The biggest tournament at IIT was six-a-side Football, or Footer as we called it. It was played out on a pitch in the hostel sector, right between Saras and Godavari, at night and under lights. To put this innovation into context, international cricket had only started day-night games around 1979 and here we were running a night tournament just a few years later — at a mere college intramural. Not for nothing did that T stand for Technology.
Spectators loved it because the heroes were hyperlocal and the matches were brought to them. Moreover, they could watch them under the easy comfort of coffee, pizza, cigarettes, and bun-omelets.
It was the even semester of 1985. Narmada hostel was the one to watch that year. Per the tournament rules, only two institute-level players could be on any one six-a-side team. Narmada had six institute players, so could stack three teams with two apiece — A, B and C.
Disaster struck early. The fancied A team was eliminated through an unlikely loss, despite the efforts of their two superstars (Annie, and someone whose name escapes me now) who sliced through the opposition with the monotony of wiper blades in a rainstorm. The loss came at the hands of Saras A, which now became the team to watch. Narmada B was eliminated as well.
So it come to be that the final would be played between Narmada C and Saras A, all other teams having lost their games. Narmada C was a hodgepodge of enthusiasm and grit. We had two institute players, Ravi and I, but neither of us could really be seen as foreboding.
Alex, the goalie, made up for his lack of experience with sheer physique and temperament. His forbidding 6' 2" frame and wingspan covered most of the small goal, leaving an even more puny target for the habitually erratic shooters. Alex also brought his steely classroom determination to the football pitch. This was the guy who had laid down perfect ten-point-ohs in each of his first two semesters, when most of the rest of us were still reeling from the deep responsibility of washing our own underwear.
But Narmada C had a trump card: badass Toolie. Toolie had attitude, in spades. He was nothing if not intimidating. He had a flamboyant left-footer that would loft the ball from the centerline and drop it well beyond the goal line, evading meek legs (or arms) that would scramble to intercept it. Yet, the universe always conspired to never let his shots pass between the goal posts. Despite this celestial waywardness, Toolie played as though every pass to him was certain to yield two goals. His brashness put huge psychological pressure on the opposition; which, of course, is half the game.
It was the day of the final. Saras A was the overwhelming favorite. Their star player was D'sa, a gifted and natural athlete. D'sa played low. Like Maradona. He kept the ball low, under control, and always looked in good nick. He was the playmaker. Eyes rested upon him. One of the defenders was Tony, my childhood classmate. He was a good hockey defender who had been drafted into the football team. He read the game and opponents well and could shut down plays. The way to get past Tony was not through footwork or artistry. You'd instead get close enough to kick the ball ahead and use your speed to outrun him, before you cross it over and hope for the best. This strategy worked once about every three or four tries.
The teams were all ready. The crowd had started to roar. All eyes were on the referee who was just about to blow the whistle to start the highly anticipated final.
Toolie walks up to the centerline, drops down, and pumps out three pushups.
One-handed pushups!
Now the average IITian was far more likely to pull out a third derivative from thin air than put down a single two-handed pushup on the ground. The intimidation had started.
The ref blows the whistle and the game starts. I get the ball in the opening minute and pass it ahead to Toolie. The plan had been for him to unleash a stinger over the goal line to demonstrate singular intent from the get-go. Instead, he ignores the ball, goes after D'sa and brings him down. A shrill long whistle rends the air.
Foul!
It's still the first minute and D'sa is groveling!
This was a tactic of sheer intimidation and strategic brilliance. The crowd erupts into escalating boos and bays for blood. Some supporters even start to raid the field. Toolie is unruffled. Not so the ref. Somehow he calls order and game resumes after a break of a few minutes.
But the game's been lost already. D'sa is reduced to a shadow of the player he was. He never recovers from that first minute. Somehow Narmada C manages to put in a single goal and just block and defend after that. Alex puts up a wall that none can breach. This was the biggest upset of the tournament. Tactics had just slain talent.
