“As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster” – Henry Hill
My ambitions though not at the level of Henry Hill in Goodfellas, were just as earnest. For me, as far back as I can remember, I always wanted to watch world cup football live from the stadia.
My earliest memory of watching football is a David Beckham free kick circa 2000. It was a team that wore red and back in my childhood I liked the colour red. The first team in red I loved watching was Ferrari and the next one was Manchester United. Back in the early 2000s, you could probably only catch Man Utd, Arsenal and Liverpool on TV, at least in the premier league. My next strongest memory is Zidane’s champions league final goal against Leverkusen in 2002. I also very clearly remember the Bayern Munich vs Real Madrid champions league 2001 semifinal 2nd leg. For some bizzare reason, I liked the team in white with the word “Teka” written on the front of the shirt. The atmosphere was electric in Munich that night and I was rooting for the team with names such as Figo, Raul and Roberto Carlos. I even remember kissing my ring finger like Raul back then. In those days, Michael Schumacher, Scholes, Beckham, Neville, Cole, York, Roberto Carlos, Scolari and Alex Ferguson kept me company after school. I was what the Americans call a latchkey kid and I grew up on sports. I even watched Golf with Phil Mickelson, the underdog to Tiger Woods, my favourite. I’d watch Superbike, Moto GP, WWF, Tennis – I liked Agassi and billiards. I was also indoctrinated into cricket by my dad with Sachin Tendulkar and Sourav Ganguly India’s heroes in my young mind.
My first FIFA world cup experience was in 2002. Our family had moved to Chennai from Nagpur in 2001 and that’s when my tryst with The Hindu began. It still is a newspaper I adore. I devoured the sports section and needless to say, it was an inspiration. They say you should live in a place where the things that interest you are celebrated. Weirdly, I found that connection in a newspaper. I had an intense love affair with sports and with The Hindu sports section whispering sweet nothings in my ear, I was primed and ready. I learned all about Brazil’s dominance and immediately disliked them. I, of course, was rooting for David Beckham and the England team. Colonial history didn’t mean much when it came to football. I liked Spain and Portugal because of the Real Madrid connections in Casillas and Figo respectively. It was during this tournament I developed a particular liking for Germany, especially Michael Ballack and Oliver Kahn. I was jubilant when Beckham redeemed himself for 1998 by scoring the winner against Argentina in the group stages. When Michael Owen opened the scoring against Brazil with a superb 1 on 1 finish, I literally jumped with joy. In the same game, I would suffer my first heartbreak as Ronaldinho scored that lucky freekick. And no, it wasn’t a sublime finish, it was a stupid mistake by David Seaman. Second and third heartbreaks would soon follow as Spain got knocked out on penalties and Germany were comprehensively beaten by Brazil in the finals.
It was a similar story in 2006. I was rooting for Zidane’s France when his headbutt knocked the wind out of both Materazzi and me. Adding insult to injury, the Italians went on to win the penalty shootout. By now, I was getting used to this emotional rollercoaster watching Manchester United but it’s still painful when the team you support loses, especially in a final. I didn’t care much for England during this time because I was upset about what had happened with Scholes. However, I still had a soft spot for them. ‘Course I did and only because of Rooney but then I think I went with Figo and Ronaldo for the Portugal clash. Sorry, mate.
When 2010 came around, my favorable view of Spain had been replaced by complete disdain. Mainly because Barcelona happened during this time period. And like clockwork, Spain went on to win it with their 1-0 victories. I will never stop blaming Robben for missing what felt like a thousand 1 on 1 chances against Casillas. You bald bastard. I absolutely adored the Oranje though as they knocked Brazil out in the quarters. I was hoping they’ll finally lift the Jules Rimet trophy which had eluded Cryuff and his total football team not once but twice, first in ’74 and again in ’78 (what did I tell you about The Hindu). Sadly, it wasn’t to be and I had to watch a bunch of Barcelona wankers lay their hands on that precious golden trophy. For the longest time, I had a photo of the trophy cut out from sportstar in my bedroom. That and the Jabulani ball I received as a gift served as reminders from this world cup.
