Storyline: For the love of field hockey…. It’s that pain and simple.
The year of the lord, two thousand fifteen, has indeed occupied itself with many a tragic, yet, many an unforgettable moment. It has, indeed, moved into its final quartet. Fate to come down and be sewn into boards, to make a certainly movable framework with a sack and a knife, moving like a trundle would do anything that could have possibly done with bare hands and barren feet. We are in our own march to journey beyond the farthest corners of the earth bent, if not bruised, on the loft ends of our destiny, betokening a humble character. Isn’t it?
William R Wallace once said, “the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.” Well, isn’t it true that the stick that rocks and blocks the wee ball rules the world of our own, Hockey? “For true love is inexhaustible; the more you give, the more you have. And if you go to draw at the true fountainhead, the more water you draw, the more abundant is its flow.”
When speaking and writing about Hockey, I remember the aforementioned lines said by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. Yes! I would like to grow old with Hockey before I lose my breath. And, no, I would be lying if I say; Hockey doesn’t come first in my thoughts during the dawn of the day and during the dusk of the night. You may lose me, as your confidant, if I say, am proud to have played Hockey and proud, too, for having written extensively about the sport. First, for I am not that rich in academics and rich not, too, in the knowledge of the sport. Hence, I will take care of myself and my arrogance (I don’t have, but, if at all you think I possess), so that I can build an edifice of my own dreams.
Courtesy: pinterest.com
I will swim in life, no matter how rough the terrains are, and, no matter how bitter the weather is. I will, forever be inspired by the immortal deeds of Dhanraj Pillay and Shankar Lakshman, who were men above ranks and who were men, too, who hoisted the Indian Flag on many a field. Am I not proud to have been inspired by them? I also understand life is a marathon on roads filled with thorns and ice.
I may not get up daily, nor smile as healthily, as I do at times. But I shall be bold in darkness if only to see the light. I will grow big, bold and beautiful like the old vine that forever remains the most craved liquid, unwhithered in the curse of time. Thinking about Hockey at this time of the hour, whets my appetite to write a small poem. Here it goes….
Sun in the light, shining,
Birds in delight, chirping.
Serenity of sleep nears an ending,
The often melancholic dreams, fading.
The delicious rooster signals day,
A luring time to make hay.
Here am I, curled up in the pillow act,
Sagacious ideas clouded, by cataract.
Lending prudence a plausible knock,
Avoiding yet another writer’s block,
Heartily do I open eyes,
To visualize where reality lies.
Sipping coffee, consummating thoughts in sanity,
I hold an ink-dipped quill to write Hockey.
They say, “True love is eternal, infinite, and always like itself. It is equal and pure, without violent demonstrations: it is seen with white hairs and is always young in the heart.” Well, my love and breathe for Hockey is the same. Bent and bruised, but not withered. I would not like to see myself journeying beyond the moon into the heavens anytime soon, but I want to see myself engaged in writing and watching the game, I love to the moon and back.
As a writer, I would like to pause and produce magic from my pen, but, at the same time, I would want my national hockey team to stand on the Olympic podium one day–before my body is put into the vacant grave beneath the ground, if not next year in Rio de Janerio. For thinking of Hockey is always the first thing that makes me emotional and inspires me the same time, to live a life of worth and do good deeds before am done and out. I hope y’ll will notice me and ‘at, I will never lose you all.
I understand, there’s more life ahead of me, and none but hockey matters to me the most. I, as a writer, would like to protect the emerald richness of the game through my writings without jealousy or anger; and I would like to watch the game whenever I feel I’m lost in the pursuit of my academic dreams.
Dear august readers, please understand, I will be the first to lose the argument if it means standing against you will lose your confidance and your respect towards my heart, Hockey.
Through my pen I shall build a camaraderie that lasts beyond the canons of time. I shall, dear readers, would like to be on your good side when the earth is crumbing down to its knees and my hockey is waning into the dust. I hope, you will all stand shoulder-to-shoulder with me, and encourage me to write my gut, sweat, blood, and dreams in black and blue.
Lastly, I wish I will not lose you, my breadth and my love for Hockey.
