Don’t Cry, It’s Only a Game!

The roar of the crowd of about sixty thousand fans was like the sound of an ocean in the huge stadium.  Crescendos built and waned. They filled the ears like waves, incoherent background of noise with snatches of voices, cheers and yells that one could still make out the words clearly. A father sat with his barely teenaged son in the upper edge of the huge brightly-lit bowl with a green velvet centre of grass surrounded by successive, elliptical rows from where countless flashes of light went off as cameras took pictures. The open winter sky was dark when seen from the ground. From the air, the whole ground looked like a shimmering, bright emerald jewel adorning the city with thousands of flashing diamonds surrounding it.

Watching a live Australian Rules footy game was an exciting pastime that he shared with his son from his tender years, when the little boy had started to play the game. The game was between his son’s beloved Essendon Bombers and their passionate rivals the Carlton Blues. He had educated himself to appreciate this version of football, very different from the street soccer he had played as a kid growing up in India. The Australian version was fast, exciting, needing great skills and a treat to watch.

While most eyes were on the ground and loud cheering erupted as the players from each side ran onto the field, his eyes were on his son, watching the boy’s face and expressions. He could see the smile of happiness and look of hope in his son’s eyes as he took in the scene of his team running on to the field, trying to pick his favourite players. He was glad to bring a few moments of joy and hope to his son’s world which was falling apart. His family was breaking up and the children mostly silently bore the brunt of the bitterness between him and his children’s mother. All the adults and grown-ups in the world seemed helpless in giving his children what they needed most – a stable, loving family and a happy home. The boy did not speak too much about his feelings or his sadness. He seemed to want to avoid that. He had gone quiet, withdrawn and silent from being exuberant and outgoing. He had noticed that his son had started to take some extra interest and passion in the fortunes of his favourite team. They had been down in the ladder of performance for the past few years after peaking spectacularly just a couple of years before his son started to play and understand the game. They were legendary champions that everyone now looked at with sympathy and commiseration towards their fans. They started to show a little promise recently and had a good beginning to this season, being unbeaten for a while. The son had become excited and wanted to go and watch a few matches live. Previously, when they had lived in Melbourne, it had been easy and they would always watch about half-a-dozen matches live, each year. It had become a bit difficult since they had moved away from Melbourne. The game finished about 10pm. It would always involve a tedious, at least a three hour late night drive back home to Alexandra. The alternative was to stay in Melbourne overnight. Staying at a motel was something that was quite expensive and not affordable.

He had managed to get an invitation from a friend in Melbourne to stay at his place overnight one weekend. The son had started to talk more about his team’s prospects for this year, wildly hopeful of great success and this appeared to have assumed importance in his life now. It almost seemed that to see his team succeed would somehow make up for the son’s own loss of family and security. It was with eagerness and an aching heart that the father went about trying to arrange this, if only to give him a few hours of escape from their private hell. He was glad he finally managed to do so.

As the game progressed that day, it became evident to the father that even though it was going to be a closely fought match, the Blues seemed to be the better team in the way they played. However, he was wise enough not to say it out aloud, because, as they say, hope lives eternal and optimism ignores reality in children and in lovers. He watched as his son stood up and cheered, shouted instruction to his players when they were close to the boundary on his side, high-fived total strangers, in the next row when the Bombers scored a goal and took the lead after being behind for a while. As the fourth and final quarter approached, the Bombers were a few points ahead, but the Blues seemed more motivated to win. The boy’s expression was one of happiness and anxiety, a prayer that his team could hold the lead through the last quarter.

It had been many years now since his son had learned to accept his team’s defeats quietly and gracefully. Even though he often blamed the umpiring or some unfairness of the opposing team, it was quiet and tearless. He would be over-the-moon and beaming when his team won and would rave about the game and specific plays and analyse it in depth. “Did you see that, Dad?” he would ask. The Dad would often nod and pretend that he had or that he understood what the son was talking about. Now the son too knew that his father did not observe everything and was not as much into the game as he was. When he was much younger, the son would bawl or get angry and upset when his team lost. The first couple of games that they had gone to see were ones which the Bombers won and the son, while very young had come to believe that the Bombers would win all the games they went to. The first game that they went to and that the Bombers lost was memorable. The little boy had been inconsolable. One of the first lessons the father had taught his son over many visits was, “Don’t cry and get upset, Son. It is only a game. I want you to learn to handle it well when your team loses, OK?” Over the years, the son had learned to, despite seeing a few grown up men and women acting silly and taking the game too seriously, swearing and venting, often appearing fanatical and scary to little children.

