from cover to cover for that soothing, smooth feel.
Once in a while, if it was our lucky day, a Films Division-produced newsreel that was shown before movies in theaters would show a few seconds of video clips of international football. It was a blink-and-you’ll-play opportunity in a dark cinema hall with cushionless wooden seats. It would be true to say that we, nestled in our comfortable cocoons, are cut off from the world – no attempt to romanticize remoteness.
And then it all happened in that magical summer of 1986 when football greats, and even God, graced our living rooms every night. We had seen Ravi Shastri drive his team mate in an Audi at the MCG a year ago but it was not at our house. Watching live sports from your own couch was new to us. As far as eye-openers go, Mexico ’86 was epic – it burned new, permanent football images into our retinas, rewriting old ones.
Poor Baloch, Passio and Ahmed, they were pushed out of our minds by Maradona, Socrates, Platini, Zico, Lineker, Laudrup… the list was endless. To this day, Mexico ’86 is regarded as one of the most memorable events of the World Cup. Hand of God, the greatest goal of all time, the heartbreaking result and the thrilling climax where Valdano pounced on Maradona’s measured through-ball to break a 2-2 deadlock in the final against Germany. As the Argentines embraced Maradona, the world, including the recent converts in Rajkot, wanted to jump into the television to be part of the jubilant frenzy.
Our colony’s first foray into high-level football was both hilarious and insightful.
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It provided an opportunity to see how national teams build fanbases in distant countries. How the non-starters in international football in our neighborhood chose the teams they would support for the World Cup and the rest of their lives was a story that inspired RK Narayan. These were simple people, who had no skin in the game, from different countries and cultures, bound to come into contact with mesmerizing men who played the beautiful game.
Late one night, early in the tournament, a close friend’s grandfather announced to the family, watching their first World Cup together, that Germany was the team they would support. Starting out as a cobbler repairing shoes on the footpaths of a busy street, the highly respected patriarch went on to run some glamorous footwear shops in the tony areas of the city. The announcement came minutes after the commentator read off the German playing XI, starting with their goalkeeper Toni Schumacher. “Look, like us, the German goalkeeper is also a shoemaker. So, from now on, Germany is our team,” he said.
Joshi is not far from where we stayed. During the night, he pledged allegiance to Brazil. After the most entertaining team of the World Cup beat Poland, where their right-back Josimar scored with a wonderful pile-driver from outside the D. The next morning, news of Joshi’s loyalty spread, the certified funnyman of our area overwrote the name board outside Mr. Joshi’s house. Joshimar was now reading adding “Mar” with a black sketch pen.
Our milkman would be a big fan of Michael Laudrup as he was from Denmark, a country he knew was big on livestock and dairy products. England also had some fans. One reason was the presence of many Gujaratis in the UK, many from Africa. English fans hated Maradona when he first cheated and then insulted them God’s sleight of hand. But they were in the minority; Argentina and Maradona ruled most hearts.
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Socrates played like a father playing ball in the park with his son in a crucial game of the World Cup. The good doctor answers the biggest question of our teenage lives: What’s cool? (Reuters photo)
For our small group, the hero was the Brazilian, Socrates. He was tall, lean, outspoken and understated. He was a reflection of a certain Angry Young Man, a popular silver-screen character in that image. Socrates was a doctor who smoked like a sparrow and drank like a fish. He had a casual air about himself even in high-pressure situations. Socrates played like a father playing ball in the park with his son in a crucial game of the World Cup. The good doctor answers the biggest question of our teenage lives: What’s cool?
Also Read | Mexico’s ‘cathedral of football’, Maradona never left the stadium
Four decades after Mexico had its baptism of fire, the World Cup has come full circle. A major sporting spectacle has begun in Mexico. Still, nothing can replace the summer of ’86 or bring back that age of innocence. This is the era of information overload and data mining. Nothing is left to the imagination. The joy of connecting with strangers is over.
“Oh, when I look back now… those were the best days of my life.” That summer of ’86.