When Football and Tennis intersect

 In football everything is complicated by the presence of the opposite team. Jean Paul Sartre, Critique of Dialectical Reason.

It’s one-on-one out there, man. There ain’t no hiding. I can’t pass the ball. Pete Sampras.

Pelé, arguably the greatest ever footballer to dribble past 10 men and essay a bicycle kick past an astonished goalkeeper, (with due apologies to Maradona, Messi, Ronaldo, Mbappe, Kane and others) famously dubbed football O Jogo Bonito in Portuguese, which translates to The Beautiful Game. As I key in these lines, more than half the world have been staying awake across time zones to witness their country’s fortunes currently being played out in the North American continent, along with Canada and Mexico for the coveted Jules Rimet Trophy, which Donald Trump coveted more than anyone else. Fortunately for the whole world, his stubby reach exceeded his grubby grasp by some distance. Here in India, we are not represented in the tournament and are unlikely to do so in the foreseeable future. However, for our delectation, every single match is being brought to us on our television screens courtesy ZEE 5.

The catch is, with very few exceptions, almost all the games are featured well after midnight Indian Standard Time. Deducing logically, that means millions of football crazies in West Bengal and Kerala, our own temples of football and several hundred more from other states will be attending their schools / colleges / offices bleary-eyed, and many will have developed mysterious illnesses and put in for sick leave. In Calcutta, where I lived for many years, walls skirting homes and buildings will have been painted (with or without permission) with the city’s soccer heroes, flags of all the playing nations will be fluttering across streets and roadside socceroos will hold up traffic with impunity, suitably attired in tee-shirts bearing colours of their favourite teams – Brazil’s yellow and Argentina’s blue stripes winning the bragging rights by a country mile. The odd Mohun Bagan and East Bengal jerseys may also be fleetingly seen. The more ambitious fans even create a football ‘Nativity Scene’ with puppets and wax images featuring their stars, as they do during the Puja festival. At times, incongruously, even a Sachin Tendulkar and Saurav Ganguli image will make an appearance.

Getting back to binge-watching football, let me state straight from kick-off, that I am not of their number. I am referring to those who stay up all night to take in the games. If I read in the papers the next morning of some great feats or stunning upsets that have taken place, I might watch the 10-minute capsules of the highlights at my own, sweet pleasure. As an avid tennis fan, my evenings these days are taken up mostly with Wimbledon as I wallow in the age-defying pyrotechnics of Djokovic or his natural successor for tennis supremacy, Jannik Sinner, while Alcaraz recuperates from his injuries. The scorching ‘Indian Summer’ that has invaded England and much of Europe consumed Wimbledon. It must be some kind of dubious record that not a single day’s play was lost due to rain. Which is a shame because rain interruptions provide their own challenges to the players and plenty of fun for spectators.

Flashback to 1996, when Cliff Richard entertained the crowds from the stands during a rain-drenched day with hit songs like Summer Holiday, The Young Ones and Bachelor Boy, while Wimbledon champions Martina Navratilova, Virginia Wade and other tennis luminaries were the back-up singers! Instead, what we witnessed was hundreds of Lady Windermere types hand-fanning themselves, some even fainting, if not swooning, due to the heat. As for the tennis, some of the women, if I could only pronounce their East European or Balkan names are making a huge impact. Two girls from Czechoslovakia have just qualified for the finals. Expectedly, the media are going bonkers with puns like ‘Czech Mates.’ The Wimbledon games, on odd occasions when they go on late into the night, coincides with the World Cup football. Which brings with it its own comic interplay.

A ladies’ singles was in progress on Centre Court. The game was proceeding at a sedate pace with nary a grunt or squeal to disturb the peace, nothing untoward for the crowd to go ballistic. In fact, to quote Wodehouse, you could have heard ‘the uproar of the butterflies in the adjoining meadows.’ Yet unaccountably for me, as a television watcher, I could not understand the periodic ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and an almighty roar when one of the girls had just served a double fault. It took me a while to cotton on to the fact that most of the spectators were listening to the football commentary on their mobiles while England were slipping it across Mexico and Bellingham and Kane were scoring those goals. When the final whistle blew with England emerging victorious, the noise went through the Centre Court hi-tech roof! Premature and off-key chants of Queens’s anthemic We are the champions rang round Wimbledon. They may as well have stayed at home and watched the football. The two girls stopped playing tennis while things settled down. That is what football does to people. One last remark on Wimbledon. Now that a young, unsung British tennis star, Arthur Fery, has reached the semis from nowhere, the Brits will actually have some tennis to get raucously vocal about. Hopefully, England will not be playing football at the same time.

My wife often cynically remarks, ‘Can’t understand why there is so much fuss being made over 22 men kicking a ball around.’ My cutting response is to paraphrase Trinidadian historian C.L.R. James’ memorable quote on cricket (which in turn is inspired by Rudyard Kipling’s quote on England), ‘What do they know of football who only football know.’ ‘Check mate’ I said, metaphorically toppling over my better half’s white King and strutting off in a marked manner.

Having watched a bit of football on the telly in recent years, particularly a few games from past World Cup fixtures and some English Premier League games involving the big guns, I have to wonder how beautiful the game really is. Conversely, how ugly it has now become. When Pelé was on song on the field, the game was, indeed, close to poetry in motion. The same could be said of Maradona in full flight. Although one of his most celebrated and infamous (‘hand of God’) goals against England in 1986 turned out to be an undetected, hand-fisted foul. Today VAR would have disallowed that goal. Barring those few instances along with a bit of Messi magic, most teams depend on extracting a foul in the penalty box to earn a spot kick. At which point, the field turns into a melee of unseemly argy-bargy, at times resulting in violence involving players and coaches as well. The referee keeps strewing yellow and red cards like Christmas has arrived early. Not to mention the rival factions among the throngs in the galleries, tanked up to their eyeballs in beer, turning the whole stadium into an ugly free-for-all. Just a few days ago, the Egyptian Pharaohs were beside themselves with fury as they lost to Argentina in a cliff-hanger of a game. The rival players nearly came to blows and the referee barely escaped physical injury. Every foul is questioned with rude gestures and oftentimes, abuse in their own vernacular. The English are clearly at a disadvantage here as their four-letter words are now an integral part of universal parlance!

Which is why I prefer watching quality tennis. Once in a rare while, a player might smash his racket while in extremis and throw a few choice verbals at his coaching staff, but by and large, a certain decorum is maintained. I end this contemplation with a quote from 24-time Grand Slam champion, the G.OA.T., 39-year-old Serbian Novak Djokovic. When asked after his 5hr 15 min marathon quarter final win over Canadian Felix Auger Aliassime, how he compares with football legend, also 39-years old, Lionel Messi. ‘Unbelievable how Messi is 39 years old and still scoring goals. And you win after 5 hours and 15 minutes,’ the journalist said and in reply Djokovic quipped, tongue firmly in cheek, ‘I would like to play 90 minutes like him, but…’ The man even thinks on his feet!

Footnote: Somebody asked me if I am following the Indian cricketers’ disastrous tour of England where I am told we are getting a royal hiding. Short answer – I am not.