The ball-room dance
Tap.Tap. Dhoom...Dhoom...Dhoom. Tap. Tap...
My steps quicken as I make the cold walk towards the auditorium, where the floor is teeming with musky smelling men and pretty, smiling girls.
The men move nimbly to the sound of trumphets, horns and bassoons, while the ladies watch each other in amused delight. As if partaking in this rainbow of activity, the floors squeal in delight when the men trample across their backs.
Exactly ten men dressed in pitch black and white, move hither and thither weaving graceful patterns and elaborate choreos. I watch without blinking at the intricate moves, the brilliant sequences, the joy of seeing the subtle understanding that develops between partners, the taunting motions, the bright smiles and the twinkle in their eyes, as they execute their plans to perfection. The rest sit on the sidelines eagely awaiting their turns, with utter impatience: afterall, seven minutes can seem like eternity when you are tormented by love. I figure their theism is questionable. But if you ask them, they cry in unison "In soccer, we trust". As some wise man said, divinity does indeed come in many a strange shade!
Unnecessary, digressional words of wisdom: When men make their first moves with the genteel members of the fairer sex, they are usually a bundle of nerves. Tormented by the fear of failure, the humbling wisdom that flowers out of copious rejections, and the madly enchanting smell of success (usually an Estee Lauder), they hesistate, soul-search and scramble to find all the bravery they never thought they had; to, as it usually happens, miss the boat in the end to a jackass, who figures his love out, searches for his sole, puts his foot in the mouth and even in this situation of perplexing discomfiture, drools out his passionate lust.
Focus and Revert: Back in the soccer field, we fearlessly make our first move. The mid-fielder is unmarked and receives the ball from the goalie. Seeing a pattern flash across his mind, as it has for a million times in the past, he pushes the ball through a minimal gap in the defence to the right-forward to connect the first dots in this game of goals and gloves. The right-forward gracefully receives it, dribbles around a thug and makes the cross across to the left-forward (who is now breazing towards the goal), with a timing that would put the Swiss to shame. The left-forward picks up the ball as it slowly rolls in front of his feet. Together, they fake a scram to the left, but move in perfect unison to the right as he gently lets the ball waddle through tiny gaps in a forest of hairy legs. The destination is finally reached by this deft and complete outmanouver of opponents. And to top it all, this burst was bloody quick! Half the men on the floor are speechless, two are jubiliant and the remaining three exchange glances with triumphant smiles: 5-a-side footballcan be beautiful at times is beautiful.
ITS ALL ABOUT SOCCER!
My steps quicken as I make the cold walk towards the auditorium, where the floor is teeming with musky smelling men and pretty, smiling girls.
The men move nimbly to the sound of trumphets, horns and bassoons, while the ladies watch each other in amused delight. As if partaking in this rainbow of activity, the floors squeal in delight when the men trample across their backs.
Exactly ten men dressed in pitch black and white, move hither and thither weaving graceful patterns and elaborate choreos. I watch without blinking at the intricate moves, the brilliant sequences, the joy of seeing the subtle understanding that develops between partners, the taunting motions, the bright smiles and the twinkle in their eyes, as they execute their plans to perfection. The rest sit on the sidelines eagely awaiting their turns, with utter impatience: afterall, seven minutes can seem like eternity when you are tormented by love. I figure their theism is questionable. But if you ask them, they cry in unison "In soccer, we trust". As some wise man said, divinity does indeed come in many a strange shade!
Unnecessary, digressional words of wisdom: When men make their first moves with the genteel members of the fairer sex, they are usually a bundle of nerves. Tormented by the fear of failure, the humbling wisdom that flowers out of copious rejections, and the madly enchanting smell of success (usually an Estee Lauder), they hesistate, soul-search and scramble to find all the bravery they never thought they had; to, as it usually happens, miss the boat in the end to a jackass, who figures his love out, searches for his sole, puts his foot in the mouth and even in this situation of perplexing discomfiture, drools out his passionate lust.
