Kick-Off

by Moti Nandy

Genres: Sports

Synopsis

EIGHT STORIES THAT CHAMPION THE SPIRIT OF A SPORT LIKE NO OTHER A young footballer struggles to make his mark even as he fights, the ruthless exploitation of local football clubs, his family’s strained financial circumstances and the humiliation of being the son of a man accused of deliberately throwing a winning goal in a long-ago match. A veteran player with an eclectic record prepares to play the final game of his career. A former star footballer battling grave illness relives the days of exhilarating wins and frustrating rivalries that sustain his spirit. And, on a turf slightly removed from the football field, a sportsman’s obsession over justice being done to a wronged fellow player leads him into penury. Featuring the acclaimed novellas Striker and Stopper, and all of Moti Nandy’s football-related short stories, this collection captures the heady highs and crushing lows, the heroism – and the ignominy – of sport.

Release date: November 27, 2017

Publisher: Hachette India

Print pages: 256

Sample

Striker

1

I had a dream last night.

Winding past three crossroads, a white car glided to a halt at the spot where our lane meets the main road. No one in our neighbourhood had ever seen such a large car and people instantly crowded around it, although they were afraid to come too close. A middle-aged foreigner got out, his complexion as dark as night, his suit as white as his car. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a cigar hanging from his mouth, and was wearing dark sunglasses.

Waving his hands about, the foreigner said something to the crowd in Portuguese. Our neighbours, who knew no other language besides Bengali, with a smattering of English, Hindi and Oriya thrown in, simply looked at one another in confusion. The tone of his voice suggested that he was trying to ask something.

Stepping out from the crowd, Nutu-da asked in Hindi, ‘What do you want?’ Then, having managed to translate the words in his head, he repeated the question in English.

The foreigner responded in unaccented Bengali, ‘Does someone named Prasoon Bhattacharya live here?’

Though taken aback at hearing the foreigner speak in Bengali, everyone was reassured and a buzz of curiosity instantly filled the air. Prasoon? Prasoon! Prasoon!! What does this man want with Prasoon? Why is this man here?

‘You mean Anil Bhattacharya’s eldest son Prasoon?’

‘Yes, I’d like to meet him,’ the foreigner told Nutu-da, not looking so anxious any more. Nutu-da was a fellow tenant in our house and worked as a compositor at a press. Since his wife’s death two years ago, his daughter Nilima had been the only other member of his family. A simple, straightforward man who had only one major flaw – he couldn’t help offering unsolicited advice. He was also a committed fundraiser. Whenever the opportunity arose, he would go around collecting money for the latest cause – be it a small local event or a larger community celebration. People of all ages referred to him as Nutu-da. Nilima was roughly my age. A tenth-grade student, she slaved away day and night at home and elsewhere. She was also a great friend of mine.

‘And what business do you have with Prasoon?’ Nutu-da asked the foreigner sceptically.

The man’s cigar had gone out. Relighting it with his lighter, he said, ‘I’ve come from Brazil. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Santos Football Club. I’m the manager there. And if Prasoon agrees to join us, we want him.’

‘What do you mean, want him?’ Nutu-da said.

The foreigner responded quickly. ‘Of course, my club will pay him. And we’ll even pay his airfare to come home once a year.’

‘How much will you pay?’

‘I will discuss that with his father,’ the foreigner answered guardedly. ‘We’ve done our homework and know that he’s not legally an adult yet. He’s just seventeen years and four months old.’

Nutu-da escorted the foreigner to our house, closely followed by a procession of local people. To get to the house, you had to pass through an unpaved lane just thirty inches wide. Nutu-da and our family occupied one and a half rooms each on the ground floor of the house, while the landlord, Bishwanath Datta, occupied the first floor. He had four daughters, two of whom had been married off.

Bishu-babu, who was about to go out, was flabbergasted at the sight of the entire neighbourhood trailing a foreigner into our lane. Retreating quickly, he sent his second daughter, Shonamukhi, out to deal with the situation. Bishu-babu was terrified of the police.

Seated on a low stool, my father was reading the morning paper. My mother was in the kitchen with my brother and sister – Pintu, my brother, is the middle child, and Putul, the youngest. No sooner had he entered the house than Nutu-da started yelling for my father. Baba’s was a taciturn personality – most days, we hardly exchanged a single word. I generally tended to avoid him.

