In a Bangla short story, Bostrong Dehi, Nabendu Ghosh, a prolific author and noted screenplay writer in Bombay’s film industry, captured the anti-colonial, anti-capitalist rage and revolutionary tonality of the times, the prayer in Sanskrit (Vastram Dehi) an invocation for being blessed with cloth, to be covered, in this context, to cover one’s shame. Even more sharply in this context: Please donate cloth (with which to cover the dead).
I read it in a collection of short stories published in early 1946, just months before Direct Action Day, in a Bengal already charged with religious tinder, and starved, ragged after the deprivations of war and induced famine, a time when basic cloth, even shari, was rationed, sold against a permit. The poor wore the generally coarse cloth when they could get it; the better-off used it to cover quilts and cushions. A black market thrived even for such low quality cloth.
The villain in the story is Chhaganlal Marwari, who after arriving from “faraway Rajasthan” to “this forgotten village” to trade in cloth, worked hard for years to arrive at his station. Now he lives in a two-storey house in the middle of the bazaar, lording over the village, “in the same way English merchants arrived with just one ship full of goods to trade and slowly built fortresses along the coast”. Chhaganlal – Sheth-ji – meets the impoverished farmer Teenkori, who is desperate to replace the one worn shari his wife Horimoti has, which she wears all day and then removes at night to cover herself with a short cloth so the shari lasts a little longer. As the plot unwinds, the Sheeth-ji implacably exploits Teenkori’s situation, denying him cloth for his wife, until, driven to desperation by his wife’s condition and his own helplessness and shame, he steals cloth from the businessman. Teenkori is caught, jailed – and ultimately released as villagers beg the Sheth-ji’s benevolence. Meanwhile, tormented by guilt, the farmer’s wife Horimoti kills herself. Nabendu Ghosh ends the story in this way:
Are a people in shackles to be treated like animals, so weak, so helpless – so very helpless? Monish (a local angry young man) wonders as he looks at Horimoti. Such tragedy for just a piece of cloth? Monish averts his gaze. The crying, the wailing, Horimoti’s half-naked corpse, makes him ashamed to even be called a man.
And Teenkori? A terrible wildness comes to his eyes, a rage and hatred a soldier feels when he confronts the enemy. It is as if enemies beyond counting have gathered around him, invisible and yet visible. He wants to tear them apart with his bare hands. He stands there, his bloodlust, his rage at the tip of his fingers, ready to leap, ready to destroy.
He won’t cry.
The Birlas, Goenkas, Poddars, Bajorias, Khaitans, Sekhsarias, Somanys and Jhunjhunwalas and several thousand of their blood brothers in Bengal may today own much of the state and vast areas of commercial India to which they spread with their capital nurtured and expanded in Bengal – even as they employed Bengal, paid Bengal salaries and perquisites. With their wealth they may own enormous political reach. They and their kind may even be among the greatest patrons of art and culture in West Bengal, in India; Marwaris even funded Satyajit Ray’s breakout movies, and his more successful ones. Some may even dress like a Bengali jomidar with all the social nuances of the perfect bhodrolok, sleeves of the panjabi perfectly crinkled – gili kora, as we say it – the dhuti exquisitely woven and worn with panache, with its front sharply pleated, like an accordion, and the end of it either folded elegantly over a wrist, or discreetly tucked into the pocket of the panjabi. All this could happen in grand mansions owned by the Marwari in Kolkata, or spacious bagan-bari in the suburbs, or villas by the Hooghly – country houses and “garden estates”, former accoutrements of colonial and Bengali grandees.
But for most Bengalis they remain Mero. Maura. Whatever, as long as it’s derogatory.
@thebeautifulgame ; Very interesting. there was one more guy Omichund during the time of Battle of Plassey. He was involved with Clive. I wonder what happened to all the wealth of Jagat Seth, Omichund, Ghasiti Begum, Siraj ?
It is interesting to see their influence in Bengal and Calcutta of those days. My theory is that they were bankers and traders patronised by Mughals. When Babur came to India say in 1526 and established Mughal Empire, that was just 22000 Mughals-thats it. To continue ruling India, their lineage needed allies. They invited lot of Persians so that official language, painting, calligraphy, architecture, education everything stayed in Persian hands for hundreds of years. Key Military positions like artillery and others were either in Central Asian hands or in the hands of Rajputs. Same way Banking operations were in Marwari control. If you go to Old Delhi, start from Lahori Gate of Lal Qila and step towards Chandni Chowk-what will you see- Jain temple built in Shah Jahan time only. Even in Old Lahore, you will see remnants of Jain temples.This shows their power. When Mughal Empire became weak, the various Governors became independent Nawabs but followed the same style of administration. Murshidabad had its share of Marwari bankers. They changed sides to British - infact one of the reason of failure of 1857 Mutiny (if you say so) was the non co-operation of this community as Sepoys morale went down with no salaries for months. They refused to give credit while giving it to company-bahadur.
