"Doctor says it's SWS... Thank God they found a cure!"

 

Surviving Soccer Withdrawal—A Serious Medical Condition, According to Me!

The FIFA World Cup is over.

The stadiums are empty. The flags have been folded. VAR has finally stopped disturbing my blood pressure. My alarm no longer rings at strange hours, and I no longer need to pretend that watching two matches during office hours is “international market research.”

Ladies and gentlemen, I am officially suffering from Soccer Withdrawal Syndrome—SWS.

There is no known medicine.

There is no vaccine.

The only proven cure is another major tournament.

Unfortunately, FIFA has not agreed to conduct a World Cup every six months just for my emotional well-being.

I have followed football since the 1982 World Cup.

I was born in India and now live in the United States, but football has followed me everywhere. Some people remember their lives through birthdays, graduations and anniversaries.

I remember mine through World Cups.

“That happened after Mexico 1986 but before Italia 1990.”

“We bought that house sometime between France 1998 and South Korea–Japan 2002.”

“Was that before or after Zidane headbutted Materazzi?”

This is how a proper football historian maintains his records.

In fact, Germany played Mexico on my wedding night.

Most newly married men spend their wedding night looking lovingly into their bride’s eyes.

I was probably wondering whether Germany should press higher or whether Mexico could score on the counterattack.

Fortunately, my marriage survived.

My wife learned very early that she had not married just one man. She had married a man, eleven football players, several substitutes, one nervous coach and a referee whom I would occasionally accuse of ruining our evening.

Some people remember their wedding through flowers, music and photographs.

I remember mine through Germany versus Mexico.

That is when you know football is not merely an interest.

It is a family member—an uninvited one that arrives every four years, takes control of the television and refuses to leave until the final whistle.

The 1982 World Cup introduced me to Paolo Rossi, Brazil’s magical football and the painful truth that the best-looking team does not always win.

Since then, every four years, I have reorganized my sleeping schedule, work calendar, family responsibilities—and apparently even my wedding night—around football.

The Symptoms Have Already Started

My family has begun noticing the warning signs.

“Why are you watching highlights from the 1986 World Cup?”

“Research.”

“Why are you watching Ecuador against Tunisia from twenty years ago?”

“Tactical research.”

“Why are you checking your passport?”

“Routine inspection.”

“Why is Google Maps showing train routes between Madrid, Lisbon and Casablanca?”

At that point, I quietly close the laptop.

Soccer withdrawal makes a man do strange things.

Yesterday, I opened the FIFA website hoping there might be another knockout round hidden somewhere.

Perhaps a secret quarterfinal.

Maybe a replay.

At least one controversial VAR hearing.

Nothing.

I even began rewatching old matches while pretending I did not know the result.

“Maybe England will defend properly this time.”

They did not.

“Maybe Brazil will not concede that goal.”

They did.

“Maybe Roberto Baggio will score the penalty.”

I had to turn the television off. Some wounds should not be reopened without adult supervision.

From Match Predictions to Household Confusion

During the World Cup, every day had a purpose.

Wake up.

Check the schedule.

Make predictions.

Annoy friends.

Watch the match.

Criticize the coach.

Praise the same coach twenty minutes later.

Blame VAR.

Post on Facebook.

Repeat.

Now I wake up and stare at the television like a striker waiting for a through ball that never arrives.

I tried watching regular television, but nobody was pressing high, tracking back or making an overlapping run.

I watched a cooking program and started analyzing the chef’s formation.

“Too many people in midfield. The onions need more width.”

During a family discussion, someone said, “Let us not make this an argument.”

I immediately replied, “Let VAR decide.”

This condition is getting serious.

Waiting for the Sons of Legends

Soccer withdrawal also forces us to think far into the future.

I am already wondering which country Cristiano Ronaldo Jr. will eventually represent at the senior level. He has several international connections, has represented Portugal at youth level and was born in California.

Naturally, I am hoping he chooses the United States.

Come on, young man! You were born here. We have a jersey ready for you. We will even allow you to shout “Siuuuuu!” after every goal.

Imagine Ronaldo Jr. leading the USMNT at a future World Cup.

The American commentators would spend ninety minutes explaining that his father was also “a pretty good player.”

Portugal would not be amused, but America would suddenly discover another historical reason why soccer was always destined to become our national sport.

Then we have Luca Zidane, son of the great Zinedine Zidane. He represented France at youth level before choosing Algeria for senior international football.

In my imaginary football transfer window, I would like him to move from Algeria back to France—not because it is realistically possible, but because football needs a little more drama.

Imagine the headlines:

ZIDANE RETURNS TO FRANCE!

French fans celebrating.

Algerian fans protesting.

Television experts shouting.

FIFA lawyers reading rule books.

And an Indian-born American sitting in California adding spicy masala to the entire controversy.

It would be France versus Algeria with Zidane’s name in the middle.

That is not merely football.

That is a full Bollywood production—with extra time, penalties and an interval.

Unfortunately, international football does not operate like club football. You cannot simply wake up on Monday, call your agent and say:

“I am tired of Algeria. Please find me a loan move to France.”

But during soccer withdrawal, facts should not be allowed to interfere too much with imagination.

Euro 2028: The Next Treatment Appointment

The next major appointment on my football medical calendar is Euro 2028.

Normal people may think it is too early to plan.

Football supporters understand that it is already dangerously late.

I have not purchased tickets.

I have not booked flights.

I have not reserved hotels.

But mentally, I have already attended several matches.

People ask:

“Why are you planning so early?”

Because football tickets disappear faster than defenders trying to catch Kylian Mbappé.

By the time everyone else starts planning, I intend to know the stadiums, train stations, hotel zones and nearby Indian restaurants.

A football trip without proper food planning is simply bad management.

Pep Guardiola would never enter a tournament without controlling the midfield.

I will not enter Europe without locating the nearest biryani.

World Cup 2030: My Itinerary Has Already Begun

After Euro 2028 comes the 2030 World Cup in Spain, Portugal and Morocco.

Four years may sound like a long time.

It is not.

I have already started mentally planning the itinerary.

Madrid.

Barcelona.

Lisbon.

Porto.

Casablanca.

Perhaps one match here, another match there and a third match somewhere that requires two trains, one flight and an argument with my luggage.

My wife may think I am casually browsing Google Maps.

I am actually conducting high-level logistical planning.

Some men plan for retirement.

I plan knockout-stage transportation.

The biggest challenge will not be getting tickets.

It will be explaining why traveling through three countries to watch eleven men chase a ball is a necessary spiritual and cultural experience.

