Letter from a Fanatic

The 2002 Soccer World Cup was hosted by Japan and Korea. I was convieniently on a business trip to the Philippines in June, where my dear friend Ashok Sharma was forced to spend his work days figuring out where I could watch the Quarterfinal games. This piece was inspired by the many conversations Ashok and I had during the entire World Cup season when we spent half our time analyzing the growing Indo-Pak tensions and the other half fighting over Brazil's chances of winning the 2002 World Cup. This was written shortly after the Semifinals and after a particularly annoying and goading phone call from Ashok.

June 30th, 2002

By Fawzia Naqvi

Dear General Musharraf and Mr.Vajpayee,

I have been utterly and completely sleepless in New York. Yes, yes your warmongering and nuclear missile rattling has certainly contributed to this deprivation but another event of colossal consequence has incited so many of us to arise at 1:30am, 2:30 am and 5:00am. We have arisen to cries and prayers of victory, agony of defeat, age old rivalries, and yes sweet, ever so sweet revenge. We arose to prove our loyalties, have our numbers counted and to wave the right colors. We wanted to ensure and safeguard gains, until of course the next battle beckoned us at another ungodly hour.

Surely you must have heard that the most important battle has been waged and won. Yes, Mr. Vajpayee, “the most decisive battle” indeed. But, no not between the two of you (God, I wish the two of you would get over yourselves). I am talking about the real war between nations, fought between real men, with real prowess and real skills! The World Cup, Copa Mundial 2002.

And I am sure both of you found a little time away from planning Armageddon to sneak a peak at the opening salvo, France vs. Senegal, (sub-cons take heart, Brazilians believe voodoo does work!) and both of you must have found a slow satisfied smile appearing on your faces, just like it did for millions around the world.

“Ah pay back time,” you too must have whispered to yourselves. Oh, but no no, not for 47,’ 65’ or 71,’ nor for that matter the big K….Kargil. For 1998. That ever so sorrowful year when France defeated, OK, OK annihilated Brazil leaving so many of us grief stricken.

Stunned and stumbling around aimlessly we shook our heads muttering, “unbelievable. God all mighty how could this have happened?” And in its aftermath so many of us have been sullenly licking our wounds for four years and watching one after the other misadventure, missed opportunity and misfiring. We have been waiting for the moment when it will really be payback time and we will truly be vindicated.

And once again we prepared to rise (ever so early) to the sound of drums…no, no not the beating of your war drums, but to the beating of Samba drums. The ones that make your heart go “thud, thud”, your blood race wildly.

While you, General, are still counting on the three A’s to save you…Allah, America & Army (not necessarily in that order of course) the rest of us have cast our bets on the slightly more dependable three R’s. That vision, that awesome fear inspiring specter of the Samba boys tearing down the field. Yes indeed Ro-Ri-Ro. And who cares if Zizou is actually Algerian and oh so much better looking? And that Turkey is…well whatever Turkey is… you will forgive some of us General if we do not quite share your delight in all things Turkish.

Ah yes, here come the three R’s, Ro-Ri-Ro, a dominance of yellow and blue on the offensive; dancing, dribbling, passing, weaving and bobbing. The incomparable “jogo bonito”. And here comes the savior, the Ghauri, the Prithvi, Ronaldo, number 9, injured but tenacious, he bursts through the opposing defense to launch that final victorious, triumphant goooooooooooaaaaaaaal! Oh look here they come again…Ronaldo-Rivaldo-Ronaldinho, Ronaldo gooooooooooaaaaaaal! And the world, yes the whole world, todo el mundo, erupts in a thunderous roar, and all that can be heard is the sound of deafening applause mixed with billions of hearts beating in unison to the sound of those amazing Samba drums. Ah! Brasil…que Viva!

But of course this was no easy going. Just look at the track record. A narrow and shallow victory in 1994, utter and complete humiliation in 1998 and of course the abysmal performance or lack of it at the Copa America 2001 in Colombia.

If that wasn’t bad enough, they narrowly qualified or shall I say were nearly disqualified for 2002! Plus there are charges of corruption, scandal and favoritism, followed by a loss of confidence from their most faithful fanatics who feel so utterly betrayed in recent years.

It’s been frustrating enough to make some of us want to cross a “Line of Control” of our own! But tell me dear Mr. Vajpayee is all of this reason enough for one of yours to incite me by phoning me in the middle of the night, and opining that my heroes were not looking good? “After all” he whined “your defense is abysmally weak. Your mid-field needs to be reminded to “please join the game.” And, not to mention that your first strike option Ro-1 is hobbling while your second strike option Ro-2 has been red carded. That leaves Ri looking pretty lonely out there.”

“Any opportunity you Indians get…!” I muttered.
“The referee was Mexican,” responded the Indian.
“Well he must have lived in India!” I lobbed back
“As usual, you are such an extremist,” the Indian sighed from his pedestal.
“Damn Indians!”

So, Dear General and Prime Minister. Let us focus on matters our one billion one hundred and forty million strong can agree upon. The love of victory (and revenge). Brazil and sweet payback! Because this, dear Heads of State is WAR! When will the two of you get our priorities straight?