Every four years, I reactivate my invariably expired telly license to watch the FIFA extravaganza.
I relive the glory days of watching matches on a single channel at ungodly hours.
I used to be able to rattle off names like Salvatore Schillaci (as I write this, I have sadly learned that he has passed away), Lothar Matthäus, Bebeto, and Romário. Back then, if one followed the World Cup telecast and a diligent perusal of sports literature in the newspaper, and, with a subscription to Sportstar, one could adequately converse about the happenings with interest and knowledge.
Today, I am a bit of a happy relic among football fans. I can still talk about the game and the technicalities, but I do not care much for individual players, shaking closed fists at kids who emulate the latest heroes. Mbappé, Mo Salah, Haaland.
“These new kids aren’t as good as our playmakers,” I mutter. “Modrić? pshhh.. You haven’t experienced Kaka!”
But as I said, I enjoy watching FIFA matches, even if only for the fans and the fervor. To know that the world still cares so much about simple joys and the beautiful game.
This year, Mira has joined in with encouraging signs and an infectious effect.
“Appa, did Messi score any goals?” she asks. I nod sagely. “Are there any replays of the games coming now?” she queries, and I switch on the idiot box with feigned nonchalance.
This was how birding started with us, too.
I had to soft-sell the quiet pleasure of identifying and watching birds, waiting patiently for her to take the bait. Over time, she has grown into it beautifully. She now spots as many birds as I do in our neighborhood—and often does it better than I can.
Last Saturday, we walked to the nearby lake.
Peering into the bushes, she pointed out a wader. A gangly bird with a bronzed back and nightmarish toes. I still haven’t familiarised myself with the species to describe it better without using a reference picture.
The Merlin app on my phone had been predicting Jacanas in the area for quite some time. This was the first time I actually spotted it.
I’ll come back again to the lake a few more times to take a better look at this bird.
I can already picture myself years from now, waving my hand at young naturalists: “The kind of birds we used to see back in the day…” I’ll growl, knowing full well that few can travel back in time to challenge my stories.
I can see the appeal of ancient neighborhood storytellers.
This month, meanwhile, is all about football. Because after July, I’ll go dormant, waiting as curiously as anyone else, if my love for the game will sprout back after a four-year gap. A reminder of the youth past.
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