Great Commentary is another reason you should follow world cup football.

Find myself in Amritsar airport, four days and I am finally not left clueless when I hear ‘Sat Sri Akal’. Everybody says it, everywhere. Pretty modern young woman at the hotel desk, the cabbie, the waiter…everyone. Switched on to watch the replay of Poland versus Colombia – already knowing the score. It was an act of steeling myself to what was to come. Senegal facing off against Colombia – would they have a chance? And Poland…did they have it in them to nick a point off Japan…even upset them…?

Poland, unfortunately, are already out of it. However, watching the game had me thinking that maybe, just maybe, each of the three runners had a chance. Columbia had always been a favourite (it felt like a small North India). Japan never (rich country hang-up). Senegal I am hoping and betting will go further…much further. Obviously, this is not a football expert speaking. This is not even an enthusiastic follower who may earn in the fantasy and betting markets. It is just a middle-aged guy sitting in Amritsar airport, with money on the African teams doing well at the World Cup. Of course, it is June 25^th (2018) morning in Amritsar airport.

This city and this hotel is teeming with families on vacation and couples on vacations. A good number of them on their honeymoon, it appears. Some of these youngsters may have already wised up to the game. A new bride clicking pictures of her mother-in-law, or may be an aunt-in-law. There is an aunt or mom in-law taking pictures of the young man reclined on the sides of a swimming pool. The guy plays it cool, and the bride ambles over to his side. Many pictures would simply never be looked at – that appears to just be the way it is. Back to the football.

Well, I am watching the game wondering how Senegal is going to be up against it when they play Colombia. That is when the telecast simply takes it to the level where one gets hooked to watching sports on television.

Lewandowski smashes a left-footed shot from the top of the box right at the goalie.

Ospina pushes it over rather acrobatically.

The camera pans to a little girl who jumps and cheers enthusiastically.

“The little girl appreciates good goalkeeping when she sees it” says the commentator. The line makes me smile.

3-0 is a little unfair to Poland maybe. The game was closer than that. But this is football not the human rights commission – and even there, fairness is in short supply anyway.

The camera pans the crowd to show Rene Higuita and Carlos Valderrama enjoying the game from the stands. It brings tears to my eyes. Higuita’s devil-may-dare goalkeeping, Valderrama the midfield maestro. It takes me back more than quarter of a century. That’s one more exhibit for my “Shit, I am old!” museum. The commentator lets the television visuals do the talking. Maybe there are younger football fans who wondered why the cameras training on these middle-aged guys with crazy hairdos. 

Two reasons. First, so that you appreciate all the good looking young Colombian women in the stands. Second, they are rare relics of the idea that football is a game and you played it. Not the current chutzpah – that it was your profession and that there is great money invested in being good at your work.

As I scratch my head trying to recall their names, the cameras come back to them…after Colombia have scored a goal. They celebrate and hug, Higuita and Valderrama – and there is still joy they emanate anywhere close to or on a football field. This time the commentator says their names, almost as if he unilaterally called the tease to a close.

The only way both Senegal and Colombia make their way into this second round is if Poland turn the tables on Japan, and if Senegal and Colombia play out a draw…and if the goals difference/ goals scored works out in their favour. Senegalese drums, the prettiest fans in the world from Colombia and even the ‘Nippon…Nippon’ chants – it makes watching football on television amazing. The commentator personalizes it in unexpected and memorable ways. So bring it on! Good commentary on television - what more can anyone ask for!

Poker, Dad, Goa

Saw this picture of me standing next to my dad, and guess it should be my favorite childhood photograph. We are both leaning on this Rajdoot bike that my dad rode, back when I was in middle school. We both smile pleasantly, a man and his son, on a weekend I suppose. It’s been well over a decade since the old man and myself took a trip, from Bangalore to Goa so that I could play in a few tournaments over that weekend. Back then, he and my mom would drive from Madras to Bangalore once in a while to visit with us. While, due to the severe varicose veins in his legs, he couldn’t walk much and experienced excruciating pain, he loved driving enough to undertake this Madras to Bangalore trip pretty religiously.

So, we took a flight to Goa and booked into one of those beach-side hotels/ home-stays where the main draw was the proximity to the beach, or maybe the fact that it was right on the beach. Anyway, it was over on the Bardez side. Now, not sure if we rented a bike or we rented a car. While severely restricted in his movements on foot, my dad liked to drive cars, and back in the day, his bike. Oh, I remember now. We rented a bike indeed. We would look for platforms from which he could hop onto the bike easily.