A victory had been so preconceived that the Saras boys had already bought and laid out the booze for the celebrations to follow. Or at least that was the story that went around. Now they would have to drink off their misery.
Thus was innocence violated that night — on a day that would live forth in infamy.
Spectators loved it because the heroes were hyperlocal and the matches were brought to them. Moreover, they could watch them under the easy comfort of coffee, pizza, cigarettes, and bun-omelets.
It was the even semester of 1985. Narmada hostel was the one to watch that year. Per the tournament rules, only two institute-level players could be on any one six-a-side team. Narmada had six institute players, so could stack three teams with two apiece — A, B and C.
Disaster struck early. The fancied A team was eliminated through an unlikely loss, despite the efforts of their two superstars (Annie, and someone whose name escapes me now) who sliced through the opposition with the monotony of wiper blades in a rainstorm. The loss came at the hands of Saras A, which now became the team to watch. Narmada B was eliminated as well.
So it come to be that the final would be played between Narmada C and Saras A, all other teams having lost their games. Narmada C was a hodgepodge of enthusiasm and grit. We had two institute players, Ravi and I, but neither of us could really be seen as foreboding.
Alex, the goalie, made up for his lack of experience with sheer physique and temperament. His forbidding 6' 2" frame and wingspan covered most of the small goal, leaving an even more puny target for the habitually erratic shooters. Alex also brought his steely classroom determination to the football pitch. This was the guy who had laid down perfect ten-point-ohs in each of his first two semesters, when most of the rest of us were still reeling from the deep responsibility of washing our own underwear.
But Narmada C had a trump card: badass Toolie. Toolie had attitude, in spades. He was nothing if not intimidating. He had a flamboyant left-footer that would loft the ball from the centerline and drop it well beyond the goal line, evading meek legs (or arms) that would scramble to intercept it. Yet, the universe always conspired to never let his shots pass between the goal posts. Despite this celestial waywardness, Toolie played as though every pass to him was certain to yield two goals. His brashness put huge psychological pressure on the opposition; which, of course, is half the game.
It was the day of the final. Saras A was the overwhelming favorite. Their star player was D'sa, a gifted and natural athlete. D'sa played low. Like Maradona. He kept the ball low, under control, and always looked in good nick. He was the playmaker. Eyes rested upon him. One of the defenders was Tony, my childhood classmate. He was a good hockey defender who had been drafted into the football team. He read the game and opponents well and could shut down plays. The way to get past Tony was not through footwork or artistry. You'd instead get close enough to kick the ball ahead and use your speed to outrun him, before you cross it over and hope for the best. This strategy worked once about every three or four tries.
The teams were all ready. The crowd had started to roar. All eyes were on the referee who was just about to blow the whistle to start the highly anticipated final.
Toolie walks up to the centerline, drops down, and pumps out three pushups.
One-handed pushups!
Now the average IITian was far more likely to pull out a third derivative from thin air than put down a single two-handed pushup on the ground. The intimidation had started.
The ref blows the whistle and the game starts. I get the ball in the opening minute and pass it ahead to Toolie. The plan had been for him to unleash a stinger over the goal line to demonstrate singular intent from the get-go. Instead, he ignores the ball, goes after D'sa and brings him down. A shrill long whistle rends the air.
Foul!
It's still the first minute and D'sa is groveling!
This was a tactic of sheer intimidation and strategic brilliance. The crowd erupts into escalating boos and bays for blood. Some supporters even start to raid the field. Toolie is unruffled. Not so the ref. Somehow he calls order and game resumes after a break of a few minutes.
But the game's been lost already. D'sa is reduced to a shadow of the player he was. He never recovers from that first minute. Somehow Narmada C manages to put in a single goal and just block and defend after that. Alex puts up a wall that none can breach. This was the biggest upset of the tournament. Tactics had just slain talent.
A victory had been so preconceived that the Saras boys had already bought and laid out the booze for the celebrations to follow. Or at least that was the story that went around. Now they would have to drink off their misery.
Thus was innocence violated that night — on a day that would live forth in infamy.
