Wednesday, May 22, 2013

The Life and Times of a Beckham Fan


Fan: n. a fan, sometimes also called aficionado or supporter, is a person who is enthusiastically devoted to something, such as a band, a sports team or entertainer. The degree of devotion can range from simple admiration to the deluded belief that they have a special relationship with the star which does not exist. This is the story of just such a belief.

The 21st of June, 2002 was a yellow hot day at school. It had been two weeks since the summer vacations had gotten over and the thrill of reaching the 5th standard had already begun to fade. We were sitting in the computer lab. We were usually excited to be there but that day something was different. Nobody seemed to be paying attention. There was a constant low-key buzz of discontent hovering about the class. The computer teacher pretended it was just the hum of the AC’s and continued teaching.  

I looked around me. All the boys were whispering. I could hear snatches of conversation.

“..Against Brazil! I didn’t want to come today...”

“He’s playing...”

“Bastard that’s my pen!”

“They’ll fuckin win, I’m fuckin’ tellin you!”

“Why should I ask him? You ask him na...”

“Fine!” said Rajiv Job and got up from his seat, “Sir, excuse me sir?”

“Yes?” said the computer teacher.

“Can you take us to the AV room? We want to see the match” said Job unflinchingly.

“What match?” said the computer teacher.

“The World Cup, sir. England v/s Brazil, sir.”

The computer teacher’s eyes bulged. He’d never seen such brazen impetuosity from a student before.

“What! What nonsense is this? What is all this about matches. Sit down and be quiet!” he sputtered.

“But sir!” whined Rajiv, “David Beckham is playing!”

And with the mention of that name the whole class began shrieking and shouting. The computer teacher had never seen such commotion. He barked and stamped and flapped his arms but the mutiny had grown too rampant. He looked around bewildered and finally darted out of the room locking the door behind him. He couldn’t understand it. What was wrong with these boys?  Why did they want to watch this match so badly? And who on earth was this David Beckham?

It was on that hot, afternoon in the computer lab that I first heard the name of the man who would become my idol and a counterpart of destiny for the next decade.
     
                     *                             *                             *

In 2003, my family moved from Lower Parel to suburban Thane. My father had gotten a new job and it meant being uprooted and hauled away to a new town and a new school. It was terrible. My 11 year old world lay in ruins. I hadn’t wanted to shift but like anyone was going to listen to me. So I did what any hormonal, surly, unable-to-adjust, ticked-off pre-adolescent would do – I threw a fit. I rebelled. I refused to allow happiness within 50 feet of me. It was all very rain-soaked and melancholy.

Then one morning, I opened the newspaper and saw a small headline: DAVID BECKHAM LEAVES MANCHESTER UNITED FOR REAL MADRID.  

Hmm, I thought to myself, I wonder if Beckham has trouble making new friends.

Almost instantly, I had found in him a strange kinship; it was as if, far, far away albeit on a ridiculously different level, Beckham too might be going through the same alienation and distress that I was feeling.

He had hardly been a few months in Spain when the false (not even alleged. I’m a fan and objectivity has no place here) allegations of his affair broke. If he hadn’t been it before, now Beckham was definitely as distraught as I. To compound matters Madrid had a woeful season and his year ended trophy-less just as mine ended with me moored somewhere at the bottom of the class. Clearly we were thinking the same thing: we were better off without moving.
                   
                    *                             *                             *

It’s not easy being a fan. When I look back at how I reached the point where I wore a hair band to school just to recreate his late 2003 look, I’m surprised at the long and bumpy road to fanaticism. You do not become a die-hard hero-worshipper overnight. It takes time and patience and then if you’re lucky, you are granted the opportunity to enter into fandom.

It is a tough screening process and rightly so, because at the end of the initiation, your devotion will be there for life – unshakeable, unceasing and for the most part unreasonable. This is not something that should happen lightly. For most fans, it takes years to cultivate that germ of a positive feeling into the full-blown mania that it eventually becomes.

Take my adulation for Beckham. It started with the irrational link that I threaded between our coincidental migrations. That fortunate moment led me to follow his career more closely and that meant taking an interest in football. Seeing that I was finally doing something other than stuffing my face with potato chips and sulking, my father decided to fan those football flames. He bought me Beckham’s autobiography, “My Side” and a jersey. I read the book and found that I liked this person even more – so I began wearing the jersey.