2014 and I had a friend living downstairs in the same apartment complex and we had been watching football together for many years together at this point. His father has this habit of upgrading their television set on the eve of every world cup. Suffice it to say, they both were huge fans of the game. I was without a job at this time and was preparing to go study abroad after the world cup. So this one meant a lot to me. I would go to their flat and spend late-nights commenting, criticizing and screaming at the TV. Netherlands and Van Gaal were enthralling to watch, not least for the Tim Krul substitution in the penalty shootout against Costa Rica. I don’t think people will ever forget that move. I was also feeling confident about Man Utd as LvG was taking over United after the world cup. How it turned out is a discussion for another day. Germany won, defeating Argentina (and Messi) in extra time. Along the way they got back at Brazil for their loss in 2002 and humiliated them 7-1 in front of their own fans.
During all this time, I still kept dreaming of one day watching the world cup live. I imagined myself as part of the crowd applauding, shouting and crying tears of joy and agony. I lived vicariously through the supporters the cameras focused on. It’s the same feeling I get when I see the balcony at Lord’s or the grassy knolls of the various stadiums in New Zealand. I imagine myself relaxing on the grass with a beer or in case of the Lord’s, wearing an old white sweater to watch Sachin bat. As a kid living in Chennai going to a school in Nanganallur, the suburban Chennai area was my whole world. For me, sports on TV was my very own Alice in Wonderland fantasy adventure. So you can imagine my delight when in 2018, as Russia was preparing to host the FIFA World Cup, I had the opportunity to make this longtime dream come true.
Early 2018 my friends and I, 5 of them including 3 classmates from my Nanganallur school, managed to get tickets to a few matches and were ready to make the trip to Russia. Russia, a country I hitherto associated only with the gorgeous women of Tennis (Kournikova and Sharapova) and Bond villains. If you had told the kid watching the 2002 World Cup at his home in Madipakkam that one day he’d be in Moscow watching the giants of the game battle it out for the biggest prize in world football, he’d have thought you clinically insane. Yet here I was, years later in Russia, watching this global event unfold right in front of my eyes. I’m completely sure my friends who made this journey felt the same way. I initially planned to write about our experiences in Russia – the white nights of St. Petersburg, the surprisingly delicious Georgian food, the cheap Ubers, the unforgettable experiences in a very forgettable, shoddy hostel on the outskirts (Oblast) of Moscow and all the nights of drunken debauchery on the streets of Moscow and St. Petersburg. However, this post has taken a surprising turn to football nostalgia and I’m going to keep it that way, leaving all the Russian travel tips and experiences for another post.
It’s May 2018. My knowledge and understanding of football has grown by leaps and bounds in the past 4 years. I have read Sir Alex’s autobiography and am astutely following Michael Cox’s tactical analysis on zonal marking. My fervor for Manchester United remains, riding the same emotional rollercoaster I have been on since 2000. June rolls around and now I’m in bars at lunch time and weekend mornings. I watch Ronaldo equalize against Spain from outside a local bar during lunch (yes, I was taking 2-hour lunch breaks). I watch in my jammies at home as Germany got unceremoniously dumped out of the competition by South Korea. A gleeful Lineker bidding them goodbye with a cheeky “mein gott, auf wiedersehen” on BBC.
June 29, 2018 – 3 of us from the US have landed in Moscow, awaiting a couple of friends from Germany who are joining us in the evening. Another friend of mine is on his way from Boston and meeting up with us the next day. We drink the night away in what I can only describe as an underground house with a room and a toilet. The owners cheerfully serve us beers in brown pet bottles – you know the ones that coca-cola drinks come in. We talk to some Russians who are pessimistic about their team’s chances against Spain and we cheer them up by name dropping some Russian footballers who we think have done well so far in the tournament. They go away a little bit more hopeful and probably bewildered by a bunch of Indians who seem to know about their insignificant football team. We drag our drunken selves back to the hostel and somehow manage to get in and pass out. I know I said I’ll stick to football but since there was no football on this day, I decided to throw in some anecdotes from our trip.