‘Anil-babu, the manager of Santosh Club is here.’ Nutu-da was panting with excitement. ‘Pelé plays for them.’

‘Pelé who?’ Baba asked sternly. ‘Where does he live?’

Nutu-da was taken aback. Smiling gently, the foreigner stepped up to speak. ‘Santos is a Brazilian club. Our city is a famous port from which coffee is shipped all over the world. Our club is among the best in the world, and Pelé is the world’s greatest footballer. There hasn’t been another talent like him ever.’

Running his eyes over the crowd gathered behind the foreigner, Baba said, ‘I don’t follow football. Tell me what you want.’

‘We want your son Prasoon to play for our club.’

‘Talk to him. I have nothing to say about this.’ Baba disappeared into his room quickly, followed by the foreigner and Nutu-da. Meanwhile, emboldened by the knowledge that the visitor wasn’t a policeman, Bishu-babu came up to our door too.

‘Since Prasoon isn’t an adult yet, he cannot sign the contract. As his guardian, you have to do it,’ explained the foreigner.

‘No, I will not sign on anything connected to football. I do not wish to earn my son’s curses by leading him into damnation.’

‘Anil-babu was a footballer too,’ Nutu-da whispered to the foreigner. ‘He was a fearsome left-in for Calcutta’s top club, Juger Jatri. But he gave up the game after his left knee was injured during the Rovers Cup in Bombay.’

‘Who said I gave up the game?’ Baba suddenly shouted. ‘I was forced to give up! My injury was never treated. I couldn’t afford it, and the club didn’t offer a paisa. I still have to walk around with a torn cartilage. The club forced me to play with the injury. It was the IFA Shield final, against East Bengal. With three minutes to go, the match still goal-less, there I was, six yards from the goal, with Taj Mohammed on the ground, Byomkesh Bose rushing towards me, Ghatak not able to make up his mind whether to give me the charge or not, the stands roaring in unison for a goal – and from that distance I shot wide.’

Looking embarrassed at his sudden outburst of passion, Baba lowered his head and limped off to the bed, dragging his left foot behind him. Smiling wanly, he said, ‘I’d told them I wouldn’t be able to play. They gave me an injection and forced me to play, promising me a job if I did. I did try; I tried very hard, to score that goal.’ His agitation had made him almost unintelligible as he continued, ‘They spat all over me, accusing me of having tanked the game for a bribe. My forehead split under their blows.’ Distractedly, he rubbed the scar that lay exactly in the centre of his forehead.

‘Footballers meet the same fate all over the world,’ the foreigner said sympathetically.

‘Why should they?’ Baba’s eyes blazed, reflecting his anger and hatred. ‘When I was rolling on the pitch in agony, they all said I was pretending. They didn’t stop to consider that the man they were vilifying had once scored at ease from twenty-five to thirty yards out. I had been the top scorer in the Calcutta League for two years! They humiliated me cruelly, so cruelly, not knowing how much I had dreamed of wearing the shield-winners’ medal, and of scoring the winning goal for my club…’

Baba stopped.

‘We’ll pay well. The first season we’ll pay the equivalent of two thousand rupees every month. That’s the standard for our second team. If his performance can get him into the first team and he plays well, he’ll make at least two lakhs a year between his salary, bonus and endorsements.’

‘What?’ said Bishu-babu, walking into the room. Nutu-da stared at the foreigner, bereft of speech. The crowd murmured.

‘Imagine Prasoon having it in him! You can’t tell from looking at him, can you?’

Baba used to work as a timekeeper at the Aruna Glass Factory, which had been closed due to a lockout for over three years. Still, he had never once defaulted on our house rent of thirty-five rupees in all that time. His self-respect was so strong that it was intolerable for him to even imagine being insulted by the landlord. Ma said he now worked at a chemist’s, leaving home every afternoon and returning late – well after I’d fallen asleep.

‘You should talk to Prasoon directly. I haven’t been to watch a game for the past twenty years. I don’t even look at the sports page of newspapers any more, so I’m not going to say yes or no on this subject.’

‘Anil-babu!’ Nutu-da pleaded in a low voice. ‘Prasoon will earn up to a lakh. You could live like a king!’

‘Unbelievable. Imagine earning so much just for kicking a ball! You should accept the deal,’ said Bishu-babu.

