CFA 2013- A tale of two midfielders.

I remember sitting down with a bowl of popcorn and a glass of soft drink (a long standing ritual) to watch Chelsea play against Liverpool in the UEFA Champions League a few years back. It promised to be a special occasion, like most of the European encounters between the two sides. We had lost to Liverpool thanks to a goal that never was from Raul Garcia, and then again later thanks to the heartbreak of the penalty shoot out which saw us crash out 4-1. I, for one, was itching to see us set the record straight. But that wasn’t the only thing on show that night. I and a million other like-minded Chelsea fans were watching on for another very special reason. One that stretched beyond the tremendously expansive boundaries of football.

England international midfielder Frank Lampard was a Chelsea legend in every sense of the word. I had started watching football because of him, and in the next 9 years of watching the beautiful game, Super Frankie had become an idol for me, just another one of his million star struck fans. So much so that every Chelsea match day would pass with me wearing the same Chelsea shirt with the words “LAMPARD” glistening at the back, every video tribute to the midfield God would be downloaded religiously to my computer, watched a million times without a shade of boredom. All those countless hours of Youtube-ing and watching Frank play contributed to a greater purpose I realized later, as at the age of 16, I earned a reputation of being an excellent goal scoring midfielder with an eye for a pass; a position that Frankie had made his own in the last decade. I owed Frank a great deal for his contribution to my footballing maturity, but little did I know that that night would inspire millions beyond any stretch of the imagination.

Less than a week before the Champions League tie, Frank lost his mother Pat Lampard (58) unexpectedly to a sudden and short bout of pneumonia. As the Chelsea fraternity kept her and the Lampard family in their prayers following their irreplaceable loss, they braced themselves for another irreplaceable loss in midfield in a night of impending European drama. But as the hustle and bustle of pre match predictions and analyses subsided, Frank Lampard’s name on the Chelsea team sheet less than a week after his mother passing away left everyone flabbergasted.

As the game kicked off, both teams looked to press the initiative after a 1-1 stalemate in the first leg at Anfield. Didier Drogba’s 12 yard finish was cancelled out by an equalizer from Fernando Torres, as the tie went into extra time. In the 96^th minute, Michael Ballack rushed into the Liverpool box and was fouled; the penalty was given. I rubbed my hands with glee as I expected Michael Ballack’s immaculate penalty-taking to give us the lead, but for the second time that night, I was stunned to silence as Frank placed the ball on the spot.

I simply couldn’t find the guts to imagine the thoughts that would have passed through Frankie’s head as he stood on the edge of the 18 yard box. And on a rainy night in West London with excitement and anxiousness at fever pitch, Frankie slotted the penalty home as I stood up along with each and every Stamford Bridge faithful, as Frankie ran to the corner, pointing to the heavens at the one fan that he wished would have seen him score. Watching my idol cry in front of the Chelsea fans was a bittersweet experience, as every football fan lauded a superhuman effort on the part of an absolute legend in Frank Lampard.

5 years down the line, last Friday, I stood in the middle of the football field awaiting kick off in my first competitive college game after losing my mother to cancer at the age of 19. The entire college was watching, among them a few special friends who had helped me through the terrible ordeal. And as I stood there, I remembered the game and Frankie’s will to play.

All I remember in that entire game was running my socks off, doggedly chasing every pass that I could. I hit the bar once, and the agony of being so close hurt even more. But midway through the second half, a beautiful through ball made its way to me, and I tucked it away into the bottom corner as the crowd exploded into cheers. Trust me, that feeling of raising your finger to the skies is the best in the world, knowing it was a special effort, for an extremely special person. We ended up drawing the game, but the sheer emotional rollercoaster of emotions was even more exhausting than the physical effort of chasing lost causes on the field. I realized how Frank would have felt seeing his biggest fan no longer there in the stands, as I stared at the very same place where my Mom had cheered me on from the year before. It was amazing knowing that the beautiful game had bought me so close to someone I’d only admired on TV.

Even today, when I see Frank raise his finger towards the sky after a goal, I realize why they call football the beautiful game. And as he closes his eyes and looks up to the heavens, I feel the exact same emotion rushing through my head, of remembering the one person who made me what I am today. Frank will probably tell you the same.

Time for Cold Measures?

Delhi went to sleep on the 16^th of December expecting to wake up to a winter morning that would send a few chills down their spine. Little did they know that what they’d wake up to, would literally, send their blood freezing.
A 23 year old girl and her male friend boarded a bus late at night in Saket, south Delhi, at around 9:30 PM after watching a movie. An hour and a half later, the girl and her companion were found on the street, the girl semi naked and unconscious. What happened in between is something so graphically disturbing, that giving the entire incident a thorough read actually made me nauseous. But the facts are there for everyone to see, 5 men raped a girl with such unspeakable brutality that it left her with extreme injuries to the abdomen, genitals and the brain (caused by an L shaped blunt iron rod), and then threw her off a moving bus.

Over the next few days, as people feverishly prayed and kept tabs on the condition of the girl (alias Damini/Nirbhaya), calls for radical laws and measures for safety of women and protection against rapes grew louder. Eventually, on a relatively cold winter morning of the 22^nd of December, tempers reached boiling point. An enraged nation poured out into the streets to demanding that the government take violent action against the perpetrators of the ghastly crime. The government took violent action alright, but against the voices which echoed the sentiments of the entire country.

 After all, that’s what the government has done in the past hasn’t it? A certain terrorist named Kasab mercilessly slaughtered people with an AK-56 assault rifle, and yet he was given protection in India’s most heavily guarded prison until “righteous” justice could be sought. What the government doesn’t realize is that when it offers a hand to these immoral and deluded lunatics, it only gives others like them more impetus for a chance to survive after they commit a heinous crime. For a crime which is so openly appalling and repulsive, it is imperative that the wrongdoers get it back in equal, if not more. What we need is a measure of fear, a system that is as ruthless as these criminals themselves. We only have to look around for what such a system can do... and what the lack of one brings.

For example, the punishment for rape in Saudi Arabia and Yemen is execution in public view. Iran, Iraq, and Nigeria on the other hand, punish rapists by publicly stoning them. Egypt and Yemen employ the use of firing squads. Although they seem cold at first, the results are there to be seen. Egypt’s rape rate per 100,000 population is a meager 0.1(2008). Yemen’s statistic stands at 0.8(2009).

And then, there’s us. India stands third in the overall rape cases reported with an astounding 22,172 official cases reported, next to South Africa and the United States of America. Do note that a majority of cases go unreported, out of fear, shame or poor investigative work, the best example being Karnataka, where only 4 people were convicted of rapes in 2011 (in a state which has seen an average of 500 rapes a year since 2006).

And that’s not all. According to official police reports, a rape is reported every 18 hours in Delhi (average), while Karnataka reports 2 rapes a day. Yet, we stick to a relatively dormant and rigidly systematic way of responding, often leading to a lot of staggering crimes going unpunished. It’s high time we adapt to the fact that a little militia justice just might do the trick, because the longer we stay quiet, the more we learn to accept living in the midst of such pathetic crimes. The statistics need to change for the better, and fast. Before a few other innocent Nirbhayas go through living hell.