What started with spending hours on the pitch trying to replicate his crosses, gave way to spending hours in front of the mirror trying to replicate his hairstyles. I can safely say that David Beckham introduced me to hair gel. When you’re a teenager, you’re trying a dozen personalities a day to see which fits and I found that I really liked the way Beckham’s seemed to look on me. I copied the way he smiled (lips straight and wide with no curl on the sides), the way he walked (heel first, moderate swing on the arms) and even the way he scowled (with one eyebrow raised high enough to look like a hairy upside down Nike tick on his face). In those days, I really did believe I was the outsourced Indian version of David Beckham, a special edition made solely for my school football team. The funny thing is that no matter how disparate a fan and his fancy may seem at first, just by sheer repetition and brute assertions, people around them begin seeing the similarities too. I was referred to as Beckham in the school team even though I wasn’t allowed to take a single free-kick and my crosses were more wayward than most weather reports. I did however take corners and for me that was proof enough that I was the school team’s resident Beckham.
                                                             
                   *                             *                             *

The next few years went by humdrum and dispiritingly devoid of any major achievement for us both. Beckham failed to win a major trophy and I didn’t even contest for one. That was until 2006. It was the year I reached the tenth standard; the last year of my school life, at the beginning of which I had not an inkling of the turbulence and triumph that was to follow. I’m sure Beckham was just as blissfully unaware of the fast-approaching terror when he captained the England Football team at the World Cup.

Almost uncannily, our year crumbled at around the same time with the same rapidity. England lost in the quarterfinal and Beckham’s leadership and ability were questioned. In a dignified and tearful press conference, he announced that he was stepping down as England captain. Back at his club, the news was no more cheerful. The then manager of Real Madrid made it publicly known that Beckham would not be playing another game for the club. It was seemingly the end.

As for me, I played alrightish in school tournaments but we never managed to win anything. The cruellest defeat of all was losing in the final at a tournament held in our own school ground. I was doing just as woefully in my studies; finding tenth standard a major drag. There were just too many tuitions and too much at stake to enjoy studying. My overwhelming passion for football wasn’t helping matters either. Consequently, I was served an ultimatum by my mother: You will never play for the school team again. Sound familiar?

The quality I admired most in David Beckham was his dogged determination. There are only two ways that you can react to a setback: one is to blame the universe and cry and crib and the second is to accept the mess you’re in and heave and shove you’re way out. Beckham kept quiet and showed up to training with his resolve unshaken. He was a winner and he was hell-bent on avoiding ignominy. I looked at the depressing daily news clippings of his progress and couldn’t help but get inspired. Put your head down and keep working. Luck will change, I told myself, you see it will.

And things did turn around after Christmas; our luck did change! That winter Real Madrid sat a few points below Barcelona. It looked as if the rivals were going to get away with the league. The coach went back on his decision and brought Beckham into the team and they never looked back since. Beckham wasn’t the sole reason for their resurgent form but he sure played with the most hunger: an unpleasant, gnawing emotion vital to success.

I studied for my boards with equal fervour. My prelims notwithstanding, I couldn’t help but feel that the unfriendly times were rolling back. Something beautiful was around the corner and just like Beckham all I had to do was keep working hard. I wrapped up my Boards in April and Real Madrid wrapped up the title in May.

Madrid won the title on the last game of the season – a week before I got my results. It had been an incredible year; almost miraculous, in the small and large ways those miracles tend to work. I looked at the relieved, ecstatic and all-conquering face of Beckham, beamed into my drawing room on the night they won the title and couldn’t help but feel the same. We had overcome. He was now leaving a happy man for a new challenge and sure enough, so was I.
                          
                      *                             *                             *

Beckham was never the greatest football player. You couldn’t have said he was an equal to Pele or Maradona without causing a lot of people to choke on their drinks with laughter. Flaws, he had aplenty; the biggest and most glaring one being his missing left foot. In his distinguished career Beckham must have used his left foot fewer times than a person living on the twentieth floor uses the stairs. His speed, though acceptable wasn’t especially rapacious by winger standards.

But Beckham was never a man of his shortcomings. He never seemed unduly bothered by the limitations of his abilities. He chose the magnification of his strengths instead. My respect for Beckham rests on clouds because he was simply put – and in his own words – a hardworking footballer.