‘Footballers have their pride, Bishu-babu. Prasoon plays football because he wants to, not because I’ve asked him to. I have never watched him play. I don’t want to hear anything more about football. I’ve said all I have to say.’

Although the foreigner, as well as Nutu-da and Bishu-babu, tried to persuade Baba, he just shook his head obdurately. Eventually, the Brazilian gave him his visiting card, saying, ‘Please think it over and let me know. Since Pelé plans to retire soon, we want to prepare Prasoon immediately so that he can replace him later.’

The foreigner left, and so did the crowd. Alone in the room, the card still in his hand, Baba walked up to the window, shred the card into little strips and flung them outside. As they floated around like flowers in the wind, Ma dashed out of the kitchen to catch them, Nilima running behind her. Still chasing the strips, Nilima passed by my window and whispered, ‘Wake up, Prasoon. It’s five o’clock!’

2

Waking with a start, I saw Nilima standing outside the window, saying, ‘You asked me to wake you up, didn’t you?’

Since we didn’t have a clock at home, I’d asked Nilima to wake me at 5 a.m. She had morning school and usually got up at dawn to draw the water, light the stove and cook for her father before going to class. Nemai, Anwar and I were scheduled to appear for a trial with Shobhabajar Sporting at their grounds today. Harsho-da had told the club coach Bipin Sinha that we’d be going.

I stayed in bed for a while, reflecting on the dream and feeling rather embarrassed. I wondered why I’d had such a bizarre, unreal dream. But then, I reminded myself, unreal, unbelievable things were meant to happen in dreams. Imagine a Portuguese-speaking Brazilian talking in Bangla! It couldn’t happen anywhere else but in a dream. And yet, I’d also heard that dreams were never entirely unfounded – that they were reflections of things we have thought about or wishes we have harboured.

Did that mean I wanted to be Pelé, then? Wasn’t that arrogant of me! ‘P…e…l…é.’ I said the name softly, slowly, over and over again. I’d heard about him many times from Harsho-da, who was a voracious reader and football lover, despite never having played the game. He used to live in our neighbourhood and was someone I had known since childhood. He was the first to tell me, ‘You have the potential, Prasoon. If you concentrate on your game you can be a great player.’ But even I hadn’t been aware of my secret yearning to be a Pelé. I had a powerful right-foot shot, yet was nowhere as good with my left. I couldn’t trap the ball perfectly either, and shut my eyes when heading. People said I was speedy and had excellent dribbling skills, but that I lacked the stamina for a seventy-minute game. Nor did I know when and how to find free space and wait for the ball.

Despite having many other weaknesses to add to that list, here I was, dreaming of becoming Pelé’s successor! I was a complete ass, and angry with myself for it. What if Nemai got to know about this dream? He would have a great laugh at my expense. Two lakh rupees a year! You had to be a complete lunatic to even dream of so much money.

Just the day before, none of us had eaten more than six rotis at lunch, and four at dinner. Although my insides were being gnawed away by hunger all evening, I’d divided one of my rotis in half for Putul and Pintu and told Ma to put a couple of them away for me to eat in the morning. I was worried about going for the trial on an empty stomach, lest I got cramps. Of course, Ma knew about the trial. So did Nilima.

My room was rather damp, with the lack of light making the afternoon resemble evening. The plaster was peeling off half the wall. There were termites in the overhead beams. Both the shutters of the only window in the room were broken, letting in water whenever it rained. You couldn’t possibly call this eight-foot-long and five-foot-wide space a room. I occupied it by myself. There was no space for even a stool, although there was a shelf on the wall, with a few of my schoolbooks on it, and a rope strung across the bed, from which hung two pairs of trousers and two shirts.

Ma came in. I doubt whether there’s another mother like mine in the whole world. Even in our household of deprivation, where hunger, heat, humiliation and hopelessness drove us insane, she never lost her smile. Not a person of many words, when she spoke it was in a low, sweet voice that seemed to wipe out every trace of pain from the planet.

Entering, she said, ‘Are you up, Khoka? Leaving already?’

‘Yes. Is Baba up too?’

‘No, he seems unwell. Probably has a fever. I’ve put aside some rotis for you.’

Ma gave me four rotis. I had always felt she loved me more than the others, and was sure she hadn’t eaten the previous night to ensure that there were enough rotis for me in the morning. I would have made a fuss about it any other day but not that morning. We had to be at the ground by seven, and Nemai and Anwar would be waiting for me at the bus stop.