Now, the Friday action was good. We went to the Panjim jetty and boarded the boat to the offshore casino. While he struggled into the boat and onto the casino entrance, he was entirely at home once we were inside the casino. I got started with the MTT and he spent time at the slots after which he came over to the poker area where someone had given him a chair. All this time, a man who enjoyed his drink, he nursed it and appeared to enjoy the experience. I couldn’t have paid much attention, after all there was a first live MTT to contend with here. After finishing ITM and final table in a few online tournaments (PokerStars, I think), and following the stars play on ESPN, it was time for me to ante up at live tournaments. In hindsight it is easy to see how under-prepared I was. I had read a few books by that time, was playing three to four hours every night and was quite optimistic about my chances. As the number of tables reduced, my dad moved over a little closer where he could be closer to the action.

I was one of the two short stacks at the table, and it was the bubble before the final table. I do not remember other details very well but when I went all in against the other short stack, I had done my job. We flipped open the cards, and I was ahead. My opponent had only two outs – 7s. Another player at the table piped in saying he had folded the 7 of diamonds, and this left only the seven of hearts. Of course, poker aware readers know what happened next. River was seven of hearts, and although I stood up, shook hands and wandered over to where my dad was sitting, I was finding it hard to breathe. After explaining to him what had just happened, I said to nobody in particular that I could at least drink now. My dad nodded, and said something encouraging. I sat down and the conversation about having a drink appeared to make breathing a little easier.

What had been overlooked was a promise I had made to myself. It was that I wouldn’t drink. In the past few years of playing poker, I had learnt one thing. For me poker and alcohol didn’t go well together. But did the rule really apply after the day’s play was over? We agreed to leave the boat and head back to our room. After all it wasn’t going to be possible to stay on board after busting and not drink. As we were riding back from Panjim jetty to Bardez we saw a nice restaurant on the right. It is one of those well-known places (cannot recollect the name now, though). We sat down, dad placed his order. He checked if I was hungry, and man! Was I!? Gulped down some water and ordered food. Half way though this dinner, my dad checked again to see if I wouldn’t want a beer. I said, “May be later”. Through the meal, I spoke about the hand and in explaining it to my dad, convinced myself that it (seven of hearts) was indeed a bad beat – all our chips were in, and when that happened I was a 95% (and if we took the other player’s word, who had folded the seven of diamonds) then I was maybe 97, 98% favourite. My opponent hit his outer, and is just how it goes. In all this my dad spoke very little, but I knew he understood, being himself an avid rummy and 3-cards player. He asked me again about a beer, saying that I should relax and have a good time.

By now, I had a sense of what I ought to do. A few beers would be great, but I wasn’t still sure if it would affect my play the next day. Yes, by that time, we had decided that I would play the bigger buy-in tourney the next day as well. So, around 1 or 2 am we left the restaurant to where we were put up – right next to the beach. We found a platform just outside of the restaurant from where he could hop onto the bike, and it was a pleasant ride back. Of course, on reaching our room realized that sleeping was going to be an entirely different challenge. More than once I thought I should just go out and have a few drinks. When I shared this with my dad he said that he would accompany as well. For a long time, his sleep was anyway a very shallow one. Often, he would be curled up in bed holding or touching his ankle – it helped cope with the pain I suppose. Any deep sleep he would fall into would be just about day break. This meant that he started his work day relatively late. Now, it was something that got steadily worse. It started when he would wince while kick starting his Rajdoot, then I had taken over (from my sister it could have been) starting the bike in the mornings and wherever he went he found somebody who would ‘volunteer’ to kick-start the bike.  It reached a point when he couldn’t ride his bike and shifted to driving a car. He sold his bike to somebody he knew for what would have been, I am sure, simply a token amount of money.

