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I dream of a little one-two that bamboozles a big man at the back. Shifting my weight to one side as I skip past men who are referred to as "fucking bulls" in conservations on the 2nd year table in the mess. Slotting home into the bottom left corner of the net as the best goalkeeper in college stands rooted to the spot. And as I scamper away to celebrate, as if still on my little run, hearing him direct choice Hindi expletives at that famed back four, who are shaking their heads, not knowing what struck them.
On the day that the man deservedly won a Golden Boot (and also, a title to boot), Shambles told me that these are little prizes we play for. And yet, I'd replied, these prizes trigger existential crises. When you do win them, for a moment at least, the heart leaps with almost unbearable lightness. When you invariably lose them, for a moment at least, there are miasmas of bleak despair. And when the dust, gold or otherwise, has settled down, you know that this is the curse and the boon of mediocrity. And perhaps we're better off this way. Condemned to the margins of everlasting ecstasy, condemned to the margins of everlasting grief.
