For all the claims that the Community Shield game was a friendly, it seemed like that piece of information had not reached the two teams contesting the game. From the very first minute, when the first searing pass sent out to Valencia by the veteran Scholes, the resultant tangle with Ashley Cole, and the furious shrug off from Valencia, there was no doubt about the seriousness with which the combatants were viewing the game. Chelsea played a near full strength team, the only notable absentees from the starting line-up being the inimitable Drogba, who apparently is still nursing injury and bad memories of the World Cup and only came on as a substitute. Speaking of the World Cup, finding a single player on the field with a pleasant memory of that little tournament was an exercise of great difficulty. Man U started with Rooney, Owen, Scholes, Carrick, Valencia, Park, Vidic, Evans, O Shea, Fabio and Van der sar. They were later joined by Hernandez, Berbatov, Giggs, Fletcher and young Smalling. Of the lot, only Hernandez could have legitimate claims to having had a decent World Cup. Park had a few contributions too, but nothing to write odes to. Chelsea had Anelka, Kalou, Malouda, Lampard, Essien, Mikel, Terry, Cole, Ivanovic, Ferriera, and Hilario. Even worse off than the United cadre, you will agree.
All said and done, it was a chance to get rid of those ghosts, and begin anew. And of the lot, Rooney and Essien seemed to be the ones that wanted to treat this as a new chapter with bygones being truly bygones. Actually Rooney seemed to be looking into a past more memorable when he scored a handy 34 goals to almost get United the title last season. There was more of that Rooney on evidence today, and less of the lost-sheep variety that we saw in July. Valencia also looked all fresh and ready for another year of tormenting the left backs of the EPL. Ashley Cole was one of the few Englishmen that could claim to get 5 on 10 for his World Cup showing on Capello’s infamous rating chart, but he had his hands overfull with Valencia today. And when it wasn’t the perky Ecuadorian, he had the likes of Rooney galloping into open spaces created by a clever swapping run with Valencia, which also took care of the sturdy Terry, and left Valencia with just the goalie to beat. Which he did with great ease to take Man U a goal up. The architect of that goal was the sublime Scholes, who had a game that must have had the watching Capello wish he had picked up the phone himself when they tried a last ditch attempt to woo the veteran into taking another plunge into international waters. Ferguson certainly has a herculean task looking for his replacement. A better hope would be that Fergie and Scholes both leave football together. Let the successors worry about replacing the jewels of this crown.
The stats of the game will show that Chelsea had more shots on goal, more corners, possibly more possession. But it was the Reds that looked most threatening, and the more likely of the two teams to score. And score they did. Three times, and all goals worthy of mention in the future. Hernandez will always wonder how his goal was scored, and will spend a lot of time explaining it to fiends and team mates over a beer. Not that he looks old enough to have one. But what an inspired signing this is already appearing to be. On the back of a reasonably impressive World Cup, and a few notable mentions in the warm up games, this first goal for his new team must really be something to cherish. Even so for the manager if the boy can translate this into a fruitful first season. Among other things that Fergie can count amongst his gains from this match, was the fresh and sharper looking Berbatov. That third goal was a peach, and old Berba is probably licking his chops now. He’ll want more, that one. Rooney looked slower but definitely seems to have gotten over his maladies of the past.
There is always a down side though, and for Fergie the defense must be one to ponder. Vidic seems to have decidedly proven that the form of his first two seasons with Man U were his peak, and he’s definitely on the wrong end of the curve. Evans looked shaky too, but he’s at least got grit going for him. Smalling looked nervous, but he’s young, and is sure to improve. As is Fabio, who is already very good, and a good understudy for Evra, when the latter calls it quits. Of the rest Carrick and Owen were the most disappointing, and their lack of form is worrying only because it gives Fergie lesser options for Fletcher’s position in holding midfield with Hargreaves showing no signs of recovery. With the arrival of Hernandez, and Macheda in the wings, Owen seems set to spend more time on the bench this year.
