(Shobhaa De is an established writer, columnist, opinion shaper and social commentator, who is considered an authority on popular culture.)Shameful confession: I lost the World Cup.
Yes, me! I could have stopped that goal. I could have scored one myself. I should have bitten someone's shoulder. Or broken my opponent's vertebra. That's the very least one can do when so much is at stake. Instead, I borrowed my husband's blue and white jersey, and pretended to follow every Argentinian kick. Of course, it was my husband who single handedly steered Germany to victory by working on a guttural 'Achtung', and drinking lots of beer.
Me? All I did is cheer for Messi (he's kind of cute in a Harrison Ford sort of way), and drink half a bottle of Chilean SB (any excuse...but it's important to show loyalty by picking the appropriate continent for your wine). By the time, the third round of sausages got passed around, I knew no amount of crying for Argentina would help.
That's the thing about football. It gets personal. Watching the FIFA Finals in the company of fanatics can be both entertaining and risky. Especially if the company happens to be a group of Bengali men, most of them Mohun Bagan fans. Even though, Mohan Bagan was not playing in the World Cup Final, I was instructed to serve prawns (no explanation required if you are a Bengali!).
It must have been the prawns! Had we flown in Hilsa for the crucial match, Messi wouldn't have messed up. And I would have won.
I looked around our living room and noticed two camps (nobody stays neutral when it comes to football - it's mandatory to take sides). Those eating sausages and those attacking the prawns. We were about to run out of sausages at half-time. It was clear my husband and his team had won.
Over on my side, a few ladies were discussing Shakira's hips and Gisele's waist. We all agreed our hips and waists lie all the time. We are much, MUCH slimmer! By now, we'd stopped trying to be one of the guys. A girlfriend had considerately ordered cupcakes bearing the flags of the two countries. Even though I loathe blue icing, I loyally bit into 'my' team's cupcake. It was already tasting a little bitter. I recalled the words of Javier Mascherano who said, "We have to stop thinking too much." I wondered whether he was thinking at all! As for Messi, at 27, he was already looking like a really old, very tired man.
At the end of the game, the men insisted it had been a thrilling finale. Even the guy who had fallen fast asleep mid-way. It's called 'Doing a Rahul Gandhi'. Thank God the damn thing is over and my husband doesn't have to say 'Achtung' for four more years.
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