Focus and Revert: Back in the soccer field, we fearlessly make our first move. The mid-fielder is unmarked and receives the ball from the goalie. Seeing a pattern flash across his mind, as it has for a million times in the past, he pushes the ball through a minimal gap in the defence to the right-forward to connect the first dots in this game of goals and gloves. The right-forward gracefully receives it, dribbles around a thug and makes the cross across to the left-forward (who is now breazing towards the goal), with a timing that would put the Swiss to shame. The left-forward picks up the ball as it slowly rolls in front of his feet. Together, they fake a scram to the left, but move in perfect unison to the right as he gently lets the ball waddle through tiny gaps in a forest of hairy legs. The destination is finally reached by this deft and complete outmanouver of opponents. And to top it all, this burst was bloody quick! Half the men on the floor are speechless, two are jubiliant and the remaining three exchange glances with triumphant smiles: 5-a-side football
After a remarkable 2 hours of soccer, we walk out of the indoor court into the corridor. The story would have ended here, rather tamely, but for the pretty girls who walked out of their practice at the same time. Have I told you that they play the orchestra across from our entrance? Probably not, unless you still remember the sounds of the trumphets, horns and bassoons. And one of these days, I am going to walk home with a genteel member of the fairer sex: the stinking me in dirty shorts and the pristine her in a yellow dress. Alone, together.
And thus, I end the story of my life, ladies and gentlemen. And before you leave, please keep in mind that girls do play a pivotal role in the fantasies of my good clan.... But mostly....ITS ALL ABOUT SOCCER!
posted by littlecow at
9:59 PM
14 Comments:
Lovely piece of writing! We likey =)
Dude, do you still play in soccer tournaments or have you been scarred away from it for life?
Brilliant verbal rhapsody :)
Liked the digression, the soccer game description, the fantasy, the hope....sheesh that is about everything here. So yeah, like it all :)
@casa: Thank you!
@b-a-l: The leagues play in santa fe and have not yet started. But there is a good, energetic group of about 20 people who play indoors in los alamos and I like playing with them... so maybe no soccer tournaments for now. Btw, there was nothing shameful about our defeats in Champaign: its was merely a minor failure of our offence, midfield and defence. Everything else was just about perfect. ;)
@kumari: Thank you! I am glad you read it carefully. :)
Excellent piece as refreshing as a good cup of chai on a frosty winter morning!
@
@atma_tripta: Thank you! You do like chai, don't you? :D
Santa Fe reminded me of something - Might be able to visit you in your den as I might be visiting Santa Fe around May end. Get your security clearance now and get ready to rock. If I dont come for the conference, I will just chuck it and come for a hol...
@b-a-l: Great! There are quite a few nice places to visit around here or we could always drive down to colorado!
A feast to a soul idling away sleepy afternoons rambling in the world of blogs. Writing about soccer or football as the Lill indian in me chooses to call it, is a whole new ball game and you have worked magic with those obscure characters hitting the screen.
>>And one of these days, I am going to walk home with a genteel member of the fairer sex: the stinking me in dirty shorts and the pristine her in a yellow dress. Alone, together.
Bee-uu-tee-full
@betterhalf: thank you! for a long time, i did call the game 'football' but looks like even the europeans have started calling it soccer! on a related front, a friend of mine told me that there are IIM grads these days who take up football promotion in India as their profession. its amazing!
Well there are IIM grads who have taken promoting crickeet, though of course cricket really does not need too much promos so to speak, so it does not come as too much of a surprise that they have started targeting the BOYS GAME now.
nicely written dude.. i can understand all those hi-fi words after all..:)
i will keep all my smart ass comments to myself and tell you exactly what I thought..that it was wonderfully written :)
r
@betterhalf: You'd be surprised... but here, soccer is played by very many women. So its not really a boys game anymore! And guess what, these girls could be dangerous.
I used to play with a multinational group of players and one day, this pretty girl with strong legs shows up. All the men get excited much to the amusement of the few girls already playing with us. the game starts... and soon, i dribble my way across this new lady. wait! her legs were very very strong, right? she puts her leg across my path and after a brief flight in the air, i tumble on the grass: she has just completed a hostile tackle! i get up and what do i see? my entire team on the ground laughing their hearts out while the puzzled girl still stares at the fallen dude.
The second instance was when my friend and neighbor, the good miss z, let us say, decided to play 1-on-1 soccer with me in our apartment corridor. of course, she is outplayed and i am leading some N to 1 (assume large N). she now gets angry. and the next time i try to dribble past her, what happens? She pushes me with her hands and kicks my legs repeatedly with a vicous, utterly focussed look on her face. I stop, let the ball roll by and no respite from the leg kicking! Whoever said, "hell hath no fury like a women scorned" could not have nailed it better. she has forgotten the ball and sees only the leg, just like arjuna who sees only the eye of the bird. and keeps abusing my poor limb. so I ask the usually peace loving lady, "what are you doing?"... And that brings her out of her trance and she grins. So you see, its not really a boys game anymore. :)
Infact, you should give it a shot too sometime. Who knows-maybe you will like it! :)
@ligne: Thank you! And i told you, you would!
@rhythm: Thanks! Ms. V? She will never understand. Not after all the non-sense we did in her class! :D
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