And what of the Blues? Well, the jade of England seems to hang over the trio of Lampard, Cole and Terry. Terry did make some good raids from deep inside his half, but his indecision cost Chelsea their first goal, and he’s a lot less conspicuous on a field that he would normally own. Lampard was almost invisible during the game, but what was even more troubling was the low number of opportunities he seemed to generate for himself. The most prolific goal scorer amongst his kind last season seemed to be missing his instinct today. Essien started off well, and was involved in most of the incisive runs into the United goal. Sturridge and Anelka looked good too, but Malouda was off colour, and there was not much coming in from midfield to help remedy that. Its early days and the weekends to come should see this side pick themselves up and give their opponents something to think about
As the commentator said, the players may all say to themselves that this game meant nothing in the overall picture and could not be seen as a herald for the season to come, but it certainly gives Ancellotti a lot to think about. And Fergie a lot to be satisfied with.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
A Cup of discontent
This is a hard pill to swallow. After months of feverish anticipation, which included the installing of various countdown clock as laptop screensavers, where one's hopes were kindled and then encouraged by the intermittently great performances from the perennial under-performers, the dreams of millions of England's football fans both in and outside that country were brought crashing down last weekend. The various controversies before, during and after the match notwithstanding, none that witnessed the match could say the result wasn't a fair one. Which makes the aforesaid pill even more icchhy to keep down.
Will not analyse England's performance, don't have the heart to. Ironically that was one body part that went missing from the English game. There were 14 red (or white) shirts that moved on the pitch with no great motive, no resolve, and ultimately no desire. I have never seen Wayne Rooney play like this. His lack of touch or goals was not even a smidgen part of the problem. The complete lack of want was something you don't expect from someone that puts in all in each and every performance. The man that hates to be substituted seemed, in these four games at least, to have an anywhere-but-here kind of look. The rest of the team seemed to be part of a very bad pantomime show directed by a somnambulist.
Whether it was the pressure of expectations or simply mass bad form striking at the wrong time, the team and their supporters were more relieved than sad when it was all over. There are now cries for many heads to roll, but all that is a sad epilogue. Of all the teams that failed to deliver this World Cup, England was the most disappointing to me. France, Italy, and the African nations all had pre-WC troubles, and were not really expected to do well for me. But the Englishmen had a good team. Never mind the comments of those that think that only Brazil and Argentina and the likes play football. These so-called purists can kiss my ***. Any team that has Gerrard, Rooney, Terry, Cole(s), and Lampard in their ranks deserved better.
That aside, what has the WC offered so far? A dull fare, if truth be told. Most of the early matches were low scoring ones, and though the second round seems to be full of goals, I think this tourney can be compared to the 1990 version in the US for the number of goalless draws. Wish someone would check and let me know? One of the teams that have made an impression on me this year for entirely the wrong reason is Uruguay. They along with teams like Switzerland and Japan are what is wrong with football. The Inter Milan-Rafa Benitez style of football where teams sit back with 2 layers of defence and frustrate the hell out of everybody else, enough to administer one quick counter-attack, and voila, we have a 1-0 victory. I mention Uruguay, because they have made this system their own, and even showed how it could be modified a little when the opposing team surprises you by getting one back. Against the enterprising Mexicans in the second round match, Uruguay sat on a 1-0 lead with Suarez staying marginally in the Mexican half to pounce on any wayward opportunity. When Mexico suddenly had the equalizer, the hitherto unemployed Suarez started seeing a lot more of the ball, courtesy some desperate football from the South Americans. I hope Ghana will take them out in the quarters, but the hopes are slim. The Uruguayan brand of football rarely fails, and when it does, it needs a team like Argentina on their best day. Ghana are, unfortunately not Argentina.
Which brings me to what hopefully should be the main piece-de-resistance of the quarter finals. The Argentines take on the Germans in what has the makings of a classic. If both play the free-flowing style that they have displayed thus far, it should be a humdinger of a game. I hope the Brazil-Netherlands match will be as entertaining, as it has the potential of being. I fear though that the Brazilians rely almost entirely on the whims of the fanciful Robinho, though their defence led by the grit-hard Lucio is un-Brazilain solid. The Dutch also have a good team. Unfortunately it has more of Sneijder and less of Robben these days, and we all know whose team won the champions Cup, don't we? So, not too much pure joy expected from that contest. Better surprised than sorry, I think.
So the quarter-finalists are ready to make war. 8 countries left, 4 of these are South American, which is consistent with the continent’s fortunes this time around. All 6 nations qualified for the knock outs, and now, there is a good possibility that we could have an all South-American final 4. Do I predict this? No, but then all my predictions have gone haywire this tournament, so all I will say, in addition to my prayer that Ghana makes it to the semis, is that I hope the Dutch will play in the fashion the Dutch are known to, and if so, they win. Argentina and Germany will be a toss up, for they are both playing a brand of football pleasant to the eye. Any one of these progressing to the final will make me happy, more so if one of them wins the ultimate prize. I will mourn for the other team as much as I did for the English. As for Spain, I think they will win too, provided they can unlock the Paraguayan defence. They are entirely capable of this of course, but the "form on the day" stories are far too many to be dismissed.
