Cup of Life

Yet another Saturday night…
Yet another boring social event…
This time, I am sitting pretty uncomfortable in a black saree, stealing glances at my watch, and shifting uneasily…
Finally, the dinner is served…
I gobble it up, and run for my life (which is difficult, considering I am in a saree and high heels)…
It’s 10 p.m., there is still time for the match to begin, but I want to watch the pre-match analysis as well…
After all, it’s my first UEFA Champions League Final…

Now the advantage of being a football virgin is that I am still learning, I am still in the haze of the initial ecstasy, my slate is still clean, I don’t have any loyalties and I am not a slave to any superhero: all I want is an exciting, breathtaking match, while being dispassionate about the outcome. After the last minute heroics of Manchester City last weekend, I had been looking forward to the final showdown between Bayern Munich and Chelsea.

So it began: red vs. blue, the favourites on their home ground vs. the underdogs, the young talent of Thomas Muller vs. the experience of Ashley Cole. Unlike cricketers and tennis players, here I don’t know most of the players, I am not familiar with their past legacies, except the vague recollection of a certain Didier Drogba, who represented Ivory Coast in the 2010 World Cup with a broken arm in a cast. The first half is scratchy; BM is in control, but falls short of converting its chances. I am a little bored, and I believe so is Chelsea, except Petr Cech, the goalie.
The second half beings on the same note; another half an hour; still no goal. I am sleepy and I begin to feel that the game is overrated, and the saree is making me all the more uncomfortable. And suddenly, out of the blue, a header from Muller somehow manages to go through and wake me up. It’s not exactly a great goal, but the crowd goes berserk. I can’t make up my mind whether to be happy or not, because I don’t know who to support, AND I remind myself to stay put lest my drapes come off. With seven minutes to go, Chelsea’s chances of winning the trophy are next to nothing, but, but, but Drogba had other plans. With barely two minutes to go, he comes up with an equalizer, and this time I am screaming my lungs out, my heart warming up in favour of the underdog.

When Robben misses the penalty during the extra time, I am ACTUALLY HAPPY, but I still can’t see Chelsea winning, so I am hoping that they hang on till the penalty shootout. It’s way past my bedtime; I am tired and my movements are restricted thanks to the god-damned saree.

The penalty shoot out begins; the story continues; BM leads as Mata misses; but Cech, who has been the busiest Chelsea player in the match, saves two penalties from Olic and then Schweinsteiger. As Drogba approaches, I am actually praying to god (and I never pray). My prayers are answered.

Drogba holds his nerve, Chelsea wins; I stare away with a vacuous smile on my face as I look at the smiling faces sharply in contrast to the crying Schweinsteiger; but I restrain myself and get up in a dignified and lady-like manner, rearranging my pleats, though the crazy girl in me wants to jump uninhibitedly.

I came in as an agnostic, I was converted to a believer…