"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