Thus it is the following line-up that I wish to see in the semis, and forward.
Netherlands V Ghana
Germany V Spain
Final: Netherlands v Germany
Winner: Germany.
A similarly satisfactory set of outcomes can be achieved if Argentina replaced Germany in the semis onwards.
Ah, well if wishes were horses...
Will not analyse England's performance, don't have the heart to. Ironically that was one body part that went missing from the English game. There were 14 red (or white) shirts that moved on the pitch with no great motive, no resolve, and ultimately no desire. I have never seen Wayne Rooney play like this. His lack of touch or goals was not even a smidgen part of the problem. The complete lack of want was something you don't expect from someone that puts in all in each and every performance. The man that hates to be substituted seemed, in these four games at least, to have an anywhere-but-here kind of look. The rest of the team seemed to be part of a very bad pantomime show directed by a somnambulist.
Whether it was the pressure of expectations or simply mass bad form striking at the wrong time, the team and their supporters were more relieved than sad when it was all over. There are now cries for many heads to roll, but all that is a sad epilogue. Of all the teams that failed to deliver this World Cup, England was the most disappointing to me. France, Italy, and the African nations all had pre-WC troubles, and were not really expected to do well for me. But the Englishmen had a good team. Never mind the comments of those that think that only Brazil and Argentina and the likes play football. These so-called purists can kiss my ***. Any team that has Gerrard, Rooney, Terry, Cole(s), and Lampard in their ranks deserved better.
That aside, what has the WC offered so far? A dull fare, if truth be told. Most of the early matches were low scoring ones, and though the second round seems to be full of goals, I think this tourney can be compared to the 1990 version in the US for the number of goalless draws. Wish someone would check and let me know? One of the teams that have made an impression on me this year for entirely the wrong reason is Uruguay. They along with teams like Switzerland and Japan are what is wrong with football. The Inter Milan-Rafa Benitez style of football where teams sit back with 2 layers of defence and frustrate the hell out of everybody else, enough to administer one quick counter-attack, and voila, we have a 1-0 victory. I mention Uruguay, because they have made this system their own, and even showed how it could be modified a little when the opposing team surprises you by getting one back. Against the enterprising Mexicans in the second round match, Uruguay sat on a 1-0 lead with Suarez staying marginally in the Mexican half to pounce on any wayward opportunity. When Mexico suddenly had the equalizer, the hitherto unemployed Suarez started seeing a lot more of the ball, courtesy some desperate football from the South Americans. I hope Ghana will take them out in the quarters, but the hopes are slim. The Uruguayan brand of football rarely fails, and when it does, it needs a team like Argentina on their best day. Ghana are, unfortunately not Argentina.
Which brings me to what hopefully should be the main piece-de-resistance of the quarter finals. The Argentines take on the Germans in what has the makings of a classic. If both play the free-flowing style that they have displayed thus far, it should be a humdinger of a game. I hope the Brazil-Netherlands match will be as entertaining, as it has the potential of being. I fear though that the Brazilians rely almost entirely on the whims of the fanciful Robinho, though their defence led by the grit-hard Lucio is un-Brazilain solid. The Dutch also have a good team. Unfortunately it has more of Sneijder and less of Robben these days, and we all know whose team won the champions Cup, don't we? So, not too much pure joy expected from that contest. Better surprised than sorry, I think.
So the quarter-finalists are ready to make war. 8 countries left, 4 of these are South American, which is consistent with the continent’s fortunes this time around. All 6 nations qualified for the knock outs, and now, there is a good possibility that we could have an all South-American final 4. Do I predict this? No, but then all my predictions have gone haywire this tournament, so all I will say, in addition to my prayer that Ghana makes it to the semis, is that I hope the Dutch will play in the fashion the Dutch are known to, and if so, they win. Argentina and Germany will be a toss up, for they are both playing a brand of football pleasant to the eye. Any one of these progressing to the final will make me happy, more so if one of them wins the ultimate prize. I will mourn for the other team as much as I did for the English. As for Spain, I think they will win too, provided they can unlock the Paraguayan defence. They are entirely capable of this of course, but the "form on the day" stories are far too many to be dismissed.
Thus it is the following line-up that I wish to see in the semis, and forward.
Netherlands V Ghana
Germany V Spain
Final: Netherlands v Germany
Winner: Germany.
