Al Ngullie
Clichéd as this is, there are some beautiful moments in life no human activity can offer –like watching a soccer match with my mommy. It’ll blast your funny-bones out.
Behind every successful team playing their guts out at the 2006 World Cup Germany, there is my dear old Mother praying for them. Screaming would be the most appropriate term considering those particularly deadly barrages of vocal bombs she drops at any point of a match. My mother’s interests in sports, hitherto, were limited to admonishing my hyperactive nephews for breaking her beloved Periwinkle pots in the course of her grandchildren playing impromptu cricket matches in our compound. However, this time around, Germany happened. And now she is an active member of the exclusive Even-Mothers-Love-Soccer-At-3:00am club. Perhaps the Naga Mothers’ Association should award my mom some distinction for promoting sports in my sitting room. Or for determinedly maintaining commendable vigor in keeping here eyelids from going ZZZZZZZ.
Awards aside, media people like me are home-shy thanks to those mind-souping dynamics of journalism which literally means home is where your office is. So in the final count I don’t get to see Mom that often. Nevertheless, she is always there up and fresh staying up for me when I crawl home at 3:00am. After the usual bear hugs and how-was-your-days, we’d sit down and commence surfing channels to locate soccer matches on ESPN. And so there commence those particularly lethal doses of ‘OOOHH! AAAsssshh! HOOOYYYYYYY! EEEEEEE!’ and such likened ear-blasting bombardments (my ears feel cleaner now ever since the Soccer World Cup began). Not that these unearthly sounds are exquisite in all their horror but coming from mom, it is a heart-warming…er… heart-attacking experience. You see, Mom’s one of the quietest and softest-speaking mothers I ever had (or at least I don’t remember having another mother anyway). The only time she raises her voice, is in the Church – where the Glory of our Lord demands nothing less than a 707 decibels shot of ‘How Great Thou Art’. Apart from that, mom’s the softest mom you’d ever encounter. When there are no 2006 Germanys, I mean.
The Divine Intervention
But Germany is here. And the motions of Mom’s enthusiasm, apparently, are growing which can be amply surmised from the imaginative demonstrations of her creative vocalization. The only catch? She’s sensitive. Way out too sensitive. Don’t be surprised if she breaks down at a player bringing down another or one landing a yellow card. In fact, if you watch a match with my mom, you have to have close to you thick cotton handkerchiefs or best of all, your favorite towel which grandma gave you as your graduation gift. That way sob products won’t go wasted. For instance, during the volatile Netherlands and Portugal Group 16 clash, mom was so distraught at the Referee’s free-wheeling red and yellows cards that she repeatedly was like “we have to pray for them so that God would grant them peace to accept the pain”. She certainly likened Russian Referee Valentine Ivanov to bad old Lucifer for doling out red cards like they are Khadi village projects. You, see, every time a player hit dust, I felt compelled to remind her that it’s not a church service. She’s always like “the Church should pray for the losing team” and “I feel sorry for them – they play so hard, body and soul and imagine the pain of losing it all!” Perhaps the Nagaland Baptist Churches Council (NBCC) should come up with an International Pray-For-World-Cup-Day or something. Nonetheless, till that time comes, I guess mom and I are content with praying for the teams after the match is over. But I cannot be at all certain that our prayers might be attended to promptly because the Big Boss above in all probability might be busy watching the matches on GOD Channel as well. So, meantime, let’s keep praying that both the opposing teams win for the sake of my dear mommy.
Kick up Yoga-friendly teeth
Also, parallel to the spiritual aspects of Soccer World Cups, conceptual confusion characterize Mom’s idea of sports – she finds arduous the task of distinguishing soccer from Taekwon-Do. But then she can’t be blamed. As you must be well aware, the kick-back…er…feedback of two contenting players, is the same – Yoga-friendly jaws, inverted shins/knees, dislocated necks and yes, ventilation-friendly teeth. Now you can forgive her for the confusion. In a soccer match, when two fighting bulls kick each other in the balls…er….I mean when two players fighting for the ball kick each other’s soles, the chances of winning a particularly deadly pair of original dark glasses or a kneecap knocked out of its socket, is very high. So God forbid, when a player fells another – Mom goes ballistic all the way to China. “That player deserves a Red card!” she’d protest with a dangerous dose of her exclusive God-Will-Punish-You-For-That look. And when the culpable player who committed the foul is promptly handed the red slip, Mom would be like “Ayaaaaaa…! Ashhhh, why is the referee so harsh? That referee should be banned from world cups!” Oftentimes I do get snared in mom’s confusion since we sit just 3-inches away from each other –true is the maxim ‘Idiocy is infectious’. So you see, dear reader, for my dear little old Mother and I, it’s not only about the complexity of distinguishing Soccer from Taekwon-Do –in the end it is also as much about not being sure which team both of us are rooting for.
Besides, questions of physical conformity to the game are also raised at times. Perhaps, it is the fact that most glamour-savvy, good-looking teams like that of the English, Germans and the Italians are eye-poppers, must prod my mother into wondering why most south American teams –Brazil and Argentina for instance –are so blessed with abundant teeth. Ronaldo, Ronaldinho or Argentina’s winger Tavez’s facial projectiles seems to be of particular interests to mom. At one match with the Mexicans, Argentina’s Tavez winged his way past the defense and Mom was suddenly like “Son, do they wear teeth-guards?” No, they don’t, I replied curiously. “They might hurt somebody you know” she muttered quietly and went back to watching the game. Good thing, humans are not capable of harboring Rabies, she might be thinking, I concluded. So much for football.
With all these crazy notions my Mom has for soccer, in the final count there’s nothing like watching a match with her. There are some matches which are everything but exciting (last week’s Switzerland Vs Ukraine, for instance – Mom kept shifting her attention between the wall-clock and asking questions why they even have world cups when no goals are being scored). But with her insightfully ignorant observations, sincerely brainless questions about dangerous teeth of some players or just plain denouncing red-card-friendly “biased” referees, watching a match with Mom is always a beautiful, laughter-filled experience no World Cups can offer ever. May the best mom win.
