For His Mother

He turned his neck and spat tiredly on the grass beneath his feet. The grass was soft and comfortable but this wasn't friendly territory by any stretch of the imagination. Sweat poured down from his forehead.

The ball had gone out of play for a few moments' respite from the break-neck action. His team had trailed twice but they had kept at it with a relentlessness emblematic of all teams coached by his manager. Now the slender one goal lead garnered had to be protected. The referee signalled for the commencement of play to be delayed until the substitutions could be made.

The official held the board up. His number was on it. He was to come off in favour of a more defensively minded player. He was satisfied with the shift he had put in and was sure the manager would be too. It was he who had provided the incisive, defence-splitting pass crucial to opening up the play in the build-up to the second goal and equaliser that really turned the game in his team's favour - a pass that would count as a 'key pass' in the stats in the annals of time but he knew it was the definitive kick of the whole game. Then there was all that defensive work that he had put in too, imperative as it was for the modern attacking player to track back and mark runners.

The game flashed before his eyes as he trudged slowly and deliberately to the bench with a mind to run down the clock. The few hundred away fans rapturously sang his name and enjoyed the leisurely pace of his walk. The referee urged him to tread faster. The opposition fans jeered and booed. The opposition players protested. A couple of players squared up and the whole stadium turned into a cauldron. All standard fare that he was detached from. He walked on.

It was halfway to the bench that the subtle change in atmosphere happened. He was soaking it all in when the nature of the jeers changed. The home fans were in full voice now, singing of his past transgressions, the exact nature of the profession of the female members of his family back in his 'savage' and 'primitive' country. The elephant washer's son, they called him.

He'd heard it all before, seen it all before. Yet he found himself quickening his pace. He hardly noticed the manager's warm hug, a clear recognition of his excellent performance.

The next day, the papers and 'pundits' condemned the chants. The away club banned a handful of ticket holders for life and issued a strong statement. What did it matter though, to the little boy who'd slept that night with only his tears for company, yearning for his mother? His mother, his sweet, gentle, loving, innocent mother whom he had to fend for.

He who had played football as it was his only escape. He who had travelled across seas playing this game, working hard wherever he went. He who, after years of toil and pain, was finally spotted by a big club and given a contract. He who then worked his way into the starting line up. He who did it all chasing a dream, a dream not of fame or glory or wealth or football; but a dream to extricate his mother from their native home surrounded by the violence that killed his father when he was just a young boy in his unheard of impoverished little country, torn by war and strife. What did it matter to him?

Now he was in England, travelling the country and Europe with the squad while his mother lived in London, in the luxury he provided. He wasn't the cleanest, the kindest, the smartest or the nicest, but he did it all for her.

The new contract offer with improved wages was on his table, a testament to his rising importance to the squad at the age of just 20. All he could think of now, in this hotel room in this city was of home in London, his mother, and the next home game with 60000 men singing his name, applauding his every move, appreciating him for who he was, a footballer and a hard-worker.

The future looked bright and his mother was happy.

Loosely inspired by the story of Gabriel Paulista. Also, try this article and the video attached to it.