The Football Player
"Roshan, kanji is ready. Have it before it goes cold." shouted mother from the kitchen. Roshan had already drifted off to sleep by then. It was the second night in a row that he was going without dinner. Right now he was playing for the Barcelona Youth team, and in the stands, cheering for him was his idol -Messi. Of course it was a dream. But these dreams were the force that helped young Roshan face the harsh realities of life.
Roshan was a 15-year-old boy. Gifted in the beautiful game of football, he was called the "Messi of Spartanz". Spartanz, with a Z, was the local sports club that he played as one of the forwards. Roshan's goal against Vikings in the final match, where he sent a ball flying past 3 defenders and the goalie had earned him this sobriquet. The next morning, as his mother woke him up, he told her, "Mom, I saw that Messi was cheering for me." Mother just smiled at the little boy, and fake punched his nose, saying "Messi won't help you to get dressed for school. Be quick, you don't want to miss the class today." He got dressed for school and waved goodbye to his father, who was reading the newspaper while sipping on the glass of black tea. He worked as an autorickshaw driver. Although times were difficult, he made sure that Roshan got a good education, and was able to nurture his passion for football.
"The boy is crazy. Yesterday also, he saw the same dream, of Messi, cheering for him", said mother to the father while clearing up the table. "I hope he becomes a famous football player, and finally gets a chance to meet Messi someday. " With that he put on his shirt and trodded off to his autorickshaw.
Roshan continued to do well in club football for his age, and playing with people senior to him made his growth faster. He was also loaned to other clubs for some tournaments, which helped him earn some pocket money as well.
****
He finished his final exam, and was cycling back home when he heard the wailing of a nearing ambulance. He didn't realize that it was taking his father to the hospital. He had met with an accident, and was seriously injured. It was later when he reached home, that he realized the situation. He and his mother rushed to the hospital. But there was nothing they could do. Father had passed away. Nothing would be the same ever again.
Things were very different now. Roshan had to stop playing football now. His day started early now. He became a newspaper boy during the early morning, and assisted a local biriyani maker whenever there was a feast, and he required additional help. In between, he also went to school to complete his school studies. He had slowly drifted away from football.
Things were changing in their neighborhood as well. Spartanz-the club that helped Roshan hone his skills was struggling to stay alive. Former players and wellwishers had left the place for better job prospects. The room that used to function as their office, was now being used as a storeroom for the ration shop.
"Hey Roshan, come here. I have something for you", said Varkey, the ration shop owner as he saw Roshan coming to his shop for the monthly ration that was distributed by the government. Varkey went inside and brought a couple of medals and a set of football studs. "I found these lying in a corner of the storeroom. I think these belonged to you once." Varkey handed over the dusty studs and the medals.
He sat on the rickety wooden bench outside his small house, thinking of the times when things were simpler. He did not have to choose between survival and passion. As he rubbed on the once shiny medal, now turned black with age, he felt as if his senses were getting clouded. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his thoughts. "Here, have some tea." His mother said, handing over a glass of hot, black tea. He opened the newspaper and went through the headlines. As he flipped the page, an advertisement fell out from inside. "Vikings club calls for selection trial" He read through the details and went inside.
"Mom, can you give me Rs 1000 tomorrow? I need to get a pair of football studs."
Comments
Post a Comment