A similarly satisfactory set of outcomes can be achieved if Argentina replaced Germany in the semis onwards.
Ah, well if wishes were horses...
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Thoughts of mortality - and mortified realisation
Each of us, at a point in our lives, think about its end. The thought arrives without warning, usually as an after effect of an event that may not appear to be significant at that particular time. You witness an accident on your way to office, the images play over and over in your head through the day, you wonder what the family of the victims will feel, and you wonder what would happen if you were involved in a similar situation yourself. You hear of a team members problems in the family, and you thank the powers that be for not having to relate the story yourself.
And then there are less morbid situations, where you watch yourself on a video recording. This is what I'm going to talk about - less morbid, but amazingly almost as depressing. I'm 36 now, and for some time, not many people have commented on how young I look. They used to, you see, and now that they don't, I have started wondering if that is because I don't anymore. You notice the signs of course - the panting after a couple of fast-er steps, the near collapse after an attempt to jog a 100 mtrs, the funny aches and pains you have absolutely no clue of origin of or reason for, but just complain of in the morning.
But there's nothing that destroys every pretense of fitness and youth than watching yourself performing an activity of the sporting persuasion. Till then, the prevailing thought is that you're not doing bad for someone your age. When you see the video, you realise, you know what you are as bad as your age demands.
Last week I sprained my ankle in one of our weekend football games. Now this is nothing less in importance than a battlefield injury, so I was quite pleased about it. I almost glowed as I showed off the still-swelling foot. Quite a take-home article too, and if the family members needed proof that I actually did more than just drive the car out every Saturday morning in my shorts and other sporty wear, nothing put that doubt to rest than a limp and a bruise or two. The regret at not being able to play for a couple of weeks is relatively less active in my mind as I milk reactions from onlookers about my well-strapped ankle, and the fact that I now wear sandals to work.
To get back to the moot point of this passage, the first sign of trouble in paradise came when my doctor looked at the ankle, then asked 'what the dickens were you doing playing football at your age?'. Not in those exact words, but if tone could be translated into language, that was exactly what he said. I mumbled something to the effect that I was not that old, but in my mind the doubts had found a voice. Was this a call to end all association with the physical side of the game? Did this question from the doc give credibility to what most of my family felt but rarely said? Cos I really loved that hour or two on Saturday when we played our country version of football, revelled in the thought that at least in this restricted group of company colleagues, I could hold up my own. Sure, I could not run for very long, or very far, I had little or no skill in dribbling, and the only way I would head the ball was if the ball hit the head on its way elsewhere. But I had a mean passing sense, and shots off my boots could make the ball travel a fair distance, generally in the direction I and meant it to go. Surely I can continue to do that for a while? The never-say-stop part of the brain told me, as it had on several occasions on this very subject, that I could. Then came the merciless video.
The video was a recording of one of our inter-company matches, one that I took special pride in as the first that we actually took something away from. The match was a draw, 3-3, and I thought our team dominated large portions of the game. If I was disappointed, it was with the feeling that we should have won the game. So when a team mate circulated the video file, I was quite eager to see how it went. A few minutes into the viewing though, the merciless part hit me - pretty hard. The game itself was quite scrappy, as you might expect. School-boyish was how one of my team mates called it, and I might have agreed, had I found the need to defame and belittle school football. But I did not have any delusions about how good or bad we played. Despite this, watching the 22 of us fluttering over the field was a revelation. Most of our endeavours involved flapping every available limb frantically to get to the ball and then hovering over it in a ponderous fashion, trying to foil the interest of the opponent, thinking about the next move, while the said interested opponent calmly footed the ball away.
All this, though an eye-opener, did not nearly have the same effect as watching self in action. Self was, thankfully, worth very little screen time as the I did not have too much of an interaction with the ball that day. But in whatever I saw, I was not pleased. A more lenient critic may in his generosity feel that with very little to observe, not much could be judged about the quality and skill on display. Unfortunately for someone whose self image was a lot different, this was a revelation of catastrophic proportion. It would seem to my seemingly biased eyes that I barely moved during the few minutes the ball appeared in my vicinity. And when the movement did happen, it was ungainly and frankly quite embarrassing. I discovered aspects of my game I never knew existed, and none of them was flattering. For one, I was far too lardy in the middle. The over sized jersey only made things worse. That everything else was thin was of no consolation at all. If I had to be drawn as a stick figure, there would be a circle in the middle. At some level, I knew this, but now I could no longer hide behind the phrase "A photograph puts pounds on you" any more.