Saudi Arabia 2034—Lord Willing!

Then comes Saudi Arabia 2034.

If the Good Lord grants me health, wisdom, strength and enough common sense to save the necessary money, I would love to spend the entire month there watching as many matches as possible.

Of course, wisdom may tell me to stay home.

That is why I am specifically praying for the correct kind of wisdom.

I want the wisdom that says:

“Book the flight.”

“Buy the ticket.”

“Attend the 3:00 p.m. match.”

“Take a short break.”

“Then attend the 9:00 p.m. match.”

I want to wake up every morning, check the schedule and ask only one important question:

“How many matches can I attend today without requiring hospitalization?”

By 2034, I may not be able to run toward the stadium.

But I can still walk purposefully.

And when necessary, there will hopefully be golf carts.

Football Taught Me Geography

Football has taught me geography better than school ever did.

I can locate Montevideo faster than Montana.

I know where Tbilisi is.

I know that Cape Verde is not merely the name of a luxury resort.

I know the flags of countries whose capitals I cannot pronounce.

Football has introduced me to cultures, songs, foods and people I might otherwise never have encountered.

For ninety minutes, strangers become family.

We sing together.

We celebrate together.

We complain about the referee together.

Then one team scores, and half the family stops speaking to the other half.

That is football unity.

My Temporary Survival Plan

Until Euro 2028 arrives, I will survive on club football, Champions League nights, Premier League weekends, La Liga drama, MLS surprises and transfer rumors created by people sitting in their bedrooms.

I will watch old highlights.

I will argue about Messi and Ronaldo.

I will continue examining Ronaldo Jr.’s international future as though the family is waiting for my recommendation.

I will dream of Zidane family drama involving France and Algeria.

I will prepare imaginary World Cup itineraries.

And occasionally, I will pretend to focus on work.

Soccer withdrawal is painful, but it is also proof that the tournament gave us something special.

The goals fade.

The results become statistics.

But the memories remain.

The stadium noise.

The national anthems.

The strangers hugging after a goal.

The underdog refusing to surrender.

The giant collapsing.

The goalkeeper becoming a hero.

The striker becoming a national villain because he missed a penalty by two inches.

And all of us promising never to watch football again—before returning for the very next match.

So yes, I am suffering from Soccer Withdrawal Syndrome.

But I will survive.

See you at Euro 2028.

See you in Spain, Portugal and Morocco in 2030.

And, Lord willing, save me a seat in Saudi Arabia in 2034.

Until then, I will be watching highlights, studying train routes and waiting to see which country gets the next Ronaldo.

Because football is not merely a sport.

For some of us, it is the calendar by which we live.

P.S. My doctors assure me that Euro 2028, the 2030 World Cup in Spain, Portugal and Morocco, and the 2034 World Cup in Saudi Arabia are all excellent long-term medications for Soccer Withdrawal Syndrome.

However, I sought a second opinion from my family practitioner.

After a thorough examination, he smiled and said,

"In the meantime, a successful LA Rams season should significantly reduce your symptoms."

I asked if there were any side effects.

He replied,

"Only excessive shouting at the television, spontaneous high-fives with strangers, and an uncontrollable urge to say, 'This is our year!' every Sunday."

I'll take the prescription.

Go Rams! 🐏

Esther – Born a Queen, Lived a Servant, Crowned in Glory

This week should have been a week of grand celebration.

For my beloved mother would have turned 100 years old. As a family, we had dreamed of celebrating this remarkable milestone together. God, however, had different plans. He called her home just a few months before her centenary. While our hearts miss her deeply, we take comfort in knowing that she is celebrating in a far greater place—among the saints and angels, in the presence of the Savior whom she loved and served faithfully for nearly a century.

My mother, Esther, was born as the eldest child to a minister. From the very beginning, she was treated like a queen by her father, but more importantly, she was raised to know the King of Kings. Her parents planted in her heart the love of Jesus Christ, and that love never faded—not through joy, hardship, loss, or old age. It remained the defining force of her life until her very last breath at the age of 99.

If there was one thing that characterized my mother, it was her unwavering compassion for the forgotten.

Her heart belonged to the blind, the deaf, and the mute. She loved and cared for children with disabilities with a passion that sometimes seemed greater than the love she showed her own biological children—including yours faithfully.

As a young boy, I struggled with that. I often wondered why she spent so much time serving others instead of spending it with us. I was hurt. I was even angry.

Years later, I finally asked her.

Her answer changed my life forever.

She explained that God had entrusted those children to her because so few others would love them the way they deserved to be loved. She wasn't neglecting her children; she was extending God's love to those who had almost no one else.

Suddenly, everything made sense.

Not only did I understand her heart, but I also found myself joining her in that ministry. The disappointment of my childhood became one of the greatest lessons of my adulthood.

For a woman of her generation, she was remarkably educated and held an excellent job. Yet she believed that her career had become a stumbling block to the ministry God had called her to. Without hesitation, she walked away from professional success to devote herself fully to serving Christ.

That decision defined her life.

Then came another devastating chapter.

She lost my father while she was still in her early forties.

Many would have surrendered to grief.

Many would have chosen an easier road.

Not my mother.

She carried on with extraordinary courage, raising her family while continuing to serve others with unwavering faith. Her circumstances never dictated her commitment to God.

Looking back today, she could have left us enormous wealth. She could have accumulated bungalows, gold, silver, land, and possessions.

Instead, she left something infinitely greater.

She left a legacy.

Her final gift to me was not jewelry.

It was not money.

It was not property.

It was her Bible.

A well-worn Bible filled with highlighted verses, handwritten notes, prayers, and reflections gathered over a lifetime of walking with God.

When I received that Bible, my mind immediately went to Acts 3:6, where Peter tells the lame man:

"Silver and gold I do not have, but what I do have I give you."

As I held my mother's Bible in my hands, I felt like that lame man.

Not because I received material wealth.

But because I received something far more valuable.

I received the faith that shaped her life.

I received her spiritual inheritance.

I received the testimony of a woman who had spent nearly one hundred years walking faithfully with Jesus Christ.

I can say with complete honesty that I would not trade that old Bible for any inheritance this world could ever offer.

It is, without question, the greatest gift my mother ever gave me.

Today, I miss her more than words can express.

How I wish she were still here.

How I wish I could hug her one more time, hear her prayers one more time, and thank her once again for the life she lived before us.

But grief does not have the final word.

Hope does.

Because of Jesus Christ, I know this is not goodbye.

