Opinion The season of yellow fever
Socrates taught us what it meant to be cool his football was pure joy in the moment,unconcerned with the final tally
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In the summer of 1986,while following the football World Cup in Mexico,a few of us nurtured an unusual wish for the upcoming academic session. We desperately hoped that when our new class was divided into four groups for the intra-school sports competition,we would get into Yellow House.
Because that would mean taking the football field wearing yellow,a dream welded in our impressionable teenage minds during that early part of our first televised World Cup. For this,the blame rested on a 63 lanky Brazilian with a full beard on his sunken cheeks,whose curly mane bobbed on his nape when he took a quick turn during his sudden surging runs from mid-field. He was Socrates,but he looked like Jesus Christ.
He wasnt the best player,nor was his team the best in the tournament,but he was someone your eyes searched for when Brazil played. Rudimentary research made you realise that there was no one like him a doctor,salsa band member,philosopher and a left-leaning political activist. In an era when football was becoming sickeningly professional,he periodically showed his charming,amateurish side. He despised Spartan-style training and could never figure out why coaches objected to his smoking on the team bus. For someone who could float like a bee on the field after a night spent drinking like a fish,such confusion was only too understandable.
But for many of us in the mid-80s,Socrates unwittingly answered the most vital question of our adolescent lives what was cool? His two penalty kicks,the first scored against Poland in the pre-quarters and one missed against France in the next game,saw us recalibrating our mindsets about our behaviour on field,and even away from it.
In the Round of 16,Brazil had a chance to open their account as they got a first-half penalty. Four years back,Socrates as captain had failed to take a very talented side past the group stage. Now he had a chance to wipe away those memories. Redemption opportunities usually come with pressure but it was different for Magrao (the Big Skinny One).
He walked to the spot as if he was in his backyard,obliging the neighbourhood kid by kicking ball with him. He stuck to his trademark two-steps approach,but what made him look regally casual was his split-second stopover in between. During that freeze frame moment,he read the goalkeepers mind,saw him moving to his left and slotted the ball to the right corner of the goalpost.
As the goalkeeper stood shamed,Socrates merely turned around,put his head down,raised a finger towards the sky and jogged back to his half. He didnt taunt the vanquished goalie,didnt celebrate he was the lone man with a restrained smile in an ecstatic Brazilian huddle.
That was Socrates,the seeker of inner joy through football. Anybody who has ever kicked the ball knows the bliss of a beautiful back-heel touch or the delight of a deceptive dodge. Socrates football was merely a pursuit of these pure pleasures. He could make a mundane back-pass to his own defender look profound since it would be a one-touch perfect deflection from the back of his boot. The goal-scoring mid-fielder had a powerful right-footer but the defenders were not sure when it would be unleashed. Many times,the posturing for a pile driver could actually turn out to be a clever feint.
For a man who rarely showed expression on field,Socrates deft passes were his smiles,the short burst of speed his boisterous laugh and scoring a goal the ultimate celebration. And the moment the ball touched the net,he would be engulfed with a mysterious urgency to start the game again. Maybe he wanted to smile again. Frustrated fans once asked his club manager to request the poker-faced star to celebrate goals. Reluctantly,once in a while,he did.
Like the goals,the misses were aloofly received. Going back to the 1986 World Cup,and the penalty shoot out against France: as expected,the Brazilians asked Socrates to take the first kick. For the ageing star,it was just another penalty. He did his step-stop-step routine but the French goalkeeper Joel Bats punched it out. He didnt slump on the ground,nor did his face go white. He walked towards his team-mates as he always did. The swagger was in place,he took measured steps. Socrates was always the epitome of cool.
Meanwhile,our prayers fell on deaf ears,we didnt get into Yellow House. But we didnt give up. In hindsight,it must have been a funny sight to see kids wearing blues,jogging to their half with their fingers pointing to the sky after they had scored a goal in inter-school football games. There were no one around to watch us play,but it didnt matter. It was tribute to the man who got pleasure in every little thing he did on field,without fussing about the final result.
sandeep.dwivedi@expressindia.com
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