There were other curious aspects as well. I discovered that I ran around with a shuffling gait, hands firmlt and at all times aimed at the ground, heels barely leaving the surface. I might have done a better job if I had walked around the pitch, for all the ground I was making. I actually had to run the movie a couple of times to check if the damn thing had been set for slow motion. It wasn't, to my great and absolute horror.
And it is thus with great humility and mortified humility at that, that I now consider removing myself from the roster of the still-playing-football bravehearts. There is at least one doctor I know that will smile knowingly at that announcement, should it ever be made.
And then there are less morbid situations, where you watch yourself on a video recording. This is what I'm going to talk about - less morbid, but amazingly almost as depressing. I'm 36 now, and for some time, not many people have commented on how young I look. They used to, you see, and now that they don't, I have started wondering if that is because I don't anymore. You notice the signs of course - the panting after a couple of fast-er steps, the near collapse after an attempt to jog a 100 mtrs, the funny aches and pains you have absolutely no clue of origin of or reason for, but just complain of in the morning.
But there's nothing that destroys every pretense of fitness and youth than watching yourself performing an activity of the sporting persuasion. Till then, the prevailing thought is that you're not doing bad for someone your age. When you see the video, you realise, you know what you are as bad as your age demands.
Last week I sprained my ankle in one of our weekend football games. Now this is nothing less in importance than a battlefield injury, so I was quite pleased about it. I almost glowed as I showed off the still-swelling foot. Quite a take-home article too, and if the family members needed proof that I actually did more than just drive the car out every Saturday morning in my shorts and other sporty wear, nothing put that doubt to rest than a limp and a bruise or two. The regret at not being able to play for a couple of weeks is relatively less active in my mind as I milk reactions from onlookers about my well-strapped ankle, and the fact that I now wear sandals to work.
To get back to the moot point of this passage, the first sign of trouble in paradise came when my doctor looked at the ankle, then asked 'what the dickens were you doing playing football at your age?'. Not in those exact words, but if tone could be translated into language, that was exactly what he said. I mumbled something to the effect that I was not that old, but in my mind the doubts had found a voice. Was this a call to end all association with the physical side of the game? Did this question from the doc give credibility to what most of my family felt but rarely said? Cos I really loved that hour or two on Saturday when we played our country version of football, revelled in the thought that at least in this restricted group of company colleagues, I could hold up my own. Sure, I could not run for very long, or very far, I had little or no skill in dribbling, and the only way I would head the ball was if the ball hit the head on its way elsewhere. But I had a mean passing sense, and shots off my boots could make the ball travel a fair distance, generally in the direction I and meant it to go. Surely I can continue to do that for a while? The never-say-stop part of the brain told me, as it had on several occasions on this very subject, that I could. Then came the merciless video.
The video was a recording of one of our inter-company matches, one that I took special pride in as the first that we actually took something away from. The match was a draw, 3-3, and I thought our team dominated large portions of the game. If I was disappointed, it was with the feeling that we should have won the game. So when a team mate circulated the video file, I was quite eager to see how it went. A few minutes into the viewing though, the merciless part hit me - pretty hard. The game itself was quite scrappy, as you might expect. School-boyish was how one of my team mates called it, and I might have agreed, had I found the need to defame and belittle school football. But I did not have any delusions about how good or bad we played. Despite this, watching the 22 of us fluttering over the field was a revelation. Most of our endeavours involved flapping every available limb frantically to get to the ball and then hovering over it in a ponderous fashion, trying to foil the interest of the opponent, thinking about the next move, while the said interested opponent calmly footed the ball away.
All this, though an eye-opener, did not nearly have the same effect as watching self in action. Self was, thankfully, worth very little screen time as the I did not have too much of an interaction with the ball that day. But in whatever I saw, I was not pleased. A more lenient critic may in his generosity feel that with very little to observe, not much could be judged about the quality and skill on display. Unfortunately for someone whose self image was a lot different, this was a revelation of catastrophic proportion. It would seem to my seemingly biased eyes that I barely moved during the few minutes the ball appeared in my vicinity. And when the movement did happen, it was ungainly and frankly quite embarrassing. I discovered aspects of my game I never knew existed, and none of them was flattering. For one, I was far too lardy in the middle. The over sized jersey only made things worse. That everything else was thin was of no consolation at all. If I had to be drawn as a stick figure, there would be a circle in the middle. At some level, I knew this, but now I could no longer hide behind the phrase "A photograph puts pounds on you" any more.