It is simply, "See you later."

Happy 100th Birthday, Ma.

Heaven is blessed to celebrate your centenary.

Here on earth, we celebrate your life, your faith, your sacrifice, and your legacy.

May we, your children and grandchildren, continue to carry the torch you handed to us.

The greatest monument you left behind is not a building.

It is not a bank account.

It is not even the ministries you built.

It is the countless lives you pointed toward Jesus Christ.

I love you, Ma.

I miss you every single day.

And until we meet again, I will treasure your Bible, continue your legacy, and thank God that He chose you to be my mother.

 

Dear Brazil: Don't Copy Argentina. Learn From Them.

Brazil is still the greatest football nation in history.

Five World Cups. Pelé. Garrincha. Zico. Romário. Ronaldo. Rivaldo. Ronaldinho. Kaká. Cafu. Roberto Carlos. Neymar. No country has produced more footballing magic.

Yet the uncomfortable truth is this:

Since winning the 2002 World Cup, Brazil has not reached another World Cup final. Argentina, meanwhile, ended its long drought by winning the 2021 Copa América, followed it with the 2022 World Cup, the 2024 Copa América, and has once again reached the 2026 World Cup final under Lionel Scaloni.

This isn't because Argentina suddenly produces better footballers than Brazil.

It is because they built a better football project.

1. The Team Comes Before the Superstar

For nearly two decades, Argentina was criticized for relying too much on Lionel Messi.

Then Lionel Scaloni arrived.

Instead of building ten players around Messi, he built a team around principles.

Rodrigo De Paul became Messi's bodyguard in midfield.
Alexis Mac Allister became the connector.
Enzo Fernández brought energy.
Cristian Romero organized the defense.
Julián Álvarez pressed like his life depended on it.
Lautaro Martínez accepted rotation when required.

Every player knew his job.

Messi remained the genius—but he was no longer expected to solve every problem.

Brazil, on the other hand, often looks like it is waiting for Neymar, Vinícius Jr., Rodrygo or another superstar to rescue the team.

Football in 2026 doesn't work that way.

2. A Coach With a Long-Term Vision

Lionel Scaloni took over Argentina after the disastrous 2018 World Cup.

Many questioned his appointment.

The Argentine Football Association stayed patient.

That patience has produced one of the greatest national team eras ever:

• Copa América 2021
• Finalissima 2022
• FIFA World Cup 2022
• Copa América 2024
• Back-to-back World Cup finals in 2022 and 2026

Brazil has gone through a carousel of coaches.

Every failure starts another rebuild.

Every rebuild changes the playing style.

Winning nations don't constantly restart.

3. Passion Is Organized, Not Emotional

People think Argentina plays only with passion.

Wrong.

They play with structure first.

Their pressing is coordinated.

Their midfield stays compact.

Full-backs know exactly when to overlap.

Every substitution changes the game instead of merely replacing tired legs.

Their passion comes after the tactical discipline.

Brazil still has passion.

What it lacks is consistent structure.

4. The Domestic League Still Matters

Argentina's clubs continue to produce footballers who understand winning under pressure.

River Plate.
Boca Juniors.
Racing Club.
Independiente.
San Lorenzo.

Young players learn what wearing the shirt means before they ever reach Europe.

Brazil's clubs remain among South America's strongest, but many of the country's brightest talents now leave for Europe at increasingly younger ages.

The technical quality remains.

The football education is often completed elsewhere.

Brazil should strengthen coaching, tactical education, and player development across all levels so young stars mature before they leave home.

5. Fans Demand More Than Skills

Argentine supporters forgive mistakes.

They never forgive a lack of effort.

Whether it is Messi tracking back at 38 or Julián Álvarez chasing defenders for 90 minutes, the fans want commitment.

Brazilian fans grew up watching joga bonito.

Today's supporters would happily accept fewer tricks if it meant lifting another World Cup.

Winning has always been the most beautiful football.

6. Superstars Must Become Leaders

Brazil has incredible talent.

Vinícius Jr.
Rodrygo.
Endrick.
Estevão.
João Gomes.

The next step isn't becoming better dribblers.

It is becoming leaders.

Argentina's dressing room has leaders in every department.

Messi leads quietly.

Otamendi leads vocally.

De Paul leads emotionally.

Emiliano Martínez leads with confidence.

Leadership wins knockout football.

7. Build an Identity

Ask anyone today:

"What does Argentina play like?"

Almost everyone can answer.

Compact.
Aggressive.
Flexible.
Mentally strong.
Never gives up.

Now ask:

"What does Brazil play like?"

The answers vary.

Some say possession.

Others say counterattack.

Others say individual brilliance.

The greatest football nation should never have an identity crisis.

My Message to the Brazilian Football Federation

Don't chase the next Neymar.

Build the next generation.

Don't fire coaches every year.

Build a project.

Don't expect talent to beat organization.

Teach organization to talented players.

Don't dream about 1970.

Build 2030.

Final Whistle

Brazil doesn't need another Pelé.

It doesn't need another Ronaldo.

It doesn't even need another Neymar.

It needs another football project.

Argentina proved that trophies are won by cultures, not just by stars.

Brazil already has the talent.

Now it needs the patience, the structure, the leadership, and the unity.

When those pieces come together again, the football world will once more fear the yellow jersey—not because of its history, but because of its future.

I think this would pair really

The Magic of the Underdogs – World Cup Cinderella Stories Since 1986

The Magic of the Underdogs – World Cup Cinderella Stories Since 1986

Every World Cup gives us giants. Brazil, Germany, Argentina, Italy and France arrive carrying history, expectations and a cabinet full of trophies.

But every four years, another story quietly unfolds.

A team nobody expected.
A nation with a fraction of the population.
A squad with little history but enormous belief.

Those are the teams I remember the most.

1986 – Belgium surprises the world

Belgium squeezed into the knockout stage and stunned the mighty Soviet Union in a classic before eventually finishing fourth. It was the first reminder that belief can outrun reputation.

1990 – Cameroon changes African football forever

Roger Milla, at 38 years old, danced at corner flags and carried Cameroon to the quarterfinals after defeating defending champions Argentina. Africa was no longer just participating—it was competing.

1994 – Bulgaria's unbelievable summer

Led by Hristo Stoichkov, Bulgaria defeated Germany and reached the semifinals. For a nation of barely eight million, it remains one of football's greatest fairy tales.

1998 – Croatia's unforgettable debut

Playing in their first World Cup as an independent nation, Croatia demolished Germany 3-0 and finished third. Quite an introduction to the football world.