Eventually, I tossed and turned rather than taking up the offer to go out for a drink. It must have been close to daybreak before I finally slept. By that evening, I was raring to go and take another shot at the tournament in the floating casino. As preparation, I went for a jog on the beach and it was beautiful. Bad beats such as these were bound to happen and it was all part of playing poker. Back after the refreshing jog, we got started and rode back to Panjim and took the boat to the casino. This time, at the Panjim jetty, the passage was smooth because my name was on the list already. Also found two other names I instantly recognized from graduate studies in Lucknow. How did it go…? In poker parlance, I ran good. For the longest time I was folding or going all-in. I had fewer, simpler decisions to make and having a supporter in a former classmate helped a great deal. I must have won numerous flips and been on the beneficiary side of somebody’s bad beat. But as folks who play poker already know, remembering these instances is a little trickier. They don’t spring to my mind as the ‘memorable’ seven of heart. Must have been the second or third player to bust in the final table. Got over to the cash counter and was immediately counted out the winnings. It was daybreak, and on the boat back to Panjim jetty, was happy telling my dad that our trip to Goa this weekend just got covered, expenses wise. He smiled. That boat ride felt amazing even though I was already falling asleep.

Now, most of this has been stowed away in some crevice of my brain. It was serendipity that just this last week, more than a dozen years on from the weekend with my dad in Goa described above, I just had to get some sun. It is one of the things you miss when you spend an entire day at the casino – the sun. So, I excused myself from the good folks at this poker tournament I was part of (not as a player, more as a researcher), and stepped onto the boat. As it started off initially toward the west, and then circled around toward the Panjim jetty, the beautiful evening sun over the Mandovi and hillocks beyond unfolded in the boat’s wake. It was surreal and reminded me of boat trip, more than a decade ago, with my old man. That time the sun was rising. To the outsider, Panjim is a city that wakes up somewhat late and starts its evening after its sunsets. That is ironic given how beautiful its sunsets are.

My dad passed away a few months back. Since our trip to Goa, the varicose veins situation steadily got worse. There were interludes where things got better. There were interludes when things got worse. I happened to see that photograph, a man and his son leaning on the Rajdoot, smiling. He was younger then than I am now. Wish I had thanked him for that trip to Goa, spoken about it a little more. Of course, there are a number of things I wish the clock could be turned back on. Crank it back a couple of decades back, and then it has us sitting in a car after he has parked it. I am telling him that there is something important I need to tell him.

“I like this girl.”

“Oh, that is great! It calls for a drink!”

He pulls out a glass and pours himself a drink. He has a sip, and then says,

“Does she like you?”

It’s a logical question, very pokeresque. While returning to her home after his funeral, my sister took a bunch his personal stuff – notebooks, watch, etc. – and hoped that they give her some comfort while remembering him. Now, I wish I had taken something too – maybe that photograph of us leaning on his bike.

Poetic Silence

Dylan's Nobel had left me confused. After all what gets more mainstream than this? There are those who read books and there are those that sit around listening to songs. The former, more decorated, share trophies and grace cocktail receptions. The latter, more worn and eventually weary, share cigarettes and call shindigs parties, and listen to Amy Winehouse songs. The latter doesn't have many icons...at least those that are alive. And here is the Nobel committee, what do you call it, co-opting somebody from the other team. It is the equivalent of a star goal keeper being poached by the rich club across town. Eventually, the goalie will have to leave...but it hurts more if he jumps at the offer and becomes a good boy. In that, I have a lot to thank Dylan for. Just the delay, the wait...it is not fair to ask more from him. Don't know how the Nobel committee does these things. When you decorate a singer (rocker, poet, powder messiah, call him what you may) who sang lines galore of amphetamine and shit, guess you already know what this is: poetic silence. 

Why football fans should celebrate Portugal’s Euro 2016 win

In the France – Germany semifinal, Germany had 68% of the possession and five shots on goal compared to France’s six. Let us remind ourselves: this at a big international tournament’s semi final. It would be easy to assume that Germany was playing at home. With the fantastically skillful footballers at their disposal, Germany bombarded France with their precision passes and cross-field balls whipped in and controlled with admirable skill. The hosts were quite content to neutralize Germany’s attack, concede ball possession and hit on the break with their own impressive arsenal of international football stars. Deschamps’ ploy worked. Germany played their possession attack but couldn’t find a way past Lloris. Germany playing their game allowed France to play theirs (not much of a game, really, but you get the drift).