There were other curious aspects as well. I discovered that I ran around with a shuffling gait, hands firmlt and at all times aimed at the ground, heels barely leaving the surface. I might have done a better job if I had walked around the pitch, for all the ground I was making. I actually had to run the movie a couple of times to check if the damn thing had been set for slow motion. It wasn't, to my great and absolute horror.
And it is thus with great humility and mortified humility at that, that I now consider removing myself from the roster of the still-playing-football bravehearts. There is at least one doctor I know that will smile knowingly at that announcement, should it ever be made.
Monday, February 1, 2010
it will rattle
Ever laugh at a joke you don't get? Or worse, one that you do get, and don't think is that funny? Well, if your conscience chided you on being such a wuss, don't worry - you are not alone. I somehow think that 80%(just a guesstimate, no statistical data to back this up) of the people rolling down the aisles holding their guts for fear of them spilling out, do so out of some fear perception. The fear of course is that someone would accuse you of being dense. Naturally some of these times, you really haven't got it, and are really dense, and that's OK really. It the other situation that makes me go all pukey inside.
A situation like the one that I'm about to describe is common enough for me to suspect that all of us have gone through it at least once in a lifetime. Our division head was making an appearance in town, one of his regular-checkin-on-ya-know-ya-exist visits. This usually means the sacrifice of a weekend to the altar of strategic kowtow. So, the overwhelming feeling that dominated that morning is one of deep resentment. I've always said its easier to work on a 6-day week if you didn't know its brother - the 5-day week. Once acquainted with the latter, a few changes to the mentalities of the labor force have been noted, even documented. Fridays become a lot more cheerful and bearable, Mondays a lot more harder to accept, and attendance on Mondays takes a dive. And when the odd Saturday puts you to work, most people just curl up and scowl. If you're in a company that offers the mandatory peace offering in the form of compensatory day off, another curious fact...a working Saturday rarely ever amounts to an 8 hour day. You'd be lucky to get 4. The compensation though is of an entire day.
But I digress. So, like the man-eater that has tasted blood, and doesn't like that its not served one day, the group of us trudged in to work that day. After the rudimentary custom of settling down, our man from overseas got cracking...well not immediately, and that is where the nub of the matter lies. Any meeting, like a relationship, needs an ice-breaker. So for a few minutes we heard some really smart comments, funny too, and there was some aisle rolling. Now most of the time, the jokes were good, and you could really have a nice laugh. But nice was not the adjective I could assign to the guffaws that emanated through the conference room. I don't know if it was a sign of nervousness or some one's cruel idea of payback, but the decibel levels were not what one desires on a day when one would normally be curled up under some warm blankets.
But all this is expected. When people from different cultures meet, it is often easy to misunderstand, or not understand, every spoken word. Humor is relative to circumstance, and in this case geographical origin. So if the white man can laugh about the presence of a cow on the same street that his car is ambling along, the brown man will smile knowingly. And if a brown man can still use the word Negro without malice, the white man would go pink at even the mention of the N word. So humour is a sensitive issue, and usually it helps for the joke administerer(if that's a word and I suspect it's not) to laugh when the punch-line is delivered. Dead panning it is definitely not the way to get some laughs. Embarrassment is the prevalent emotion felt by the man with the face that does not betray any other.
Well, our man was no dead-panner, so his little nuggets of wit were accompanied by the sly wink, and the broad smile. It also helped that some of the jokes were actually easy to understand. The trouble was that some elements in the audience didn't know when to let go. When faced with a little side joke, some of us felt the need to add on our own rejoinders. Sometimes they worked, and were received well by the chief narrator, leading to more merriment. But sometimes, they were just received with a brief blank stare, and then the absent nod. All the while, the broad smile stayed in place. Usually, the boss found this as a good time to change topic, gear or position, as the situation would allow. One such interlude though remains etched in my memory...and I laughed heartily...to myself of course, it would never have done to actually do the rolling-aisle-holding-gut thing. That would have had long-term implications to the career, one would think.
So how did this gem come to be? Well it was nearly half-way through the meeting when the esteemed visitor started narrating his experience with a rather noisy co-passenger. After a bit of rolling of the eyes, and the exaggerated arm movements, you kinda got the gist of his discomfort. Up until that point, everyone was enjoying the joke, one which no doubt everyone in the room identified with. There was no punch line, but as part of the enactment of his reaction, our visitor said, "And man, i was like, just about ready to explode. I had half a mind to set one of the dinner trays across his face"...."Ha ha", "Ha ha", "Ha ha", "Ha ha", "Ha ha", "Ha ha", "Ha ha", "It will rattle, ha ha"....