He asked his son to use the toilets during the break before the last quarter and come back. He then went to use the toilets while his son kept his backpack. There would be a rush to catch the trains right after the match and not much time to lose. So, it was better to use the toilets before the end of the game. There were long lines at the toilets. By the time he had got back, the last quarter had begun. He washed his hands and made his way back to the seats.

As he entered the arena near the exits, the crowd was on its feet, people shouted and cheered loudly and excited, stopped where they were and all eyes were on the ground. He could sense that the Blues had made it close to their goal and if they managed to score this one, they would be ahead. He could not see his son among all the people standing. As he edged closer to his row of seats he managed to catch a glimpse of his son’s face, watching the match intently. The sudden cheers of the Bomber’s fans and the groans and booing of the Blue’s fans indicated that the Blues must have missed the opportunity to take the lead. He saw the flash of joy, happiness and cheer on his son’s face from afar as he leapt up in joy, raised his fist in salute and cheered a spectacular save by a Bomber player. It was worth it! Just to see his son enjoy the moment, be lost in it, to be happy. The irony of it struck him. “This is all the happiness I can give him,” he thought.

He went up to his seat and sat next to his son. The Bombers pulled ahead and the Blues kept within striking distance all the while. The game was poised for a close finish.

The son was still excited, smiling and hopeful of a Bombers victory. He asked  the boy if he wanted something to eat. He had brought along some snacks and they had eaten them after the first quarter break. The boy was a nervous wreck and did not want to eat or drink. He knew they would be hungry after the game and then they would have to hurry to catch the local train to get to the friend’s place in time. They would have no time to eat then. So, he pressed on and suggested they eat something. The boy wanted a tub of hot potato chips that they usually had at the game. So, he went to get it. He walked down the steep, staircase of the aisle to the exit near the food stalls. There were TV screens all around the stadium and near the food stalls too. He saw that the Blues had come back strongly and had scored to narrow the lead. He made his way up to the stairs, carrying the little tub of chips and a drink in two hands carefully, avoiding bumping into someone even as he picked his way through the crowd.

As he approached the entrance to the arena, the roar was deafening. It was getting impossible to tell what exactly was happening, but it must have been something important enough and the one possibility was that the Blues were close to scoring and that would put them ahead. The crowd was on its feet. Most were standing up near him and cheering loudly. Many were yelling out player’s names, urging them to pass the ball to one near the goal and suddenly the loudest roar went up. Someone had scored. He was near his row of seats and suddenly through a gap between two standing fans, he caught a glimpse of his son – disappointment written all over, an expression of agony and pain flashed across his tender face for a second. The boy smashed his fist into his palm and sat down, almost in tears. He looked lonely and lost in the middle of this crowd.

The father sat down with his bucket of chips and drink, right at the steps in the aisle for a moment. His face must have showed the pain and a tear made its way down his eyes, even as he averted his gaze downwards. Suddenly, he felt a consoling pat on his back as he heard a voice close to him, from a seat adjoining the aisle, “Don’t cry! Don’t feel bad. It’s only a game!”

He turned to see a little girl in the Bombers colours of red and black, looking concerned at him but smiling to cheer him up. Her grandmother sat next to her. She looked at him with a mature, wise smile of one who had seen a lot in life. She turned to her grandchild and said softly to her, “That’s OK, he’ll be alright, darling!”

He could not help laughing even as set down his food and drink, wiped his eyes dry and composed himself. He picked up the food and made his way to his son. The boy quietly went for the chips, not saying much. He ate quietly as the game wound down and the Blues held on to the lead and sealed their victory. He ranted about the bad decision of the umpires to award a free kick to one Carlton player as the key to the loss. As they started to leave the stadium, he looked at his father’s face. It looked a bit sad and depressed even as he smiled widely and talked cheerfully. Lately, he had seen his father’s expression thus often. Usually, the boy knew he could not say anything or do much to cheer him up. He reckoned this time it must be because of his disappointment over the Bombers’ loss today. He decided to be grown up and mature.

“Aw, that’s the first loss this season and the Bombers are certain to win the next game, Dad,” said the boy trying to sound casual but with a fierce expression, willing it deeply from the heart.

In the loud celebrations of the crowd no one could hear the father’s heart break even as it swelled with pride.


Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2013

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