Being in the small minority on the ‘Portugal will win’ side in my WhatsApp group of football fans was not a bleeding underdog’s bet. It was simple analysis. Senhor Fernando Santos wasn’t the manager of an immensely talented squad, and has rich experience in making a fist of just that – ask Greece football fans. He wasn’t going to set up Portugal to dominate possession, he was going to set up Portugal to survive. When two teams, even the one with the superior arsenal, set up to survive the football match and not to adorn it with attacking splendor, we get a battle of attrition. At that battle of attrition, Portugal always had a good chance.

What happened? Portugal had 48% possession to France’s 52% - not bad for a team that wasn’t ‘supposed to be there’. Was it incisive possession leading to lots of goal mouth action? No. Portugal played out one or two dozen passes on average across the back four every time they got the ball. This is not beautiful to watch and won’t keep you awake early on Monday morning when you are already worn out, battling Monday blues. These passes are meant to wear out and/ or irritate your (supposedly superior) opponents. They are supposed to award your team mates some well earned seconds of rest from all the running they do to ensure no chinks open up in the face of an opponent’s mesmerizing skills. They are supposed to test your opponents’ resolve and desire to win the match by playing better football. They are meant to test what your opponent will do with the 20% extra possession they have in comparison to the semi-final. Each pass is, on television, an easy task. But say that to the defender whose passes got intercepted.

Well, on the day, unlike Germany or Bayern or Spain or Barcelona or Atletico or RMA, France never really applied the pressure that high up the pitch. At best, this was out of respect for Portugal’s skills at making the killer pass. At worst, it was terrible tactics and a callous attitude in a big final. Whatever the reasons were it is unbecoming of a home favorite to be so dreary and formulaic. The dreary and formulaic have been defended stoutly as ‘what was needed to win the trophies’. Deschamps brings that (lack of) spirit to French football like Dunga did to the Brazilian game. Lets us not forget that after initial successes, Brazil now don’t win matches. Neither do they play good football. Nobody mourns when they lose. France, sentimental favorites when they step on the field, will soon lose that status if they already haven’t.

By convincingly outplaying France, Senhor Fernando Santos has thrown international football a lifeline. Perhaps, he has hastened the day when French football will have to stare the devils down and begin playing football. They have the players. It is only wishful thinking what this group of players, or perhaps the core of this group of player with other selections, could have achieved under Domenech (or might under ZiZou). On the other hand, it gave me a chance to enjoy what Pepe (that permanent persona non grata) brings to a team and to the game of football. He marshalled that back line which not only resisted the few French thrusts but also held the ball for long enough for the game to drag into extra time. Of course, we all know when the ‘Ugly Duckling’ became a ‘Beautiful Swan’. To be favorites in a football match is a responsibility that this German team, erstwhile Spanish outfits, 80s Brazil and possession proponent clubs fulfill. Football matches may not always be about the results. In any case, it is better somebody mourns at your demise!

Let me summarize. Football is struggle. It cannot really ‘unite countries’. Some football matches may ask basic questions that challenge our worldview…individuals and groups may take that introspection and do great things – like uniting countries. It is not enough for the favorites to show up. They need to take on the responsibility and be the fundamental ingredient of a great game of football. Any team that is capable of struggle can win a football match. Pepe can do things nobody may notice, but greatness is often simple things executed over and over with belief and resilience. Every now and then, a coach and team show us how it is done. Senhor Fernando Santos & Portugal – chapeus fora! Thanks!

Ronjan, Cruyff and Learning to Love Football in the 80s

Ronjan (pronounced ‘Ronyon’) had blue eyes, blond hair and walked nonchalantly to join a group of Indian boys playing football on the beach. He was probably 8 then and the rest averaged 11. Whereas some of these Indian boys were only a little older than him, he firmly was the kid. Now, this group had never really refused the company of anybody who had wanted to play. Not even when 'Baboosh' who did wheelies on his cycle before descending to play with the mortals, turned up and chose the team he wanted to play with and made some positional adjustments – all before the first kick of the ball. Back to Ronjan. That here was a kid with the latest Adidas football used in World Cup ’82 clinched the deal that would anyway have been clinched.

Ronjan played well – stopped the ball, kicked it with some sense of aim and ran all the time – and earned the somewhat begrudging respect of the Indian boys. He did things which the other were not used to. For instance, even when his team lost the ball, he wouldn’t scurry back to protect the goal like the rest. Rather, he took up position somewhere near half way. Much later on we realized that he was thinking a few steps ahead of us. He only spoke English and introduced his favorites – Beckenbauer, Cruyff and others. Basically it grew the pantheon of football heroes to the number four. Pele, of course was one of the other names which was conveniently close to the Tamil ‘pela’, somebody who showed off. It should come as no surprise that Baboosh was fully convinced that he was Rossi.

