It was getting dark and a little spooky down below the rickety wooden galleries in the eastern stands of the Mohun Bagan-CFC Ground where I had taken temporary refuge with scores of other fellow red-and-gold fans.
It was circa 1978. My beloved East Bengal had just been sunk by Shyam Thapa’s iconic bicycle kick in the IFA Shield final and there was trouble in the stands. Even such a divine match-winner was unacceptable to the Moshaal (East Bengal’s emblem, a lit torch) brigade and hundreds of irate fans had been chased down by baton-wielding policemen for hurling all kinds of handy projectiles in a desperate bid to vent their ire. No one ever blamed us of being gracious losers.
Caught in a melee during this chase, I was forced to retreat beneath the planks with others draped in red and gold to escape the blows and wait out the fracas. I climbed a few tentative steps up the rows of slats and craned my neck to gauge the hazard level above ground. Things seemed relatively calm, at least in that moment. I looked around and figured the others had left, even as there were tell-tale debris strewn all over. Summoning enough courage, I hauled myself up to the surface, tiptoed my way out of the nearest open gate, and broke into a sprint.
Running across the vast open Maidan all the way to the Metro Cinema corridor, I paused to catch my breath. Mounted police were still scouring the vast Maidan hinterland for troublemakers and there was tension in the air. Soaked in sweat, my shirt muddied and torn, and estranged from my friends, I still tried to melt into the milling Dharmatala crowd, licking my psychological wounds and itching to have another go at the perennial maroon-and-green foes.
Yes, a Kolkata derby was a big deal in those days, stretching through the Eighties and even the early Nineties. The city, still pretty much the nerve-centre of Indian football, got split vertically on derby day. The anxiety and expectation were palpable, giant flags were washed and readied, bugles, horns and drums dusted down, faces painted in favourite club’s colours, slogans readied and rehearsed. Both camps prepared for the momentous match-day with full-throated passion. It was nothing short of war. No quarter asked for. None given.
Cut to circa 2023. And there has been a seismic, time zone-altering shift in my allegiance. Kevin De Bruyne (or ‘KDB’ as the City fans fondly call him) slots the ball calmly first Ramsdale’s left-hand post to fire the Citizens ahead in what was billed as the season-decider. What followed was mayhem. It was men against boys and my beloved Arsenal were put through the wringer by Pep’s finely-tuned orchestra and systematically dismantled. Arteta’s boys were never really in the fight. It was so near, yet not within grasp. And it hurt, strangely, almost as much as that fateful afternoon back in 1978. The same sinking feeling all over again.
Well, let me tell you, I’m not the only one to have shifted my gaze from the Maidan (er, Salt Lake Stadium) greens and taken a shine to the Emirates or Etihad or Old Trafford or Anfield in faraway Blighty over the past few decades. The EPL has been a Pied Piper, drawing hundreds of thousands of us in the slipstream of its dazzle and artistry, iconic footballers weaving their magic on those billiard-top pitches, the brilliant coverage and razor-sharp analytics by the Sky Sports roster of pundits. The English Premier League has well and truly invaded our drawing rooms and we are all sucked into this ultimate global spectacle.
So, how did East Bengal’s bright red and gold fade away in my subconscious to make way for Arsenal’s famous red and white? I’m sure every football fan would have his/her trigger for a route change. Mine was Arsene ‘Le Prof’ Wenger, that French aristocrat who came from faraway Japan to stamp his class on English football, bringing his fluid-passing, easy-on-the-eye Continental style to London Colney and Highbury, along with his band of merry French players who made the game of football look so easy. His philosophy was simple: You could lose playing beautiful football, you couldn’t win ugly.
Football in Kolkata was already on the wane, and there are a plethora of factors that ruined our proud footballing heritage. That’s a reflection for another day. Salt Lake Stadium was struggling to draw a full house on a local derby day, even as other parts of the country were fast catching up with us, not the least the Northeast Sisters. Run for ages most unprofessionally by a bunch of footballing amateurs (semi or “adha” officials in Maidan parlance), Bagan and East Bengal were both in free fall, and the emerging generation found a ready, shiny alternative in the EPL. Not to say there weren’t any takers for a Bayern or a Real, but they were a minority.
As for myself, I had already started following Arsenal from the George Graham days, but it turned into full-throated war-cry only after Le Prof, a Romantic to the core, took over. Then I started living for the titanic clashes with Man U and Sir Alex. There was something mesmerizing about that duel – Ferguson’s brilliant strategizing and street-smart football against Wenger’s precisely-honed pass-and-move triangles – a veritable feast for the eyes. The personal rivalry between these two master tacticians also assumed epic status. It was compulsive, breathtaking, adrenaline-soaking. I was all in. In front of my TV, in my Gunners shirt.
Gradually, more spice was sprinkled into the cauldron with the likes of Mourinho, Pochettino, Pellegrini, Ancelotti, among others, arriving to add more Continental and Latino flair to the inclusive EPL canvas. The best of the best wanted to be here to ply their trade, simply because it had become the biggest stage to perform on. Then of course, Klopp and Pep arrived and have taken it to the next level with their own brand of refined rivalry, with Arteta now looming ever larger on their rearview mirror.
For us, lovers of the Beautiful Game here in Kolkata, this transition was initially almost on autopilot, but has gathered serious, conscious momentum over the past two decades, as the EPL continues to attract the world’s finest exponents and gaffers to its shores, with the purses of Premier League clubs swelling with every new season, notwithstanding the shackles of Financial Fair Play. This has been in stark contrast with local football losing its sheen in Kolkata and kids taking to cricket or tennis instead. In fact, how many home-bread footballers can EB or MB boast in their lineups now? It’s a damning indictment indeed. And it’s true.
My relationship with my “Ex” is now solely through the next morning’s newspaper. And East Bengal almost invariably lose these days. They are a poor, anemic shadow of their past, with no succour in sight. It does bother me a little at times, because this should never have happened. But then, I don’t lose much sleep over it. After all, Arsenal’s stocks are on the rise under Arteta.
Some might say it’s an opportunistic shift of fidelity, but I’m totally at peace with myself. It’s all about being in love with the Beautiful Game, and I’m on Cloud Nine when following a neat passage of playing from the back, an intricate triangle in the attacking third involving Saka, Odegaard and White comes off beautifully to set up Martinelli on the left for a tap-in. The football aesthete in me comes alive. And I yearn for more.