2002 – South Korea and Turkey rewrite history

South Korea rode the energy of an entire nation into the semifinals, while Turkey quietly claimed third place. Meanwhile, defending champions France went home without scoring a goal. Football has a wicked sense of humor.

2006 – Ukraine announces itself

In their very first World Cup appearance, Ukraine reached the quarterfinals behind the brilliance of Andriy Shevchenko.

2010 – Ghana comes within inches

Africa stood one penalty kick away from its first semifinalist before Luis Suárez's infamous handball, a missed penalty and heartbreak denied Ghana a place in history.

2014 – Costa Rica conquers the Group of Death

Drawn alongside England, Italy and Uruguay, Costa Rica not only survived—they topped the group and reached the quarterfinals, proving that football doesn't always read the script.

2018 – Croatia's dream run

Croatia defeated Denmark, Russia and England to reach the World Cup Final. They fell to France, but earned the admiration of the football world.

2022 – Morocco makes history

Morocco defeated Belgium, Spain and Portugal to become the first African nation ever to reach a World Cup semifinal. They united an entire continent and inspired millions across the globe.

2026 – Cape Verde captures the world's imagination

Every World Cup needs a team that reminds us why we fell in love with football. This year, that team is Cape Verde.

A tiny island nation of barely 600,000 people arrived with little expectation. Most assumed they would enjoy the occasion, exchange jerseys with the stars and quietly head home.

Instead, they became everyone's second favorite team.

They played fearless football, attacked without fear, defended with heart and refused to believe that history alone decides football matches.

Their journey ended in a thrilling 3-2 defeat to defending champions Argentina, but the scoreline tells only half the story. For long stretches, Cape Verde looked every bit the equal of one of the greatest football nations on earth.

They didn't leave with the trophy.

They left with something equally precious—the respect of the football world.

For me, Cape Verde are the Cinderella story of the 2026 World Cup. Not because they lifted the trophy, but because they reminded us that football isn't reserved for the richest leagues or the biggest countries.

Sometimes it's about a tiny nation daring to dream... and making millions of us dream along with them.

That's why I love the World Cup.

Every four years, another Cinderella puts on her boots, walks onto the biggest stage in football, and reminds the giants that this beautiful game belongs to everyone. 

In Search of Cricket's Lost Voice

 There was a time when Cricket commentary was an art.

It wasn't about who could shout the loudest, crack the most jokes, remind us every thirty seconds that they knew someone in the dressing room, or make themselves the stars of the show. It was about helping us appreciate greatness.

I grew up listening to Australia's legendary Channel 9 commentary team. Richie Benaud, Tony Greig, Ian Chappell, Bill Lawry, and later Geoffrey Boycott, David Gower and others didn't simply describe cricket—they elevated it. They respected the game, respected the audience, and most importantly, knew when to speak and when to remain silent.

The finest example for me will always be Kapil Dev's famous assault against Eddie Hemmings at Lord's in 1990, when India needed 24 runs to avoid the follow-on. Kapil simply decided to get them all in four balls.

Richie Benaud's commentary that afternoon was poetry in motion. He didn't compete with Kapil for attention. He didn't scream into the microphone. He didn't manufacture excitement. He let the bat do the talking and simply complemented the moment with a handful of perfectly chosen words. The commentator became part of history without trying to become the story.

If you've never watched it—or if it's been a while—do yourself a favor. Spend five minutes watching it and, more importantly, listening to Richie Benaud. It remains a masterclass in sports commentary. Gavaskar was with Richie when this happened and one would have thought Sunny could have picked a hint or two from Richie.

🎥 Kapil Dev's Four Consecutive Sixes at Lord's (1990)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gfbm3NIX1-Y

After Kapil deposited the fourth ball into the crowd, Benaud calmly remarked:

"I suppose it's only logical. If you need 24 to save the follow-on, why wouldn't you get it in four hits?"

One sentence.

No shouting.

No screaming.

No "Look at me!"

Just pure class.

Gavaskar was with Richie at the commentary box and one would have thought Sunny could have picked a hint or two from Richie from when to be silent and let the moment shine.

Sadly, somewhere along the way, the commentary box forgot its purpose.

As India's commercial influence over cricket grew, it also took control of the commentary room. Somewhere during that journey, the focus shifted from explaining cricket to promoting personalities. Every match slowly became "us versus them." Objectivity quietly packed its bags and left the stadium. Commentators gotta play neutral. Period!

The game deserved analysts.

Instead, we got cheerleaders.

The lowest point for me came when Sunil Gavaskar repeatedly called Rishabh Pant "stupid, stupid and stupid" on live television.

Criticism is part of sport. Every player deserves to be questioned. But there is a world of difference between analysis and humiliation. Great commentators explain why a decision was wrong. They don't reduce a player to a schoolboy insult.

Ravis Shastry did start well, but somewhere along the way some one told him to be scream like a cat that was stamped and use works like, " Timber" for clean bowled and "thats half a dozen for a six hit". It  sounds real childish.

Harsha Bogle, i will let you all decide! He is all about himself and his appeareance he has started waering a pathetic wig to look better on TV!

Then came regional commentary.

Tamil commentary somehow discovered that discussing cricket was optional.

Between endless movie references, comedy routines, celebrity gossip, mimicry, political jokes and shouting contests, the actual cricket often became background noise. Every over started sounding less like a sporting event and more like a morning FM radio show that accidentally wandered into a cricket stadium.

Nothing captured this decline better than watching RJ Balaji sitting alongside Kapil Dev.

At one point, Kapil himself appeared to plead with the panel:

"Can we focus on cricket?"

Imagine that.

One of the greatest all-rounders the game has ever produced had to remind a commentary panel that their job was... to talk about cricket.

If Kapil Dev has to ask for cricket to be discussed during a cricket match, we've officially lost the plot.

My own relationship with cricket had already suffered years earlier during the match-fixing scandal.

That episode broke something in me.

Cricket had been my first sporting love. I trusted it. When that trust disappeared, so did a part of my passion.

Friends often encouraged me to give cricket another chance. They reminded me how often I used to call it:

"Cricket... lovely cricket."

So I tried.

I switched on a few matches.

Within minutes, the commentators themselves convinced me that this game was no longer meant for me.

I then thought, "Fine. I'll simply mute the television."

That worked...

...until the cameras kept cutting away to the now-familiar collection of ICC officials sitting in expensive suits in the VIP box.

Even on mute, they somehow managed to remind me why I had walked away.

