Stained football boot

The bus was moving now, and he recognized outside the window the person with the white T shirt with no 7 written on it, as his friend whom he had waved good bye a few minutes earlier. He peered outside the window, watching the back of his football comrade, who had pulled him down during a tackle and gave him a bruise on his right knee on a practice match the previous day. He put his fingers on the glass window and tapped silently as though tapping on the friend’s mind asking him to look at him and wave. He strained his neck as he continued to look at his friend in the hope that he would look back into the bus, but in vain.

As he settled back in his seat, he unfolded the ticket and looked at the timing he bought the ticket at 5 minutes past the noon, which reminded him of the sandwich which was still left uneaten in his bag. He folded the ticket and stuffed it back into his pocket and unloaded his backpack from his shoulder and heaved a sigh of relief. He pulled open the zip and fished into the bottom of his bag to find the sandwich, which had now softened a bit due to pressure and the heat of his back. He remembered he was hungry. He opened the sandwich and bit into it, looking outside the window, lost in the thoughts as he gathered the events of the day’s match. He smiled to himself. They had won the match and were through to the semis. The sandwich, he felt was delicious and he was surprised how fast it disappeared. He cleaned his hands with the tissues and stuffed it into the bag. He zipped it back and pushed the bag to the empty seat nearby and once again allowed himself to be lost in thought.

Something caught his eye in the middle of his chain of thoughts, pulling him back into the reality. It was an insignificant stain on his football boot which was otherwise neat and clean and shining. These boots were a month old now, he thought to himself. Yet, they were white and clean. Did it show how much he played with them or did it represent how clean a person he was? He wondered. He let go of one more sigh. He wished for a while he was the star of the team without whom the match wouldn’t have taken place. His shorts were clean too apart from the lonely stain on the left side which represented the few minutes he was on the ground running just before the close of play. All the practicing and exercising, physical and mental strain before the match, team preparation, team dynamics – left him wondering whether it was all worth it. All the cheering and jumping for the goals scored by his team from the subordinate’s chair left his back side sore. He was however happy for himself as he got to run into the field at least 5 minutes before the whistle, to be rammed by the opponent striker that sent him down on the ground and knocked him off for a few seconds. He was a hero within himself. He expected his comrades to come and cheer him for his brave effort. But, nothing happened. Maybe, his effort was not up to the mark. He pulled himself up and continued. He continued to run with the ball and with other players. Unsure at times whether he is supposed to shoot the ball to this side or that. He sometimes wished he was more alert and less absent minded.

The bus pulled to a stop and a couple of passengers got onto the bus and a few others got down. He wondered which stop it was. He looked at the name of the bus stop and realized that he was supposed to get down there. He made it just in time before the bus doors closed shut behind him annoying the driver, who drove off with a puzzled look.

He had missed the direct bus earlier to attend the team meeting, he thought to himself. The team…Which team? The team that always considers him as an add on to fetch the ball? Well, that s the way it was, if it had to be. He hadn’t had much choice anyway. Someday, he would show them all, that he too could be a star player. He was capable of achieving anything after all, if only he could concentrate on what he was doing. And some day he would find out how to do just that.

It was cold outside the bus stop and inside the stop was no better as the doors were non existent. He pulled out the jumper from his bag and covered himself into the warmth inside the woolen coat which he found welcoming. He remembered the sheep which had so dutifully donated it s wool that comprised this coat and was thankful to it. He even gave it a silent blessing. He recalled the nursery rhyme as he strolled on to the board to look up at the bus time table to find out about the bus number and time for the next bus to take him home. “One for my master, one for my dame…” that reminded him about his dame and wondered what she might be upto? She would be all excited to listen to his stories of how he tackled the opponent striker to save the day. She would be all ears at the edge of the bed to hear him talk about the tackle that gave him the bruise on his knee and a stain on his white shorts and white boots. If only she was there on the ground? She would have laughed at him, he thought.

He watched bus come into the stop and open the door. Was this the bus he was supposed to take? He was unsure and it was too late to refer the board with the bus timetable. He thought it was better to ask the driver and decide. And so he got onto the bus and was for once thankful for his forethought of purchasing the day rider earlier during the day which gave him unlimited travel until midnight. And on he walked proudly to the last seat, amidst kiddies and babes who ogled at his stained football boots and shorts, and wished if only they could be like him.

Ashwin

19/3/11, 04 45