Off the Beighton track

When my friend George Themplangad showed me that printed articles could be converted into computer text on Chat GPT, the idea arose of putting up my older pieces.

I selected this article, primarily for the brilliant headline given by Sportsworld's Associate Editor David McMahon.

And secondly, it might have withstood the passage of time.

These type of moments can happen at a match even today.

Asked to cover the Beighton Cup hockey final, I also focused on what was happening outside the field.

The article was published in the Sportsworld Magazine of May 15-21, 1985.

I am hoping to upload once a week.

COLUMN: The Tunnel Of Time

Shevlin Sebastian watched the final and monitored the crowd reaction to the match

Occasional clouds scudded across the Calcutta sky but there was no hint of rain. Standing outside the Mohun Bagan ground on the Saturday of the Beighton Cup final between Indian Airlines and EME, Jalandhar, one saw people in ones and twos, in small groups, walking purposefully across the Maidan towards the gates of the club.

Paaban Bhumia is a teacher in a primary school. A stockily built 27-year-old, he had come all the way from Burdwan to watch the Beighton Cup final.

‘Well,’ he replied, on being asked the reason for coming from so far away, to witness this hockey match. ‘At least, I can see some top players.’

Sailen Majumdar, 50, is a government employee who worked in Writers’ Buildings. A short man, he wore thick spectacles perched on his nose and was dressed in a white shirt and faded black pants.

Why had he come to watch the game? He paused thoughtfully and replied: ‘This final features two important national teams and I want to watch them play’.

Did he, by any chance, watch the matches of the Calcutta Hockey League?

Sailen smiled and said, ‘The standard is so poor, that there is no use in watching.’

However, unlike the hockey league, Calcuttans did not exactly ignore the Beighton Cup and the presence of star-studded teams.

People began to drift in and at whistle time, there was a fairly decent crowd. The crowd was cosmopolitan, showing so effectively the diversity of the city.

So, you saw the sight of a sophisticated man in a safari suit, with a helmet in his hand. Then there was the less affluent youth, wearing a cotton shirt and trousers, with mud-crusted chappals on his feet. You had the sight of a paan-chewer in a white kurta-dhoti, sitting with his palms on his thighs. Then there was the ubiquitous know-all supporter, slim and thin, who passed expert comments for the benefit of the people around him.

The teams ran on to the playing field which was lustrous and green although there were a few bald patches here and there. The players began to flex their muscles and some of them took a few shots.

‘Who is Number 14?’ asked a middle aged Sardarji.

‘Zafar Iqbal!’ was the slightly sardonic reply.

A fat man with an enormous paunch and an unkempt beard, said very loudly: ‘Ashok Kumar is in great form. Once, in Calcutta, we had good players like Inam-ur-Rahman, Joginder Singh, and even Ashok Kumar played here once.’

The bully-off took place and the game started.

The pace was fast and quick.

Both teams mounted a series of attacks.

Merwyn Fernandes of Indian Airlines received a pass in front of the goal and, with only the goalkeeper to beat, shot wide.

A spectator commented, with a trace of bitterness, ‘There is no finish’.

As the game continued, a different form of activity was noticed in the stands.

A man who was selling groundnuts was roundly criticised for blocking the view.

‘Why can’t you sell your stuff during the interval?’ asked a spectator who looked fierce and angry.

‘Sorry Sahib!’ said the groundnut seller, his face showing a lifetime of compromise and endless exploitation.

In a middle tier, separate and distinct, sat a young, broad-shouldered Punjabi with his new wife. She wore a purple salwar-kameez and her face looked radiant and healthy in the afternoon sun. But it was obvious that she had come to the ground for the sake of her husband because, soon after the match started, she was avidly reading a Hindi film magazine.

As the match progressed, there was the occasional cheer for the good move, and heartfelt applause for a superb show of dribbling by a particular player. Sometimes, in the silence, a plaintive ‘Oh Zafar Bhai’ would be heard.

Zafar Iqbal, on the left flank, roamed the area like a hungry panther. Slim and lithe, holding the stick tightly in his hands, in front of his body, he would break into a swift, furious run, the ball perfectly under his control as he flicked the ball towards the centre of the ‘D’. Sometimes, it was collected but nothing was ever converted into a goal. Sometimes, the ball went abegging.

At 4 p.m, the whistle blew and it was half time, the teams still locked in a goalless draw.

Spectators got up and went down the steps to the latrines.

‘Not a bad match,’ a man said, ‘at least, so far.’

Suddenly, as if seeing the crowd in perspective for the first time, a bald man in a T-shirt said, ‘What do you say? This is the best crowd of the season?’

On the ground, drinks were offered to the players who slaked their thirst in obvious satisfaction. Free drinks were offered to journalists, officials and important guests. Seeing this, a spectator who sat on a bench with his friends near the corner flag decided to try his luck, but had to return, disappointed.

Meanwhile, the second half started on a brisk note. Up in the sky, grey clouds ran riot completely obscuring the sun and now, the breeze that was blowing in from the Hooghly river, was cool and soothing.

Indian Airline’s full-back, Veerendra Bahadur Singh, took a stinging 16-yard shot and it was collected by Merwyn Fernandes and he began a solo effort. His back was bent, his eyes on the white ball, his wrists flicking the stick this way and that, he moved down, going past one opponent and then the other. But just when it seemed that he was getting dangerous, Merwyn was suddenly

dispossessed.

The crowd groaned in frustration, as another attack was blunted at the right time. But, in the seventh minute, the Airlines outfit struck home. A penalty corner was collected by Vineet Kumar, who passed it on to Zafar Iqbal, and he took a shot which was deflected into the EME net through Merwyn’s stick. Airlines 1, EME 0.

The latter, stung to the quick by the reverse, went furiously on the attack and they managed a penalty corner.

‘Jai Bajrang Bali’ a spectator shouted from the sidelines, ‘let there be a goal’.

But the call proved abortive and as the minutes ticked away, the game began to slow down and lose direction.

Very near the sidelines, a young child in a pink skirt and ponytails, barely three feet in height, ran to and fro, enjoying herself. Sometimes, when the crowd cheered or clapped loudly, she would stop, stare at the crowd with wide, curious eyes, and clap in imitation. Her father, clad in khaki, who stood a few feet away from her, smiled occasionally at her.

The match drifted on and on.

At 5 p.m., the whistle was blown. The players came off with tired faces. Meanwhile a few spectators swarmed on to the ground and encircled the wooden table which contained the glittering trophies and the individual awards.

The announcers implored the other spectators to stay and witness the prize-giving ceremony. There was a crush of people and young players formed a barricade with their sticks.

A police sergeant, with wide, bulging eyes, shouted at a constable to ‘maintain discipline’. The photographers crowded around, trying to get a vantage point.

Meanwhile, the Minister for Sports, Subhas Chakravarty, was invited to speak and he said the usual stuff about the state government’s willingness to offer full support, to bring the Beighton Cup back to its former glory... etc...etc...

The trophy was presented to the Airlines captain and the crowd strained to push and see.

‘Those photographers!’ a spectator said in disgust. ‘Can’t see a thing.’

The sergeant, sensing the crowd pushing forward, turned around and shouted, ‘Why can’t you all stop pushing?’

The crowd fell back for a moment and as soon as he looked away, there was again a forward thrust. And, at last, all the prizes were presented and thus, the 1985 Beighton Cup came to an end.

The Beighton Cup is a tournament that is still twitching, still struggling to live on, and perhaps the coverage by the radio, press and television might just about give it a new lease of life.

(Published in Sportsworld, May 1985)