THE HAND OF GOD - PART I

NOW that the IPL madness is over, and the real IPL madness has begun, I.'ve decided to switch off and concentrate on the World Cup that's coming our way. Not the Twenty20 World Cup silly! The FIFA World Cup to be held in South Africa from June. My blogging has a sentimental connection to the soccer World Cup since I started Get Sporty during the 2006 edition in Germany. So, to begin Get Sporty's coverage of the 2010 World Cup, I have unearthed something interesting. A short story (sort of) I had penned in 2002 about the 2006 World Cup! So, dear readers, I present to you 'The Hand of God'. Hope you enjoy this little digression into fantasy land once from Get Sporty. And remember, like the IPL, all characters and situations are pretty much fictional and any resemblance to any place or person in completely coincidental and unintentional and mostly a result of misplaced financial documents. Sorry, my bad! ;)

So, here goes...Enjoy Part I...and don't forget to beg for Part II...muahahahaha

PROLOGUE
It is the year 2006.The world cup soccer tournament is on in Germany and Spain are about to face England in an important clash.

ONE
'So all we need tomorrow is a draw against England and we top the group’ said Alberto Mendoza the coach of the Spanish national soccer team, as he summarised the tactics for his team at the last practice session before the match against England. The team responded with a 'you got it coach!’. The coach then turned to the young goalkeeper who would be representing Spain tomorrow. ‘Look Juan, it is just plain bad luck that Michel got injured in the last game against Ukraine’, he said,’ and now you have to take up the responsibility. I have total faith in your abilities my boy and I am sure you will come good.'
Juan Carlos Ferreto, the tall but wiry 18 year old boy who was the standby keeper to Michel Delgado could only blurt out a muffled 'Yes'. It was true he was talented but at that young age with such a big match coming up, he was sure even the great Pele would have felt funny in the stomach.
'That will be all’, said Mendonza. The team slowly dispersed across the training ground and began to pack up their kits. Some of them shouted to Juan, 'Good luck!' as they left towards the hotel. But that hardly relieved Juan’s tensions.
Juan was the only person left on the ground 10 minutes later. But he was too engrossed contemplating tomorrow’s possibilities -sitting on the bench near the goal post- to have noticed it.
'Hey, you there!', Juan was suddenly shaken out of his thoughts by someone calling him. He spun around but could not see anybody, not even any maintenance staff on the ground. But he was sure he had heard somebody. Or was he imagining things?
His question was soon answered as he looked down at the football lying near the bench he was sitting on. 'Yeah it’s me’, the ball called out, the sound coming out with no movement of the ball.
Juan could not believe it. A football was talking to him! Surely this big match pressure had cracked his head open. Dazed, he timidly asked in slightly broken English 'Er…you talking to me?'
'Hey!’ the ball screamed back, ‘don’t get all Robert DeNiro on me pal! What did you think? The goal post was talking to you?' Poor Juan who had never seen an English film, let alone De Niro’s performance in ‘Taxi Driver’ and his famed ‘You talking to me?’ continued, oblivious to the pop culture wisecrack from the soccer ball. 'But...er...erm..How can you...I mean you know...talk?' he asked in Spanish.
The ball effortlessly changed the language too. 'How can you talk? How silly! Don’t you know all soccer balls can talk? You just don’t hear them always because nobody concentrates hard on a ball.'
'But then how am I hearing you now if I haven’t heard any ball talking for my whole life?' said Juan as he thought ‘For a soccer ball, this fella speaks fluent Spanish.’
'Because you were looking at me for the last half an hour. So I decided to talk to you. You look distressed. Need any help?’ the ball said and added,’ and besides I like your hair’. Juan almost blushed before getting a hold of himself.
Juan realised that he had indeed been looking at the ball lost in thought about tomorrow’s match. Slowly accepting the fact that he was indeed talking to an inanimate ball Juan gathered himself and decided to strike a conversation with the ball.
'So how is it like being a football?'
'Don’t ask! Getting kicked around all day is no fun! But yes its fun being kissed by the striker after a goal. But that happens if you are a match ball. Not a practice one like me. Oh! How I wish I were a match ball’. There was a clear note of melancholy in the voice as the ball said this.
'So can I talk to any soccer ball?'
'Yes as long as you concentrate hard on it. You can even make it obey your orders. But for that the concentration must be immense and you should not break eye contact.'
'Oh I see’, said Juan trying hard not to laugh.
'Come on I speak the truth’, said the ball looking at Juans face. Then it suddenly broke into a kind of a dance, more of a merry vibration type of movement singing 'I speak to thee the truth’. Juan could hear a funny sound coming out of the ball too. It sounded like.......
TRRR........IIIIIIIIIIII......NNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!

Juan woke with a start. It was 6:30AM and he was in his hotel room. He switched off the alarm clock by his bed. He couldn’t speak to balls after all. It had all been a dream. Relieved that it was only a crazy dream, he lazily got up to get ready for breakfast. There were other important matters to be addressed in the day. Like the evenings match against England for instance.

TWO
As the kickoff time drew nearer, Juan felt every hair on his body standing on the edge. True, he was an exceptionally talented youngster who had performed phenomenally to help Spain win the Under-17 World Cup in 2004. But now he was up against the 'big boys’. That too unexpectedly. If only Michel had not got injured at this critical juncture. England and Spain were to square off in the last match in their group. Both teams having won their earlier two encounters against Ukraine and South Africa (the other two teams in the group) were level on points. Spain with a superior goal difference needed only a draw to qualify but England desperately needed to win. The team to finish on top would avoid playing Brazil in the second round and it was upon Juan to make sure it was Spain.
'They are playing Owen and Chriser up front I guess', Elanor, the Spanish teams leading striker told Juan at the hotel lobby in the afternoon as they discussed the tactics. The name Chriser conjured up images of the Under-17 World Cup to Juan’s mind. There in the final Spain did beat England 2-1 but Chriser an effervescent, quick and lethal striker had managed to bamboozle Juan once-the only goal he had conceded in 7 games in the competition. All this was just building up the pressure on Juan and all he wanted was the match to start. Somehow he hoped playing the real thing would be less nerve wracking than thinking about it.

[TO BE CONTINUED...]