An SVIP is coming. A Super VIP. During rush hour, outside the Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium in New Delhi, traffic has been blocked on all sides. Even the people on the sidewalk, the ones trying to enter the stadium for India’s opening U-17 World Cup match against the U.S., are being asked to stand still.
One bearded young man, with a bit of an early-era Amitabh Bachchan sense of indignation, questions a tubby policeman. The young man has a point: why are we not allowed to walk or even talk loudly while a VIP is passing through?
It leads to a civilian vs. cop face-off, with lots of “the state of India today” and tarakki proclamations made. Chup chaap khade reh ; that’s the policeman’s general point: “Just shut up and stay still.” A motorcade of 14 security SUVs passes by. Somewhere in between are two or three fancy cars, protecting this bigshot. Maybe it’s an SDVIP — a Super-Duper VIP.
The security’s been heightened, and that’s natural. This is the FIFA Under-17 World Cup we’re talking about. At gate no. 14, they’re not letting people carry anything that isn’t a phone or a purse/ wallet. Even earphones and USB cables have to be dumped. Coins must be “donated” into a box.
I have a lozenge in my pocket which the security guy forces me to eat, because it’s not allowed inside. The Prime Minister makes an appearance inside, felicitating the players before kick-off. A section of the crowd begins chanting his name (yes, that happens) as he shakes the players’ hands. The atmosphere, at the risk of resorting to clichés, is electric. There’s a celebratory energy in there. Later, we learn that the attendance crossed 46,000 people.
No el clásico
Around the half-hour mark, the Americans win a penalty. From my vantage behind the goal, it looked like their player made a bit of a meal of it, although I make no claims of being unbiased. It’s a ‘soft’ penalty, at the least. Eventually, we go on to lose 3-0, our closest effort being a close-range shot that bounces back off the post, leading to a hurricane counter-attacking goal by them. I like to believe we’d have gone on to win if that initial 50-50 penalty hadn’t been given. Our strategy — of sitting back, soaking up the pressure, and hitting them on the counter through our quick wingers — has to be abandoned after the first goal. Who knows?
The game itself is no el clásico. It’s the Under-17s. But it’s thrilling nevertheless. The quality, in fact, is far better than I’d have anticipated given the age group. Not just in terms of individual skill or technique; there’s an understanding of space, of positioning, of knowing when to charge and when to hold back. This isn’t playground football, where you kick it to the tallest or fastest kid and wait for them to score.
The Americans appear to be far taller and quicker from where I am (though this may just be my own colonial hangover speaking), and their early pressing strategy means it takes a while for the Indian team to get into the game. The hosts seem a little fazed by the occasion, constantly losing possession and getting overrun in midfield.
Swagger and rhythm
India truly begins to shine in the second half and, in retrospect, the final score seems a little unfair. Our left-winger, Komal Thatal, looks transformed after half-time. He’s the classic “mercurial winger”, miskicking the ball for a throw-in one second and running circles around defenders the very next. A bunch of times, he creates a scoring chance with his trickery and dribbling. He gets a gilt-edged opportunity that he lobs over the goal.
Thatal has that innate swagger that all players with exceptional skill tend to; he can certainly carry off the blonde mohawk he’s sporting. Is he Indian football’s next great hope?
Watching a match live in the stadium is an elevated experience. It takes on greater importance than merely checking out a live feed on TV, which can often be a passive activity. You browse absent-mindedly on your phone, or you check out what’s in the fridge, or you change the channel to watch Splitsvilla at half-time. In the stadium, there’s a collective energy driving the proceedings. You suffer with the team when they concede; you cheer every single pass or shot or tackle. You , the spectator, are responsible for building momentum if your team is struggling. The view you get, almost like a chessboard, allows you to notice things you wouldn’t normally spot on a TV; what players do without the ball, you realise, is almost as important as what they do with it.
Shot in the arm
A chunk of the crowd comprises large groups of children in identical blue T-shirts that say “India” on the front, and a white cap. They’re having a blast; I have to escape to a quieter stand to get away from the revelry. The theory going around is that the event promotions have led to tie-ups with schools, so the kids have been arriving by the busload. The tickets, too, are fairly affordable (the most expensive is ₹800, which is roughly the amount of GST you pay on a meal at a restaurant — except if it’s khakra), and there’s been a general surge in interest in the sport in India at the grassroots.
Other than the odd breakthrough player (Baichung Bhutia, I.M. Vijayan, Sunil Chhetri), Indian football has never really gotten the kind of hype it deserves or requires. The Indian Super League (ISL) and other developments in the past few years have been a shot in the arm for current young footballers, providing them exposure to past and present international talents, as well as an opportunity to build a livelihood in the public eye. Could hosting this World Cup serve as the push for the next generation of players and fans?
Misplaced pride
There are patches where the crowd goes quiet, particularly when the Americans keep the ball for too long. There are also those self-loathing Indians with their defeatist spirit of doom — “ humaara kuch nahi hoga ” — at every misplaced pass. The Mexican wave does four full rounds of the stadium over a two-minute spell before it’s mercifully shut down. No one even looks at the pitch in that period; we’re all waiting for our turn to raise our arms.
But while the energy may dip from time to time, the notion of ‘support’ rarely does. Regardless of the score, the overriding feeling is that these players are heroes; they’re doing a good job and, for that, they will be applauded and cheered. There’s a point when the American team is booed for a foul, before better sense prevails as people realise these are kids playing. As the game finishes, the people who stay back warmly applaud the players for their efforts. Down the road, as they grow older, these players may well be subject to greater scrutiny and perhaps even some of the vitriol that’s directed at cricketers here frequently.
For now, though, the hope — tentative as it may be — is that this could be a springboard. A 360-degree butterfly effect, as more youngsters develop an interest in the sport, as do more fans, as do authorities who realise the importance of able infrastructure, as do international clubs who figure that out of 1.3 billion people, there’re bound to be at least a handful of gems. Just as long as we don’t forget if/ when the team gets knocked out.
The author is a freelance culture writer from New Delhi who wishes he’d studied engineering instead.