Football is considered a natural talent in the league of singing, dancing and playing Ludo blindfolded. Era after era, players dazzle with their innate genius, their easy ability, the fluid manoeuvring of a body built for the task. You don’t question the magic of Ronaldhino, the pirouetting of Zidane, the mad-dash energy of Roberto Carlos. Beckham on the other hand seemed more human than anyone else on the list of greats. He didn’t do outrageous tricks, he didn’t turn matches on their heads by sheer will and wasn’t exactly a goal machine. It was no wonder that his place among the Galacticos was questioned.

Here was the thing with Beckham: everything that he was exceptional at came out of effort; out of a desire to improve. Sir Alex Ferguson identified Hard Work as a talent and in that one aspect David Beckham was probably the most talented of them all. His mythic right foot crosses and freekicks were not compliments from God but cooked up on the training pitch – slowly, painstakingly. If he could bend it like Beckham, it was only because he practiced like Beckham. He strengthened his accurate passes with intelligence and creativity. He made up for his lack of pace by having a tireless work ethic. Long after the lungs of fans were exhausted by mere cheering, Beckham would still be charging around, busting his own lungs for the cause. It’s a rare ability to even try that hard.

I wasn’t born with magical gifts either; very few of us are but I learnt from watching his career that as long as I had the character and willingness to dig in, to be resolute, to not flinch from the labour – it really wouldn’t matter. The value of effort has been the most wonderful quality that I have picked up from David Beckham. It’s probably the most immense gift one could give a fan.

                      *                             *                             *

I returned to Lower Parel as Beckham flew off to America. I went to college as he joined the L.A. Galaxy. The years of his decline had begun. The American league was widely thought of as the children’s riding pen where old stallions got their final run out. Everybody thought that Beckham’s move was the first, cascading toward retirement. I held out against this opinion for a while but his first two seasons were too lacklustre to sustain any argument. Beckham’s all-mighty hold was loosening over me, as it was over the larger football community.

As college began and my world flung open to new and overwhelming experiences, I found my interest in football dissipating. I played for the college team with some success but as the years ticked by, I played less and less. My interests took new forms and I found new heroes to look up to. The football games for which I would wait weeks in advance now became background noise. I wasn’t eager for results and I wasn’t thrilled by the spectacle. Beckham’s matches in the United States were telecast at a time too abnormal for the Indian viewer. There was nothing more to do but give up and move on.

Junior college ended and I shifted once again to pursue Mass Media. Unsurprisingly, Beckham moved that year too. He went on loan to A.C. Milan. The 2010 World Cup was approaching and Beckham was battling tooth and nail to make the England Squad. His return to Europe and more importantly to a friendlier broadcast schedule meant that I got an extended look-in at my boyhood hero.  His powers were diminishing like a candle reaching its base but he still flickered as bright as ever. I found myself rooting for him; for his chance to make the World Cup Squad. He deserved his last hurrah.

But though his mind was willing, the body didn’t hold up. I watched the game against Chievo, when he received the ball, arched to pass and suddenly stopped short. He hopped in pain before making it to the sideline and collapsing on the turf. All the years of running, the endless bustle and non-stop pressure of David Beckham’s life had cruelly caught up with him. He lay in agony on the side of the pitch, clutching at his left ankle as medics tended to him. He knew the moment the kicking spasm of pain surged past his foot that his hopes of reaching the World Cup had snapped with his ligaments.

I couldn’t stop the tears in my own eyes at the heartbreak of that moment. Even the great David Beckham couldn’t have his way against the plans that were bigger than all of us.
                 
                      *                             *                             *

He was no Helen of Troy but he had a face that could sell a thousand products. There was an irresistible pull to Beckham’s face when spread across a billboard. It pulled out all your money. Hardly any sportstar even comes close to that hurricane called, “Brand Beckham”. I was sucked into the eye of the storm too. I have so many studs that at least the next 17 generations of Srivastava’s will not have to buy another pair. I use a Samsung phone because Beckham asked if I would, over the television. I still prefer Adidas over Nike because Beckham was its brand ambassador. I’m guilty of being an unthinking, will-less, droid controlled by the selling power of Beckham. At least I used to be.