That was the moment I said,

"Enough is enough. I'm done."

Don't get me wrong.

I still love sports.

Today my weekends belong to the NFL, and right now I am thoroughly enjoying the FIFA World Cup. Football commentators, for the most part, still understand something cricket seems to have forgotten—they are there to serve the game, not themselves.

The players remain the stars.

The match remains the story.

The microphone is simply a guide.

My only hope is that I never have to watch these cricket-style commentary panels—or the parade of self-important administrators—finding their way into a FIFA World Cup final.

If that day ever comes, I may lose another sport I love.

Cricket gave me some of the happiest memories of my childhood. It introduced me to heroes, unforgettable summers, friendships, transistor radios, black-and-white televisions, and voices that became family members every winter.

Every now and then, I go back and listen to Richie Benaud.

Within a few minutes, I'm reminded of what sports commentary once was.

Elegant.

Intelligent.

Humble.

Timeless.

And then I realize...

I don't miss cricket as much as I miss the way cricket used to be.

Oh, Cricket... Lovely Cricket.

How I miss you.

 

FIFA, Please Hire the NFL Celebration Dept!

One thing has become painfully obvious while watching this World Cup.

Soccer players are phenomenal athletes. They can dribble through five defenders, curl a ball into the top corner from 25 yards, and sprint for 90 minutes without looking like they need oxygen.

Then they score...

...and they all seem to have attended the same celebration school.

Run to the corner flag.
Knee slide.
Group hug.
Point at the sky.
Repeat.

Ladies and gentlemen, can someone please invite the NFL's Celebration Committee to the next FIFA Congress?

Imagine Matthew Stafford walking into the dressing room.

"Alright boys, today's lesson is called How to Make the Crowd Forget the Goal and Remember the Celebration."

Davante Adams immediately volunteers.

"First, after scoring, you don't stop at the corner flag. You find your teammates, your coach, the mascot, three photographers, and maybe even a hot dog vendor. Everybody is part of the celebration."

Lamar Jackson would introduce the Griddy.

Justin Jefferson would insist that every goal deserves a dance routine.

CeeDee Lamb would demonstrate how to jump into the first row without spilling anyone's nachos.

A.J. Brown would bring out an imaginary chair and start reading a children's book after scoring.

Meanwhile, Cristiano Ronaldo quietly walks into the room...

Everyone stops.

"No, gentlemen," he says.

"Before you learn the NFL moves, you must first master... SIUUUUUU!"

The entire class spends the next thirty minutes practicing the perfect leap, the mid-air twist, and the dramatic landing with arms stretched wide.

Erling Haaland tries it.

Almost brings down the goalpost.

Kylian Mbappé says, "Not bad."

Lionel Messi smiles politely and says, "I'll stick to letting my left foot do the talking."

The NFL players nod respectfully.

"You know what? That one works."

But Davante Adams can't resist.

"Now let's add a touchdown dance after the SIUU."

Now things get interesting.

Mbappé does the Griddy.

Haaland celebrates like he's just won the Super Bowl MVP.

Messi pretends to throw a challenge flag at VAR.

Jude Bellingham performs Ronaldo's SIUU, then joins Justin Jefferson for a synchronized dance.

The stadium erupts.

Broadcasters forget to commentate because they're laughing too hard.

The cameras stay on the celebration longer than the replay.

Somewhere inside FIFA headquarters...

An emergency meeting is called.

Agenda:

1. Excessive happiness.
2. Too much dancing.
3. Why are NFL players involved?
4. Should the corner flag receive emotional support?

Within minutes a new rule is announced:

"Celebrations exceeding 20 seconds must be approved by VAR."

Matthew Stafford raises his hand.

"Can we challenge that rule?"

Davante Adams starts dancing anyway.

Cristiano Ronaldo responds with one final...

SIUUUUUU!

The crowd joins in.

Even the referee smiles.

Okay... maybe not the referee.

But let's be honest.

A little bit of NFL swagger mixed with Ronaldo's SIUU, Messi's calm brilliance, Mbappé's speed, Haaland's power, and Jude Bellingham's confidence would make every goal feel like a once-in-a-lifetime event.

Until then...

We'll keep watching another goal...
another knee slide...
another group hug...

...while NFL fans wonder why nobody has broken into the Griddy yet.

PS:

Still not convinced? Spend five minutes watching this compilation of NFL touchdown celebrations and then watch a soccer player do his 437th knee slide. You'll immediately understand what inspired this article. 😄🏈⚽

🎥 Best NFL Touchdown Celebrations You'll Never Forget:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m7AVvnWywvc

Culture isn't built in conference rooms. It's built in moments like these.

 Culture isn't built in conference rooms. It's built in moments like these.

For nearly 20 years, I worked with Bemus.

Like many finance leaders, I spent countless hours behind spreadsheets, reviewing P&Ls, presenting KPIs, closing month-end, approving budgets, and making sure payroll was processed on time. Those things mattered—they kept the business running.

But here's what I've learned after moving on.

People rarely remember the reports you presented. They don't frame your quarterly forecasts or hang your budget variance analysis on the office wall.

What they remember are the moments when you stepped out of your office and into their world.

This picture was taken during the FIFA World Cup in Qatar four years ago. Football isn't just a sport in our industry—it's part of the culture for many of our field employees. Taking time to share that passion created memories that lasted far longer than any monthly financial report.

Recently, I found out this photo is still displayed in the Bemus office.

I have to admit... that made me smile.

It reminded me that leadership isn't measured only by the numbers you deliver. It's also measured by the relationships you build, the cultures you embrace, and the genuine interest you show in the people around you.

The spreadsheets eventually get archived.
The KPIs get replaced.
Someone else signs the checks.

But the memories?
Those have a way of staying on the wall.

As finance professionals, we're often told to focus on the numbers. And we should.

But never forget that behind every number is a person with a story, a family, and often, a passion—whether that's football, fishing, gardening, or anything else that brings them joy.

Sometimes the smallest things we think don't matter end up becoming the things people remember the most.

⚽ Culture isn't a line item on the P&L. But it may be the best investment you'll ever make.

#Leadership #Culture #FinanceLeadership #PeopleFirst #Teamwork #FIFA #WorkplaceCulture #CFO #LeadershipMatters

"Football's Greatest Victory Isn't on the Scoreboard"

Every four years, we celebrate goals, trophies, heartbreaks, and heroes. We debate tactics, argue about referees, and proudly wear our national colors. But while watching this World Cup, I found myself noticing something even more remarkable than the football itself.