Before leaving, I stopped on a whim to touch Ma’s feet in respect. I was merely going for a trial with a first division club, not to actually play for one. But if Bipin Sinha liked what he saw, we’d get a chance to play on one of the hallowed football grounds of the Calcutta Maidan! The world of football had long been a fairy-tale palace for me. And today I was walking up to the door of the dream I had been nurturing for years. If I managed to get in, I was determined to climb the stairs and reach the very top. I had to. I would work as hard as was necessary.

Ma put her arms around me and kissed my forehead, saying, ‘Do your best, Khoka.’

3

As I walked briskly towards the bus stop, kitbag in hand, Ma’s words buzzed around in my head. I wouldn’t simply give it my best, I’d give up my whole life! She had spent all her life in a state of deprivation, and I was determined to ensure happiness for her now. I knew Shobhabajar Sporting would not pay me anything, for they could not afford to. I would have to go to Mohun Bagan, East Bengal or Juger Jatri for that. Shobhabajar was only the first step, and I would have to get myself noticed in a year or two. I wanted my game to gain me entry into a top club, and then to win me the Indian jersey. I needed both money and fame, but the latter first.

Nemai and Anwar were waiting for me. Glancing at his watch as I arrived, Anwar said, ‘We’ll be there by six-thirty.’

That all three of us had fallen victim to anticipation as well as to anxiety was obvious from the fact that none of us could speak a word. Normally, Nemai was the most voluble of us all. Indeed, he was without equal for playing jokes on people or mimicking them. He lived about a mile away from us in a locality named Shanti Pally. All the houses in that area were built on community land appropriated by refugees from what became East Pakistan at the time of Independence. His father was dead, and his brother ran a textiles shop in Hatibagan. Nemai hadn’t been to school since failing his exams in class five.

Strikingly fair, six feet tall and weighing sixty-five kilos, Anwar was the affluent one among us. His father owned a hotel as well as a couple of densely populated slums. The calm and composed Anwar had a style of play that matched his behaviour and clothes – neat and clean. About three years older than Nemai and I, he was now in the first year of a bachelor of commerce course at college. When he was with us, neither of us had to spend a paisa. Needless to add, we didn’t go a yard without him.

None of us said a word till the bus reached Shyambazar. I knew that I probably should have spent a few minutes with Baba before I left that morning, but somewhere within me there burned a strange anger towards him. He had never tried to discuss football with me, never asked how things were going, nor even watched any of my games. I knew his apathy concealed a deep loathing for football. Ma would sometimes say, ‘Why not ask your father for some tips?’ but would then add quickly, ‘Never mind.’ Once I overheard Baba telling her, ‘Football consumed me. It’ll do the same to Khoka. Stop him.’

Switching buses at Shyambazar, we got off at the Esplanade at exactly a quarter past six. At the Shobhabajar tent we found twelve young men busy dressing for training. ‘Bipin-da will be here at seven,’ one of them informed us. ‘We’re going to run down Red Road, cross the tram lines and run around the Brigade Parade Ground. Bipin-da will be waiting for us when we get back.’

We didn’t know what we were supposed to be doing. Then Anwar came up with a suggestion. ‘What’s the use of waiting?’ he said. ‘Let’s run with them too. Bipin-da will be impressed.’

We joined them. But instead of running to the Brigade Parade Ground as planned, the players suddenly changed direction after five minutes and headed towards the Esplanade. Entering the Maidan Hawkers’ Market, they splashed water from a tube well on their bodies and clothes. Seeing our puzzled faces, they laughed.

‘What are you looking at?’ the oldest of the players asked us. ‘Splash yourselves. Bipin-da won’t be satisfied unless you’re soaking with perspiration. He’ll make you run again. Now we’re going to pant all the way back to the tent.’

‘Don’t you dare reveal any of this to Bipin-da. If you let the cat out of the bag…’ said a burly fellow among them, glaring at us menacingly.

4

We finally got a chance to show what we could do. Nemai and I were on one side of the ground and Anwar was about sixty or sixty-five yards away on the other. His shots were very powerful – apparently, he had once broken a goalkeeper’s wrist. And I believe Shailen Manna had a booming shot as well. Instead of power, however, I tried to demonstrate skill – outswingers, chips, volleys and a couple of attempted but unsuccessful bicycle shots. I had tried to copy them from photographs of Pelé, only to realize later on that you couldn’t perfect techniques like that without some natural gymnastic ability and a coach to guide you.