Sadly, it will be for introducing the cult of superstardom to football that he will be most remembered for. History will treat him less a player and more a shirt. He was a good-looking, responsible, successful and humble human being or as marketers called him, “Bingo!” No emotion looked out of place on his face: his smile was charming, his glare was intense and his scowl was sexy. Whatever you wanted Beckham to sell, he could do it with conviction and disarming sincerity. I’m sure karela would have become the number one vegetable if Beckham had appeared in a commercial saying, “Karela gives me a FREE KICK!” Then he would have kicked a karela-shaped ball, smiled and watched as millions of teenagers fell over each other to get to their nearest sabjiwallahs.

Such adulation didn’t come cheap. The megatonnes of media pressure that Beckham lived under would have crushed another man. He most admirably kept himself sane while living each minute under a gigantic circus tent of flash and glamour. It’s an achievement to have maintained his game alongside all the jet-setting and red-carpeting. He didn’t combust as so many celebrities do; he didn’t self-destroy, didn’t throw fits and largely respected the jobs of the moth-like paparazzi. As a celebrity he was the model for what you should do when your every move was served up in newspapers day after day.

Glitzy and bright as all of it must have been, I’m sure the footballer that was David Beckham will not know what to make of it all. I’m sure he’ll also be a little irritated by all the diversionary focus that his celebrity created; of being trapped in the strange paradox of celebrity: where you are given more attention but taken less seriously. He was a great, great footballer and it’s just so easy to forget that.
                                           
                       *                             *                             *

Beckham remained largely submerged in the last three years of his career. He blipped on the radar twice when he won two championships with the L.A. Galaxy in 2011 and 2012. It vindicated his intention to move to the United States. 6 years on, he was leaving America not as a celebrity freakshow but as a muddied, gritty, football champion. The crinkles had increased around the eyes as he steadfastly maintained that he wanted to play a little longer.

I left college the year Beckham ended his American adventure. Now at last our paths had reached the diversion: mine headed straight to the clear fields of possibility and his wound toward the dark forests of oblivion. Then suddenly in 2013 like a huge humpback whale bursting forth for air he flew out of inattention and made a massive splash by signing for Paris Saint-Germain. It was the last charge of an aging hero.
I was delighted. This fan had to make a final journey and David Beckham had been gracious enough to provide company. And so the last, protracted weeks went by blithely. Beckham did not embarrass himself. He proved his worth in a young side. He accepted his reduced role in the team with grace and when he did play, he played with uninterrupted elegance.

I was slouched on the sofa when I heard the news: “A DOG THAT BARKS LIKE AN AMBULANCE BUT FIRST DAVID BECKHAM ANNOUNCES RETIREMENT!” I sat stunned for a while. The day had eventually come. It had been a slow and inevitable death and though I had known it was coming when it did happen, it left me gasping for breath. I gathered all the many memories, the sepia moments from school and the frostiness of recent years and looked at them a last time. David Beckham does not even know you, I thought to myself, and yet here he is, pictured in so much of your life.

I wondered what he would do now. Age 38 is young for a first death but that was what it was. For David Beckham, the footballer was dead. The ball would find new legs to kick it around. Football is ruthlessly aware of time. A decade is two generations in sport. In football, careers are on fast-forward; played out with a high-pitched squiggle and jerky urgency. Yesterday the player, who had promise, is today the superstar and will tomorrow be forgotten. The machine will keep whirring. 14 year old children rage over the internet about a flock of players that already seem as if they don’t match up to the legends of my era. When I was a schoolboy looking up to Beckham, I thought I had all the time in the world to grow up. Now Beckham had retired and growing up was no longer that far away.

I saw Beckham’s last match. He played in the centre of midfield. He made his trademark long passes, he took a free kick and he ran with the energy of a man who knew that this was the last bit of running he had left. I couldn’t focus on the match. Every few seconds I would hear a devilish little voice in my head say, “Watch this well because this is the last time”. In the 83rd minute, David Beckham was substituted. He left the field in tears. He was hugged by all his team mates and he got a standing ovation from the Parisian crowd. It was the right time. If at the end of your last game you have brimming measures of dignity and grace, it is the right time.

David Beckham accompanied his little, unknown fan on that last journey – he into retirement and his fan into maturity. Like Beckham I knew it was time, I’d just embarrass myself if I held on any longer. So, when he left, I didn’t just say goodbye to David Beckham; I waved off my own boyhood. Wherever they go from here, I’m sure they will be United.






Whos your favorite blog author, Part II

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