The game has quietly become one of humanity's greatest success stories.

Africans players playing for top Non African football Nations.

Go back to the 1986 World Cup. Most European giants looked very different from the teams we see today. France had just one prominent player of African heritage. England had one. Germany had none. Switzerland, Sweden, and Norway had little or no visible representation. Today, those same nations proudly field squads filled with players whose family stories stretch across Africa, Europe, the Caribbean, and beyond.

And what struck me most is that almost nobody in the stadium is thinking about that.

When Kylian Mbappé scores for France, French fans celebrate a French goal.

When Bukayo Saka dazzles for England, English fans cheer an English star.

When Antonio Rüdiger makes a last-ditch tackle for Germany, Germans don't applaud him because of his ancestry. They applaud him because he wears Germany's shirt.

That's football at its very best.

It reminds us that talent doesn't carry a passport. It doesn't recognize borders. It certainly doesn't ask permission before inspiring millions.

Africa has always been blessed with extraordinary football talent. For generations, African nations have produced players with breathtaking pace, incredible athleticism, remarkable creativity, and infectious joy. Today, that talent shines not only for African national teams but also through players representing countries around the world. Their stories are often stories of families, migration, opportunity, perseverance, and children growing up embracing the nation they now proudly represent.

That's something worth celebrating.

The same is true elsewhere.

Brazil has always reflected its rich African heritage, producing legends from Pelé to Vinícius Júnior. The United States continues to showcase players from countless cultural backgrounds. France has become a symbol of a multicultural football nation. England, Germany, Switzerland, and many others now demonstrate how diverse communities can unite behind one badge and one anthem.

And perhaps that's the biggest lesson football teaches us.

The jersey doesn't erase anyone's roots.

It simply gives millions of people a reason to stand together.

As I looked across today's World Cup squads, I didn't see countries becoming less national. I saw countries becoming richer because they welcomed talent, embraced different stories, and allowed children from every background to dream of wearing the same shirt.

Some of the greatest moments in football history have come from people whose parents or grandparents began life somewhere else. Yet when the whistle blows, those differences fade into the background. What remains is teamwork, sacrifice, and the shared pursuit of victory.

In a world that often seems determined to divide people into groups, football quietly does the opposite.

It brings strangers together in the same stadium.

It makes children dream the same dream.

It teaches millions that excellence can come from anywhere.

Perhaps that's why the World Cup remains the greatest sporting event on Earth. It's not simply a competition between nations. It's a celebration of humanity itself.

The beautiful game belongs to everyone.

And maybe that's football's greatest goal of all. 

The Aisle Is Not an Asana

Modern trains such as the Vande Bharat Express are designed to provide passengers with a comfortable, efficient, and peaceful travel experience. Whether people are commuting for work, visiting family, reading a book, enjoying the scenery, or simply catching up on sleep, most board the train with the expectation that the journey will be calm and relaxing. This is why turning a train coach into a personal workout or yoga studio can be problematic for everyone else sharing the space.

A train coach is fundamentally a shared environment. Unlike a gym, yoga studio, or park, it is not designed for physical exercise. The aisles are narrow, seating arrangements are compact, and passengers frequently move around to access washrooms, retrieve luggage, or interact with onboard staff. When someone begins performing stretches, yoga poses, or exercise routines in these limited spaces, it can obstruct movement and create inconvenience for fellow travelers.

Another important consideration is hygiene and personal comfort. Exercise naturally increases body temperature and leads to sweating. While sweating is a healthy and normal bodily function, it can become uncomfortable in a confined public environment. Fellow passengers may not appreciate being seated near someone who is actively exercising and perspiring, particularly during long journeys. The situation becomes even more noticeable when meals are being served or passengers are eating food they have brought with them. Most people prefer a clean, neutral environment while dining, and the sights and smells associated with a workout session can detract from that experience.

Yoga presents its own unique challenges in public settings. Many yoga practitioners acknowledge that certain poses, particularly twists, bends, and movements that compress the abdomen, can stimulate digestion and help release trapped gas. In fact, the release of gas during yoga is often considered a normal physiological response and a sign that the digestive system is functioning naturally. While this may be perfectly acceptable in a private class or personal practice session, the same situation can create discomfort when it occurs in a crowded train coach where dozens of passengers are sharing the same air and space.

There is also the issue of safety. Trains, even modern high-speed ones, can experience sudden braking, acceleration, or movement caused by track conditions. A person engaged in exercise or yoga may lose balance and unintentionally collide with other passengers or nearby objects. What begins as a harmless fitness activity could quickly become a safety concern for everyone around.

At its core, public transportation operates on an unwritten social contract. Each passenger agrees to share the space respectfully while minimizing disruptions to others. Activities that are perfectly reasonable in private settings may not always be appropriate in crowded public environments. While occasional stretching or standing up to improve circulation during a long journey is entirely understandable, conducting a full workout or yoga session inside a train coach can interfere with the comfort, expectations, and experience of fellow travelers.

A peaceful journey is one of the main reasons people choose premium train services. Respecting shared spaces helps ensure that every passenger can enjoy the ride in the manner they intended—whether that means working, resting, eating, or simply traveling in peace.

"The train is moving toward your destination. Your yoga class can wait until you get there."

 

From "Chaos Incoming" to "Can We Stay Longer?"

As an American, I spent months hearing predictions about what international visitors would experience when they came to the United States for FIFA events.

The headlines weren't exactly subtle. Depending on who you listened to, visitors were about to encounter endless traffic, overwhelming cities, logistical nightmares, and a country that supposedly didn't understand or appreciate the world's game. Some stories made it sound like international fans were preparing for a survival challenge rather than a soccer tournament.

Then the visitors actually arrived.

And what I've witnessed has been something entirely different.

I've watched fans from around the world explore our cities, fill our stadiums, pack restaurants, and interact with local communities. Instead of hearing complaints, I've heard stories. Instead of frustration, I've seen excitement. Instead of culture shock, I've seen cultural exchange.

One thing that has stood out to me is how many visitors seem genuinely surprised by everyday American friendliness. As Americans, we sometimes take it for granted. A quick conversation in line, helping someone with directions, recommending a favorite restaurant, or chatting with complete strangers at a sporting event feels normal to us. But I've seen visitors react as if they've discovered a side of America they weren't expecting to find.

I've also smiled watching international fans experience the uniquely American art of turning sporting events into giant celebrations. Before FIFA, some questioned whether Americans would embrace the atmosphere. Then the matches started. The stadiums were packed. The energy was electric. Fans from dozens of countries celebrated side by side. If there's one thing Americans know how to do, it's host a party, and FIFA has given us a global guest list.