June 30, 2018 – The friend from Boston is finally here. This is the day both Messi and Ronaldo are in action. Again, I’m back to watching the matches from a bar, only this time I’m in Moscow’s famous red square, still pinching myself, and watch on as Messi and Argentina get overwhelmed by the teenager Mbappe. His acceleration is truly incredible and is a glimpse into what is in store for any team unfortunate enough to face him and his formidable French team. Next, I’m crestfallen as I watch Ronaldo and Portugal being undone by two sublime Cavani finishes. We drink some more and head back to our dilapidated hostel.
July 1, 2018 – It’s finally time for my lifelong dream to become reality. It’s Russia vs Spain in Moscow’s Luzhniki stadium. The atmosphere is surreal, it’s a home game for the Russians and by now you know of my disdain for Spain. I feel one with all the Russians today. In this moment, I simultaneously feel the exultation of the February revolution, and the overwhelming dread of being exiled to the gulags in Siberia. I shiver a little before settling down into my seat. The next 120 minutes is mostly a snoozefest largely thanks to Spain but the stadium comes alive when Russia equalizes and then during the penalty shootout. Russia win and we leave the stadium with enough adrenaline to think we could have deposed Stalin at his peak. My dream has come true, it only took 18 years and I genuinely couldn’t have asked for more. Those 90 minutes have so much meaning for me personally that it’s inconceivable and nigh impossible to explain the sentiment to those who don’t possess a visceral connection to football or sports in general.
The next game we watch from a stadium is Sweden vs Switzerland. I know, we were expecting Germany to make the R16, which isn’t a terrible assumption to make given the history. This one turned out to be a dull affair as expected but we kept the party going with kamikaze shots and singing “Messi Ciao” on the streets of St. Petersburg.
Brazil v Belgium, Kazan, Russia. Pick of the lot. It is the best match I have seen live in a stadium and it’s going to take some beating. Very evenly matched teams with Brazil probably having a slight edge. A sea of yellow greeted the Belgians as they stepped on to the field. Surprisingly, many Europeans didn’t travel for the tournament but the South Americans came in droves and livened up the tournament, turning it into a carnival. The match kicked off and straight away I noticed that Lukaku and De Bruyne had switched positions. Lukaku drifting to the right playing off the shoulders of the defenders and DeBruyne a false nine. Belgium got a lucky break with an own goal from a corner but the second goal took my breath away. Lukaku received the ball in his own half, drove at the Brazilian defence and passed it to De Bruyne who with a stroke of his right foot, painted the ball into the bottom corner. In the second half, Brazil threw everything and the kitchen sink but Belgium held on. When it ended, I knew I had witnessed a world cup quarterfinal match for the ages.
The France v Belgium semifinal at St.Petersburg was a more subdued affair. Umtiti scored from an early corner and then the French did something they had failed to do in two wars – they defended as if their life depended on it. In a reversal from their previous fixture, it was now Belgium who were launching attack after attack into French territory. The valiant French held on and marched onwards to Moscow. The Belgians picked up their wounded and headed for a third-place playoff match which is punishment in itself. It was a dogged display by Deschamps’ men, lacking in flamboyance but effective to take them within striking distance of the Jules Rimet.
England v Croatia, Luzhniki, Moscow. Southgate’s men have reached the semi-finals and it has taken 28 years for the national team to get to this stage again. For me, it was like Inception; a dream within a dream. After suffering heartbreaks all these years, dare I dream? Is it, is it finally coming home? After Trippier scored from an early free kick, I was on cloud nine but was brought back to earth by a gritty Croatia who turned it around to win 2-1 in extra time. Heartbroken again, the wait goes on – “thirty years of hurt, never stopped me dreaming….”
I wasn’t around in Russia for the finals but caught it on TV stateside. I couldn’t bring myself to support Croatia, the underdogs, after what they did to my beloved England team so I was rooting for France. For only the second time, the team I backed in the finals won. For me, having been part of the 2018 World Cup in Russia and in the annals of football history, even if only in a minuscule way, is something I’ll cherish for the rest of my life.
Now Henry Hill’s ambitions went far beyond just becoming a gangster. Similarly for me, this is just the beginning. I want to sing “Tony Martial scores again” from the Stretford End. I want to hear the Champions league anthem in Turin and see Ronaldo running down the wing. Finally, I want to hear the bell ring out around Maranello for the prancing horses and my life will have come full circle.
“I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”