Erm, what was that? My back was turned to the guy who wanted to be an anomaly at this time, so he couldn't really see my face furiously trying to work out what was being said, and how I should react. As for the main speaker, the smile never changed, but the luminosity reduced rapidly to a level that it soon took on grimace-like proportions. It was clear that one part of his face, like all of mine, was trying to really enjoy the rejoinder.
Now if this was followed by an awkward silence, that usually accompanies a badly delivered joke, or in this case, a non-joke, it would have been quickly brushed away. Amazingly though, this was accompanied by a second stream of laughter. my face now betrayed a sense of incredulity - Really??? you found that funny?? Did I not get it?? Apparently not, cos the laughing continued for some time. Till we went on to the next topic on the agenda.
For the next 10 to 15 minutes, I turned those 3 words in my head. It - Will - Rattle...and then I thought about the guffaws...and the mind boggled.
I don't want to rationalise the group's behaviour. Everyone reacts to an event in a way unique to the composition of the person's mind makeup. So everyone else tittered at what seemed like a very poor joke. So what? Hadn't I said something as non-funny as this in the past? And had I not kicked myself the next second fro having said it? Then why was this situation so irksome? No rationale for that either. But yeah it bugged me to no end that someone could first give voice to this rare nugget, then grinned broadly enough to indicate to all that something monumentally clever had been said, and needed recognition. Which promptly came in the form of raucous head-tossing giggling from the audience.
So that must make me a snob, then, eh? Maybe, but I'm not sure I prefer being the one that joined in...laughter is infectious, and inane laughter even more so, but may I please be allowed to draw a line at this level? I promise to give my best guffaw to everything that is marginally above this particular strata of unfunniness.
Thus endeth my rant..
A situation like the one that I'm about to describe is common enough for me to suspect that all of us have gone through it at least once in a lifetime. Our division head was making an appearance in town, one of his regular-checkin-on-ya-know-ya-exist visits. This usually means the sacrifice of a weekend to the altar of strategic kowtow. So, the overwhelming feeling that dominated that morning is one of deep resentment. I've always said its easier to work on a 6-day week if you didn't know its brother - the 5-day week. Once acquainted with the latter, a few changes to the mentalities of the labor force have been noted, even documented. Fridays become a lot more cheerful and bearable, Mondays a lot more harder to accept, and attendance on Mondays takes a dive. And when the odd Saturday puts you to work, most people just curl up and scowl. If you're in a company that offers the mandatory peace offering in the form of compensatory day off, another curious fact...a working Saturday rarely ever amounts to an 8 hour day. You'd be lucky to get 4. The compensation though is of an entire day.
But I digress. So, like the man-eater that has tasted blood, and doesn't like that its not served one day, the group of us trudged in to work that day. After the rudimentary custom of settling down, our man from overseas got cracking...well not immediately, and that is where the nub of the matter lies. Any meeting, like a relationship, needs an ice-breaker. So for a few minutes we heard some really smart comments, funny too, and there was some aisle rolling. Now most of the time, the jokes were good, and you could really have a nice laugh. But nice was not the adjective I could assign to the guffaws that emanated through the conference room. I don't know if it was a sign of nervousness or some one's cruel idea of payback, but the decibel levels were not what one desires on a day when one would normally be curled up under some warm blankets.
But all this is expected. When people from different cultures meet, it is often easy to misunderstand, or not understand, every spoken word. Humor is relative to circumstance, and in this case geographical origin. So if the white man can laugh about the presence of a cow on the same street that his car is ambling along, the brown man will smile knowingly. And if a brown man can still use the word Negro without malice, the white man would go pink at even the mention of the N word. So humour is a sensitive issue, and usually it helps for the joke administerer(if that's a word and I suspect it's not) to laugh when the punch-line is delivered. Dead panning it is definitely not the way to get some laughs. Embarrassment is the prevalent emotion felt by the man with the face that does not betray any other.
Well, our man was no dead-panner, so his little nuggets of wit were accompanied by the sly wink, and the broad smile. It also helped that some of the jokes were actually easy to understand. The trouble was that some elements in the audience didn't know when to let go. When faced with a little side joke, some of us felt the need to add on our own rejoinders. Sometimes they worked, and were received well by the chief narrator, leading to more merriment. But sometimes, they were just received with a brief blank stare, and then the absent nod. All the while, the broad smile stayed in place. Usually, the boss found this as a good time to change topic, gear or position, as the situation would allow. One such interlude though remains etched in my memory...and I laughed heartily...to myself of course, it would never have done to actually do the rolling-aisle-holding-gut thing. That would have had long-term implications to the career, one would think.