The food reactions alone have been entertaining. Many visitors arrive expecting burgers, hot dogs, and oversized sodas. They certainly find those. But then they discover authentic Mexican food, Korean barbecue, Vietnamese pho, regional barbecue styles, local specialties, and food scenes as diverse as the people who live here. More than a few soccer trips seem to have quietly evolved into food tours.

What I've enjoyed most is watching connections happen in real time. I've seen fans swapping scarves, taking photos together, sharing stories, and discussing matches despite coming from completely different backgrounds. The tournament has reminded me that sports can do something special. They can make strangers feel like neighbors, even if only for a few hours.

The biggest lesson for me has been how different reality can be from expectation. Before the event, many conversations focused on what might go wrong. Once people arrived, the conversations shifted to what was going right. Visitors weren't talking about scary predictions. They were talking about memorable experiences, welcoming communities, incredible stadiums, and moments they would remember long after the tournament ended.

Of course, America isn't perfect. No country is. We have our quirks, our challenges, and yes, our confusing habit of calling a 20-ounce drink a "medium." But watching visitors experience the country firsthand has been a reminder that people often tell a more accurate story than headlines do.

As an American, I've felt a quiet sense of pride seeing how visitors have responded. Not because everything has gone perfectly, but because the things that matter most have shown through: hospitality, enthusiasm, diversity, and the ability to bring people together.

Long after the final whistle, I suspect many visitors won't remember the predictions they read before arriving. They'll remember the people they met, the places they discovered, the friendships they made, and the experiences they shared.

And honestly, that's the America I've always known.

I'm just glad the rest of the world got a chance to see it too.

Now, if you've followed me for any amount of time, you know my life practically revolves around sports. Watching FIFA bring the world together here in the United States has only made me more excited for what's next.

I already find myself dreaming about 2030. Spain, Morocco, and Portugal are on deck, and I can't wait to start planning that trip and booking those tickets. If this tournament taught me anything, it's that the magic isn't just what happens on the pitch—it's the people, the culture, the food, the stories, and the unforgettable moments that happen between matches.

Here's hoping 2030 is every bit as memorable, welcoming, and exciting as this one has been. And if it's anything like what I've witnessed here, it's going to be an absolute blast.

See you in Spain, Morocco, and Portugal.

Sunny Gavaskar's and Beef and Pork

Indian cricket has never been stronger. We have world-class infrastructure, unmatched talent, and a dominance over the sport that previous generations could scarcely imagine. Yet, somewhere over the last fifteen years, cricket in India has lost something that no trophy can replace.

After India's triumph in the 1985 World Championship of Cricket, Sunil Gavaskar wrote One-Day Wonders, chronicling the team's journey. One anecdote from that book says more about the spirit of that era than any scorecard.

During fielding practice, Roger Binny would launch catches high into the sky. As the ball disappeared into the sun, someone would shout "Beef!" or "Pork!" before it came down. The team included vegetarians. It included a Muslim. Yet nobody cared. The words themselves were irrelevant. What mattered was the catch. What mattered was the team. What mattered was winning.

That Indian side represented a country of many faiths, languages, regions, and traditions. Their differences were real, but they were never more important than their shared purpose. They could laugh together because they trusted one another. They were secure enough in their identities not to see every joke as an insult.

Imagine the same scene today. A harmless shout of "Beef!" or "Pork!" during practice would likely trigger outrage, social media campaigns, television debates, and demands for apologies. The joke would become the story. Context and intent would be forgotten.

The lesson is not about beef or pork. It is about what we have lost. Real diversity is not merely the coexistence of differences; it is the confidence to live with those differences without fear. Cricket once reflected that confidence. Today's cricket may be richer and more successful, but it often seems poorer in spirit.

As for me, I have stopped watching cricket completely. India's victories, the statistics, and the spectacle no longer hold the same appeal. One reason is that the game appears to have lost the culture that once made it special—the ability of people from different backgrounds to come together without constantly viewing one another through the lens of identity.

I might start liking cricket again.

And you know when?

The day a ball goes high into the sky, someone shouts "Beef!" or "Pork!", everyone laughs, nobody is offended, and the only thing that matters is whether the catch is taken. That day, Indian cricket will have recovered something far more valuable than another World Cup.

It will have recovered its soul.

1.4 Billion People. 0 World Cups. Here's Why.

 

India Isn't Missing the World Cup Because of Talent. It's Missing Because of Its Social History.

Every four years, Indians ask the same question: why can't a country of  billion people qualify for the FIFA World Cup?

The usual answers are boring.

Infrastructure. Investment. Coaching. Grassroots development.

All true.

But I believe there is a deeper reason that nobody wants to discuss.

Football is a contact sport.

Historically, Indian society was shaped by a caste system obsessed with hierarchy, purity, and social distance. The people who controlled education, institutions, and power were often from privileged groups that looked down upon physical labor and close bodily contact.

For centuries, touching another person was not merely social interaction—it could be seen as pollution.

Now ask yourself: what kind of society produces world-class footballers?

Football is chaos. Football is physical. Football is collision. Football is sweat, tackles, shoulder charges, and bodies crashing into each other for ninety minutes.

It is the opposite of social distance.

The irony is that many of India's traditional contact sports—kabaddi, wrestling, and various rural combat sports—were often sustained by communities outside the elite social circles that dominated education and administration.

While elite India increasingly embraced sports associated with prestige, status, or colonial influence, the rougher and more physical sports remained rooted in villages and working-class communities.

The result was a sporting culture split in two.

The people with access to institutions, money, and influence were often disconnected from the sports that demanded physicality and mass participation. The people who played those sports often lacked access to resources and pathways to professional success.

Meanwhile, countries that became football powers built systems that recruited talent from every social class. They didn't care about background. They cared about who could play.

Brazil found talent in favelas.

Argentina found talent in working-class neighborhoods.

Croatia found talent in small towns.

Morocco found talent across continents.

India, on the other hand, spent generations limiting who could access opportunity.

The consequence is visible today.

India is not short of athleticism. It is not short of passion. It is not short of population.

It is short of a sporting culture that historically embraced physical competition across the entire population.

Until India fully breaks down social barriers and creates pathways for talent from every caste, class, and region, World Cup qualification will remain a dream rather than an expectation.

The problem is not football.

The problem is that football exposes the weaknesses of the society trying to play it.

Will India qualify for the 2026 World Cup? Almost certainly not.