Anwar kept up his long-range shots, which Nemai kept having to fetch from the other side of the pitch, whining all the while. ‘Am I his servant? All he can do is shoot!’

‘You and I will be dropped, Prasoon,’ Nemai warned. ‘Anwar has no real skills…why don’t you tell Bipin-da to let us show some trapping, heading or dribbling?’

Bipin-da was busy getting the other players to practise long shots over and over again. Going up to him, I asked, ‘Bipin-da, could we do some skill practice now?’

‘Skill!’ Bipin-da looked at me as if he had heard the word for the first time. ‘Whatever for?’

Scratching my head, I said, ‘I meant…we need some skills for our matches, don’t we?’

‘Skills at Shobhabajar Sporting?’ Bipin-da looked as aghast as if he had seen people enter a temple with their shoes on. ‘We got seven points from twenty-eight matches last year, five the year before. We were only saved because there was no relegation or promotion in the division. Skills are needed for teams that compete for the championship – the Mohun Bagans, East Bengals or Juger Jatris. What does a team like ours need them for?’

‘Then what about these long-range shots?’ Without being rude, I tried to challenge his startling approach to coaching.

‘This is strategy, our strategy,’ answered Bipin-da with a big smile. ‘We have to play every match under pressure. When nine of them are in your penalty box, what are you going to do?’

‘Clear the ball.’

‘Excellent! I see you have brains. But how will you clear the ball?’

‘Kick it far away.’

‘Veeeery good. That’s what our long-range shooting practice is for. This is the one skill that’s the most useful for us. Later, I’ll teach you a couple of tackles as well. But for now, concentrate on shooting. What’s the name of that fellow who came with you?’ He pointed at Anwar. ‘Good player, fits in well as stopper,’ he remarked upon learning Anwar’s name.

I then realized that Anwar had made it. I was genuinely happy for him since my position was striker, which meant that we weren’t competing for the same place on the team.

I recounted my conversation with Bipin-da to Nemai. ‘I’m not worried,’ he said. ‘I’ll get in as soon as he sees my technique for making them trip. You’d better think about yourself though.’

I was disappointed, not having expected such a disheartening introduction to first division football. Bipin-da had shattered all my dreams of learning and perfecting the finer points of football, of getting recognition and fame, of climbing to the top. Leaving the pitch, I sat down on one side. No one noticed. They were now practising heading, using four balls. One of them kept up a barrage of corner kicks, which ten or twelve of the rest rose to head out of the penalty box. The whole process was interspersed with jokes, laughter and invective. During one such mêlée, one of the players had an elbow shoved into his face and ran off the pitch, his nose bleeding. A little later, the goalkeeper was forced to miss an approaching ball when someone pulled his shorts down so low that saving his modesty became more important than saving a goal.

Holding a handkerchief to his bleeding nose, the player who’d been elbowed came and stood next to me. He was as thin as a reed and seemed about six or seven years older. ‘What position do you play in?’ he asked as soon as our eyes met.

‘Striker,’ I replied.

‘Where did you play earlier?’

‘Local club. It’s my first time on the Maidan.’

Suddenly, I saw Anwar crouching down in pain and clutching his abdomen. Someone had kicked him. He pulled himself back to his feet immediately though, glaring at the burly fellow player who had kneed him. ‘What’s his name?’ I asked, pointing at the culprit.

‘Palash Tikadar. Dangerous chap. Slapped the referee last year, broke an opponent’s leg, took a bribe and scored an own goal. Even stole four pairs of trousers from the tent once. We avoid him like the plague.’

‘Was it Palash who hit you on the nose?’

‘No, that was Robi. He’s a decent sort. Not his fault – he was only acting on Bipin-da’s instructions.’

I noticed that Tikadar seemed to be avoiding Anwar, moving away every time Anwar came near him. Nemai remained at a distance from the crowd.

‘How many years have you been playing for Shobhabajar?’ I asked out of curiosity.

‘About five.’

‘No plans to change clubs?’

His face fell. Pressing his blood-soaked handkerchief to his eyes for what . . .