Born to a Bengali man and a German woman (blonde and blue eyed), Ronjan spent three to four months of the year in Madras (that’s what it was in the 80s). At his home there were videos – football training videos and old television footage that he invited us to watch. Quickly the group got divided into fans of Beckenbauer and Cruyff. For some it was the color of the jersey, for some the identity of the winner, for a few the athleticism of play (which meant they didn’t take sides) and for some the ballet like aesthetic of No. 14 orange jersey. Football was becoming complicated, simple, plain and beautiful…all at the same time. That was around when color television came to India. And with it came Becker and Maradona. India won the Cricket World Cup in England. Right after school everyone played cricket. And though it is difficult to put a date to it, for some playing football all evening at the beach became something you just did. A few were really good at it but most of us were just having a good time. Along came football shows discussing the games of the 70s.

The pantheon grew. Ajax, Barcelona, the coach on the sidelines, stadium tragedies, people in tears because the team they love lost, people in tears because the team they love won, and what not. It was just as well that a little 8 year old had already gotten us hooked. I think it is impossible to rationally quantify the impact that Ronjan and Cruyff had on that group of Indian boys, just happy that it all happened.

RIP Johan Cruyff. RIP.

For India passport holders, is MBA an attractive industry (career)?

Please get in touch with me if you want to discuss any aspect of this '5-forces' analysis further.

Lets not drop the ball

The Lodha Committee recommendations and the following discussions in the media bring us head on with a few basic definitions whose clarity will help steer the debate meaningfully. These two definitions reach us from two different worlds - the first from the world of sports in India and the second from the world of capital markets in, pretty much, any part of the world. First, betting which is the wager of a sum whose debit and credit are determined by the (sporting) outcome of set of outcomes. Second, insider trading, the participation of those with material & non-publicly available information and fiduciary responsibilities in capital markets trading activities. The former is legal in many parts of the world and illegal in India, except for horse racing. The latter is illegal in any part of the world that has western capital markets. 

In India it is adequate to establish that a Meiyappan or a Kundra participated in betting on the outcome of any sporting endeavor (except horse racing, of course) to sanction them. In the West, betting on sports itself is alright but betting on sports by those with inside information is not allowed, much like in the capital markets. Lets take an example. In Britain the physio cannot bet on sports outcomes because she has information of injuries which in turn, have a material impact on the outcome of a game or of a season, or indeed in the transfer market. This is no different from why Rajat Gupta ran afoul when he transmitted information from the board meeting (of Warren Buffet picking up stakes in the then embattled Goldman Sachs) to a friend, Rajaratnam, who was trading this information in the capital markets (not too different from betting markets).

The inability to separate the two - betting and insider trading - will continue to hamstring any attempt to (de)regulate betting or indeed to punish wagerers. Those defending betting (and God bless them) also defend a rather foul form of it (where unregulated insider trading will eventually punish participants and limit liquidity). Thereby, their 'morality' critique is just as distanced from human motivation as the morality argument against betting. Those equating the severe sanction of betting to the defense of their beloved sport hope to replace hard grass roots work with moral high ground chest thumping.

We should be intellectually honest before innovation can really improve the lot of the many stakeholders. This honesty, in turn, demands that we speak of in clear terms about what is acceptable, how to regulate and indeed, how to sanction and punish. To the current state of things, however, banning CSK and RR is not too different from de-listing (or indeed snatching away operating licenses) Goldman Sachs because Rajat Gupta indulged in inside trading. Thankfully, the media is beginning to speak about how this attitude hurts players, employees and fans. And I hope that they will begin to speak intelligently about the issues that face modern sport in India. 

When the ball is up in the air and there is somebody screaming after it, lets not forget that this is the one thing that he excels at. In that instant can we wager on whether he will catch the ball or fail to do so? Can I wager on it if I run the catching drills of CSK or RR? Lets say that I do run those catching drills, then, can we punish that sportsman or his fans? He may catch it or he may not but it is about time media and policymakers stopped dropping the ball.