Hangin’ Up the Boots

A young lady and a young man were talking outside an elevator door on the third floor of a complex that housed a restaurant.

Wow… so many Manchester United fans! I, too, am a Man U fan and just saw their match on the TV. But wonder why these fans are wearing the same number on their backs with something written there and that too after the match is over?

The young woman started laughing.

What’s so funny?

I know the answers to your questions but it is a slightly long story.

I am meeting you, possibly, after fourteen years when we left school. So I don’t mind waiting a wee bit longer chatting with you.

Ok, then let me do a slight flashback. A week ago, my father, who is to retire from service this month end got a WhatsApp invitation for a farewell being organized by people from his previous company. Most of them had either started their careers or had grown in stature during his time as Business Head for Mumbai between 2006 to 2012. Currently these people work in different organizations but it seems they had specifically connected to plan my father’s farewell.

The man had a look of amazement as he said, “That’s something!"

This was no ordinary invitation for it was done creatively with copy writing, images of a sailing ship and a sea captain’s cap which was possibly a tribute to my father who had been their leader and was known in the insurance circles as a marine insurance person. It spoke about the date of the get- together but did not confirm the venue nor the dress code. A day before the big day, my father got an update which said that the venue would be the grounds at the Chacha Nehru Park at 6 pm, followed by dinner. He immediately called the key organizer and was told that they had arranged for a football match at the park under floodlights.

The last time my father had played was in 2019 on a day when the decorators for my marriage had come to our place for the final planning. He went out in the morning telling my Mom that he would not play but then the morning turned to afternoon and it was late evening when he returned home. He came home as happy as a school boy with a medal hanging from his neck to show Mom that he had won the trophy. However, as you can all guess, his reception at home did not go too well. Since then, he had not kicked a ball and physically, apart from aging to sixty, he was in no shape to play a football match. Naturally, he could not say no and break the hearts of these youngsters who, possibly, had been planning for long time to put together such a thematic adieu to a man they dearly loved and respected. He too loved them very much and his love for the game is such that even now he wakes up at the middle of the night to watch the Champions Trophy matches. He ticked one item off his bucket list when he got a chance to see the World Cup and Messi playing live in 2022 at Qatar.

The day of the match arrived and my parents reached the venue a little after 6 pm and saw a number of youngsters in similar looking jerseys warming up. This was exactly the same tribute they had paid when their boss had completed ten years in the erstwhile organization where the entire staff from different locations had trooped in before 8 am to beat him to work on that one day. My father, too, is fond of theatrics. He planned to use this day to show his respect to the three of the four main organizations he had worked for during his 36 years of working tenure while playing one last time in service by wearing their colours that day. But these enthusiastic colleagues had other ideas and my father had no heart to do anything except follow their directions blindly. He was given a red jersey and he changed into it immediately. He was anyway very happy to see that the jersey had the logo of his favourite team, Manchester United, on the top left corner. His happiness knew no bounds when he saw his name and number 7 printed on the back of the jersey, the number he generally wore in college, university and club football when playing in Delhi.

All the people on the field were wearing the same red jersey with the Man United logo. He asked one of the girls there, “Why is everyone wearing the same coloured jersey? How will we play like this?” The girl started laughing aloud and then asked others on the field to turn their backs towards my old man. He was completely taken aback when he saw that everyone had his name and the same number on the back of their jerseys too. He then looked again at his own shirt and saw that there were two lines of his favourite poem Invictus printed on the front side. I had not reached the playground till then but my mother said, his eyes were wet seeing the love of these youngsters who had nothing to gain from him any longer…. It was pure love and respect on display.

I am the master of my fate
I am the captain of my soul

Teams were drawn and to differentiate the two sides, blue and yellow ribbons were given to all to tie on their foreheads. My mother became the referee who tossed the coin and declared the start of the match. She then turned into an involved spectator on the field who not only was taking pictures and videos but even kicked the ball whenever it rolled towards her. My father in no time realized that he was old and rusty but the other players, too, did not have much skill and stamina except a couple of young men. They were playing like novices and were kicking the ball in all directions but their laughter showed that they were all having a good time. Only one little boy, the son of a colleague, was trying to play with all earnestness and was very disappointed with these oldies who were not really playing by the book. They had played for no more than ten minutes when my father stretched his leg to intercept the ball going past him and something at the back of his knee snapped. He limped in pain for some time and then as luck would have it the exhausted players on both sides decided to take a well-earned break. Almost all the players sat down or lay on the ground to take a breather and quenched their thirst by drinking lots of water. Two of the organizers went out somewhere and returned with a big packet full of samosas and wafers. In addition to this, my parents had brought lots of sweets for the people knowing their liking for the Bengali sandesh. The lemon break turned into a snack party for the players.

My father used this time to spray the pain killer in abundance and pulled up a knee cap to take to the field in the goal for the second half. This was equally uneventful except in one attack by the opposing team, he missed the blocking the ball and possibly had a hand in inadvertently kicking it into the net. Goaaaal…. Goaaaal… the other team shouted louder than the Brazillian commentators whose high pitch and unending stretch of the word makes the goal scoring event so much more exciting than it actually is. The Blue Ribbon team had won. This was the signal for the football match to end and the cricket match to begin. I, too, joined the fun and played as the runner for my injured father. This time the Yellow Ribbon team won the match easily.

The most fitting tribute the players gave my father was by presenting him with a football with their signatures and wishes. The last act was even more touching when all of them sat down with their backs to the camera and facing my father as he held aloft the ball presented to him. The final act was cutting a cake on which was written Captain Emeritus.

And now we have all come here for the post-match dinner. Most of the people are still wearing the same match jersey with his name and number proudly printed on their backs.

Wow… that’s something special you have witnessed today. If I remember correctly, usually in the NBA, they retire the numbers of legends like Michael Jordan and Kobe Bryan and the teams never allow anyone else ever to use the same jersey number on the playing field. Even BCCI did the same to Sachin Tendulkar’s number 10 which will never ever be worn by any Indian cricket team player. Your dad must be a legend!

I cannot comment on that but with eight farewells by different sets of people lined up in a span of ten days till his retirement, surely his cup of love has runneth over...

MS