Will India qualify for the 2030 or 2034 World Cup? Probably not.

But 2042? That doesn't sound impossible anymore.

If the country continues investing in grassroots football, broadens access to talent regardless of caste, class, or geography, and embraces football as a truly national sport, then today's dream could become tomorrow's expectation.

The road is long. The progress is slow.

And maybe, just maybe, we'll see India walk onto the World Cup stage in 2042.

 

My Brother, My Best Friend, My Dude

My brother Godwin is only two years older than me, but for as long as I can remember, he has been much more than just my brother. He has been my protector, my guide, my storyteller, my biggest supporter, and above all, my best friend. To this day, I simply call him "Dude."

Long before I understood many of life's lessons, he taught me the most important one of all—faith. He introduced me to the love of Jesus and helped me understand what it means to trust God, especially during difficult times. Through his words, his example, and the way he lived his life, he showed me that faith was not just something for Sundays but something that could carry us through every day of our lives.

Even today, he continues to teach me. Our conversations may now include children, retirement, sports, and travel, but they also include faith. In many ways, he is still the older brother guiding me, encouraging me, and reminding me to keep my eyes fixed on the things that matter most.

We grew up without our father. I was too young to remember him, but my brother wasn't. Over the years, he became the keeper of those precious memories. Through his stories, I came to know the father I never had the chance to remember. Every time he spoke about Dad, he painted a picture of a kind, loving, and gentle man. In many ways, my brother gave me a relationship with my father that I would otherwise never have had.

Our childhood was not always easy. We spent much of it in hostels, learning to navigate life away from home. Looking back, what I remember most is that we always had each other. We were teammates before we knew what teamwork meant. We were protectors of one another. When one stumbled, the other was there. When one struggled, the other stepped up. Together, we found our way.

During those lonely school days, sport kept us going.

We would run miles just to watch our school football team play. The morning newspaper was treated like treasure because we couldn't wait to see the previous day's results. Every score mattered. Every match mattered.

And then there was the BBC Sports Roundup. The broadcasts at 5:15 and 11:15 simply could not be missed. We would wake up at 5 AM to listen to Australia playing England and stay up until 4 AM to follow the West Indies playing Pakistan. Sleep could wait. Sport could not.

What amazed me most was that my brother seemed to know every sport under the sun. Long before most people in India had heard of them, he could talk endlessly about golf and Formula One. He knew the players, the drivers, the rivalries, the courses, and the circuits. Listening to him was like having our own personal sports channel. He opened a window to a world far beyond our hostel walls and taught me that sport was much bigger than the games we played at school.

Tennis Grand Slams were treated as if they were tournaments happening in our own backyard. Wimbledon, the US Open, Roland Garros, and the Australian Open became part of our world. We debated, predicted, celebrated, and suffered through every result together.

Looking back, sport gave us more than entertainment. It gave us hope, conversation, dreams, and a reason to smile during difficult times. Most importantly, it gave us another way to be together.

And then there was music.

Just as he introduced me to the world of sport, my brother also introduced me to the magic of Ilaiyaraaja. His songs became the soundtrack of our college years. Whether it was a quiet evening in the hostel, a long bus ride, or simply a gathering of friends, Ilaiyaraaja's music seemed to be playing somewhere in the background.

Those melodies filled our days with joy, comfort, and energy. They gave us moments to dream, to laugh, and sometimes simply to forget our worries. Even today, when I hear one of those timeless songs, I am transported back to those carefree college days and reminded of the person who first shared that music with me.

One of my favorite memories takes me back to sixth grade, when I nervously stepped onto a stage to sing for the very first time. Standing beside me was my brother, playing the harmonium. I don't remember every note I sang, but I remember the confidence I felt knowing he was there.

Life has carried us through many chapters since then. The harmonium has long since given way to  keyboards and guitars, but one thing has never changed. He is still there beside me. As I get closer to retirement, he continues to play for me, just as he did all those years ago.

Today, we are both older and, in many ways, wiser. One of life's greatest blessings is that we now live close to each other. We have our own families, children, responsibilities, and priorities. Life is busier than it has ever been, yet somehow we still find time for the things that first brought us together.

Sport remains one of those things.

Our sporting passions may have taken different paths over the years. My brother plans his year around travelling to the four Grand Slam tennis tournaments—Melbourne, Paris, London, and New York. He follows the tennis calendar with the same enthusiasm that we once followed cricket scores on the BBC Sports Roundup.

As for me, I have found a second sporting home in America. While he is walking the grounds of Wimbledon or watching a match under the lights at Flushing Meadows, I am cheering on my beloved Los Angeles Rams and living every touchdown, triumph, and heartbreak of American football.

The sports may have changed, and our lives may have become more complicated, but the conversations remain the same. We still talk about games, players, results, and dreams. We still celebrate victories and debate decisions. And every time we do, I am reminded of two boys in a hostel, sharing a newspaper, listening to a radio, and discovering the world together.

And then came one of those moments that felt almost too good to be true.

The FIFA World Cup came to the United States, and the United States' first match was played in Los Angeles. By God's grace, my brother and I were there together in the stadium. Two boys who had once shared hostel rooms, chased newspapers for scores, listened to cricket on the radio at impossible hours, and dreamed about sporting events happening on the other side of the world were now sitting side by side at one of the world's greatest sporting spectacles.

As we watched the game unfold, we found ourselves doing what we have always done—talking about sport, family, faith, memories, and life itself. For a few hours, the years seemed to disappear. We were no longer soon to be retirees, fathers, or grandfathers. We were simply two brothers sharing another unforgettable sporting moment together.

In that stadium, I couldn't help but think about how blessed we have been. Through every season of life, God has been faithful. He gave us strength when we needed it, hope when life was uncertain, and opportunities we could never have imagined as young boys growing up in hostels somewhere in the remote part of South India.

It reminded me of a verse that has guided me throughout life:

"Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart." — Psalm 37:4

Looking around that stadium, sitting beside my brother, my best friend, and my lifelong companion, I realized that God had done exactly that. Not always in the ways we expected, but in ways far greater than we could have imagined.

People often talk about friendship, loyalty, and family. I have been fortunate enough to find all three in one person.

So here's to my brother. My best friend. My dude.

Thank you for the memories of Dad. Thank you for introducing me to faith. Thank you for the music. Thank you for the sports. Thank you for the protection, the laughter, the stories, and the love.

Thank you for being there from the very beginning and for still being here today.

Some people are lucky enough to have a brother.

I was lucky enough to have a brother who became my best friend.