So how did this gem come to be? Well it was nearly half-way through the meeting when the esteemed visitor started narrating his experience with a rather noisy co-passenger. After a bit of rolling of the eyes, and the exaggerated arm movements, you kinda got the gist of his discomfort. Up until that point, everyone was enjoying the joke, one which no doubt everyone in the room identified with. There was no punch line, but as part of the enactment of his reaction, our visitor said, "And man, i was like, just about ready to explode. I had half a mind to set one of the dinner trays across his face"...."Ha ha", "Ha ha", "Ha ha", "Ha ha", "Ha ha", "Ha ha", "Ha ha", "It will rattle, ha ha"....
Erm, what was that? My back was turned to the guy who wanted to be an anomaly at this time, so he couldn't really see my face furiously trying to work out what was being said, and how I should react. As for the main speaker, the smile never changed, but the luminosity reduced rapidly to a level that it soon took on grimace-like proportions. It was clear that one part of his face, like all of mine, was trying to really enjoy the rejoinder.
Now if this was followed by an awkward silence, that usually accompanies a badly delivered joke, or in this case, a non-joke, it would have been quickly brushed away. Amazingly though, this was accompanied by a second stream of laughter. my face now betrayed a sense of incredulity - Really??? you found that funny?? Did I not get it?? Apparently not, cos the laughing continued for some time. Till we went on to the next topic on the agenda.
For the next 10 to 15 minutes, I turned those 3 words in my head. It - Will - Rattle...and then I thought about the guffaws...and the mind boggled.
I don't want to rationalise the group's behaviour. Everyone reacts to an event in a way unique to the composition of the person's mind makeup. So everyone else tittered at what seemed like a very poor joke. So what? Hadn't I said something as non-funny as this in the past? And had I not kicked myself the next second fro having said it? Then why was this situation so irksome? No rationale for that either. But yeah it bugged me to no end that someone could first give voice to this rare nugget, then grinned broadly enough to indicate to all that something monumentally clever had been said, and needed recognition. Which promptly came in the form of raucous head-tossing giggling from the audience.
So that must make me a snob, then, eh? Maybe, but I'm not sure I prefer being the one that joined in...laughter is infectious, and inane laughter even more so, but may I please be allowed to draw a line at this level? I promise to give my best guffaw to everything that is marginally above this particular strata of unfunniness.
Thus endeth my rant..
Sunday, January 31, 2010
tabula rasa
New beginnings have a way of reminding you of the previous several attempts to make one. Hopefully this will not end up as just another beginning. I can't say I know for certain how I'm going to do this, but this time the need for fruition will hopefully drive this effort to write...or post as the case may be.
The intent for now is to post whenever something strikes the mind. Random thoughts can appear to be brilliant when you have then, but if un-recorded tend to fade away like the dreams we all have had, dreams that linger on for the first few minutes of your morning, then just vanish as if never there. So, the next time I have a thought interesting enough to make me think, I hope to jot it down here. The thought will not be governed by its uniqueness, in fact it will probably reflect something seen or heard in a normal mundane day. The difference - I hope - will be in the expression of the perceived event or occurrence. Like every film director worth his salt, the 'treatment' will be different.
I'm tempted to say that this blog is about nothing, but I'm no Seinfeld. So I'll just say that this is my humble attempt to capture the thoughts of an average, ordinary person, in a way that I hope will make them readable.
wish me luck..
The intent for now is to post whenever something strikes the mind. Random thoughts can appear to be brilliant when you have then, but if un-recorded tend to fade away like the dreams we all have had, dreams that linger on for the first few minutes of your morning, then just vanish as if never there. So, the next time I have a thought interesting enough to make me think, I hope to jot it down here. The thought will not be governed by its uniqueness, in fact it will probably reflect something seen or heard in a normal mundane day. The difference - I hope - will be in the expression of the perceived event or occurrence. Like every film director worth his salt, the 'treatment' will be different.
I'm tempted to say that this blog is about nothing, but I'm no Seinfeld. So I'll just say that this is my humble attempt to capture the thoughts of an average, ordinary person, in a way that I hope will make them readable.
wish me luck..
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