An Indian Ronaldinho by 2010?

‘‘It’s a football tattoo; the circle of life. What a brilliant game Messi played! Even Maradona was stunned. You have no idea what you’re missing,’’ continued Mukul, in no mood to shut up.

‘‘I’m not missing a thing. What kind of a name is Messi? All I know is we’ve lost the ODI series, Chappell’s experiments have bombed, we’ve drawn two Tests and I’m going back to sleep,’’ I said and tumbled back into bed.

‘‘Why are you so hung up on cricket? Even Brian Lara’s watching football,’’ said Mukul.

‘‘That’s because he’s got a decent team to root for. A team that made Beckham and Rooney look like dumb blondes for 82 minutes. Our team’s ranked 118th in the world! It’s embarrassing, you know,’’ I said, fed up.

‘‘Don’t be such a spoilsport. If we’re at rock bottom, the only way to go is up,’’ said Mukul brightly.

‘‘Can’t we be 203rd out of 204 teams? Even that’s possible, no?’’ I asked, dripping sarcasm.

My sleep gone, I switched on the idiot box. Street urchins conjured up their dream teams and played football on the dusty streets of desire. ‘Impossible is nothing,’ said the tagline. What lousy timing, I thought. Just when I was picking a fight.Kitten, our lapdog, joined in.

Kitten never wakes up for cricket matches; this was rather odd. In deep thought, Kitten was watching telly. ‘Football Millionaires,’ the screen said, flashing dollar signs. ‘‘If I was Ronaldinho’s doggie, I would have spent my dog days chewing on his golden boot. What a life this is,’’ she thought, and gave me a ‘‘you don’t love me’’ glare.

Mukul, punching zeroes on his mobile phone calculator, looked up. ‘‘Ronaldinho makes Rs 128 crore a year,’’ he said, with a ‘‘zeroes missing from our lives’’ look.

‘‘Don’t look at me like that,’’ I told him. ‘‘You were so kicked about Indian football. What happened?’’ I asked Mukul.

‘‘Patience. Das Munsi says we’ll qualify for the 2010 World Cup.’’

‘‘Rubbish. If it’s true, why have we sprouted only cricketers? How come Korea, Japan, Saudi Arabia are all in Germany and we’re not?’’

‘‘Not enough countries play cricket. The whole world plays football, watches football. Forty billion viewers,’’ said Mukul, showing off.

‘‘Sure thing. If more countries play cricket, we’ll probably be 118th in the world even there,’’ I shot back. Kitten went quiet. Her Plan B of being Sachin’s doggie was under threat.

But Mukul piped up again. ‘‘Things are not so bad, you know. Das Munsi has drafted in a new coach, a foreigner.’’

‘‘Like Chappell? Who’ll turn rightbacks into strikers, goalies into midfielders, and finally into cricketers, maybe?’’ I said.

‘‘That’s a low blow, pal. But India is serious about 2010. Like Brazil, we’ll have all practice sessions on Kerala’s beaches, beamed live; Maradona will be visiting coach; Salsa the official warm-up; and The Hand Of God the daily prayer.’’

‘‘So what are you hoping for? A Malayali export to the English Premier League?’’ I asked.

‘‘Nice thought,’’ said Kitten. ‘‘But I’ll stick to Ronaldinho. Because, in the long run, we’re all dead. But do check with Diego if Sabatini is coming along. I love her.’’

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