Ancient Trade routes changed and so did the masters of the subcontinent, Marwari community also left for Calcutta, Madras, Karachi, Bombay from Rajasthan villages. First World War and orders for Jute bags brought lot of profit for Birla. I dont know much about their political patronage in West Bengal politics but they used to be with Congress party and possibly now with BJP in other states. In undivided Bengal, power was always going in the hands of Muslim league -Haq, Nazimuddin, Suhrawardy because of sheer numbers. Partition was favourable for them
instead of giving 5% shares to Arjun Kapoor like owners, why don’t they pay that much to player like ronaldinho / gerrard and give them some position (not necessarily a player, may be in academy or something ) and use them for marketing as well
so many kids follow European football, isn’t that right type of appeal to those kids than some chu..... filmstar or some cricket player who’s very busy?
Remembering one of the stalwarts of Kolkata football: Moidul Islam
Named by the game
The Maidan may know the former Mohammedan Sporting star as Moidul Islam but that wasn’t his name when he came to Calcutta from Midnapore in 1973. “I was born Mohiul Islam. It was commentator Ajay Basu who kept using this name on the radio. And before I knew, I was Moidul to the entire state. So I too started using that name,” says the FD Block resident.
Name change was not new to Islam. He was spotted on the village fields by the games secretary of State Transport Corporation Dasrathi Sinha. “On his advice, I shifted to Calcutta. He even arranged for my accommodation at the STC tent on the Maidan. Whenever I visited his home, he would introduce me to his elder sister as Mridul.”
After playing a year in the second division for Suburban Club, he was signed by Kidderpore Fotbal Club. In 1977, he got his first job with Port Trust of India, which had a football team. But when he got a call-up from Mohammedan in 1979, he quit without telling his family. “Word reached our village that I was jobless. I was away playing in Nagji trophy then. My father got worried that if I got injured my career would be over. I had to reason with him.” But he would soon get another job, with Food Corporation of India.
He shifted to Salt Lake in 1983, putting up first at Karunamoyee Housing Estate. He was with Mohammedan then. “I was the only club footballer staying in Salt Lake in those days. People would queue up in front of my building, seeking free match tickets. In those days, the club gave us tickets against deduction from our payments. I could not manage even after picking up a thousand.” He would shift to the FCI Quarters in DL Block in 1991.
Islam gets nostalgic talking of the 80s. “People would queue up from 3am at the Maidan in search of tickets. If we lost a match, it would get difficult for us to get out of the ground. We were escorted home in police vans. Football was rarely on TV except for the big matches at the Salt Lake stadium. Where is that kind of craze now? People don’t go to the ground even if they get tickets.”
The big crowds for the Fifa Under-17 World Cup, he suspects, were driven by a craze to attend a World Cup and also to see the renovated stadium.
He gets goosebumps on remembering the 1.10 lakh people in the stands when East Bengal played Diamant club of Cameroon in 1990. “Anandabazar Patrika printed a picture of me tackling Roger Milla (the 42-year-old star of the year’s World Cup). He got upset that I stuck to his side through the match. Diamant won but by a slender margin of 2-1.”
Other than Durand Cup and the IFA Shield, he has been a part of every tournament win in his 10 years with Mohammedan, three years with East Bengal and one year with Mohun Bagan. Among his clubmates, he has great respect for Mohd. Habib, Gautam Sarkar, Shabir Ali, Prasun Banerjee, Prasanta Banerjee among Indians and the Iranian duo Majid Baskar and Jamshid Nassiri. “My son Tariq grew up in their laps.” He remembers having brought Chima Okorie to Mohammedan while he was a student in Waltair. Emeka (Ezeugo), Chibuzor (Nwakanma) and Christopher also played with him at Mohammedan. He is upset that because of retired players from abroad being hired in the cash-rich Indian Super League, local strikers are not getting enough opportunities.
He is not sure how much hosting the U-17 World Cup would help Indian football. “Unless the infrastructure is in place and sports is made mandatory in school, nothing will happen. Around the time Mannada (Sailen Manna) played football, they were close to the other teams. But the rest of the world improved in leaps and bounds while we stagnated. Look at the standard of the youth teams of African nations like Ghana and Mali which came to the tournament!”
Salt Lake may be blessed with grounds, but parents here, he says, think football is too laborious a sport.
Islam is a poster boy for communal harmony. “We are a family of pirs. My uncle was a maulana in a madrasa. But we grew up in a harmonious atmosphere, with friends from one community participating in festivals of the others.” All hell broke loose when he fell in love with Sonali Das. “She was the only daughter and their family was dead against this alliance. Nonetheless we went for a registered marriage in 1983.” Even his daughter-in-law Priyanka is Hindu. “Tariq too has married for love. We had a grand reception in FD community hall in 2010,” smiles the 62-year-old who can sometimes be spotted playing football with the likes of musician Upal and filmmaker Shoojit Sircar at the Bikash Bhavan ground.
A gem of a write-up on the Tottenham Hotspur vs Real Madrid Champions League game from The Independent: a perfect blend of information and entertainment, incisive analysis suffused with the heady euphoria involved in watching the beautiful game. A model of the erstwhile times and alas, a rarity, nowadays. One can only wish that we get to see these more often while savouring our morning cuppa.
They’ll still talk about this game, years from now, decades from now: when Harry Kane is that jowly bloke off Soccer Saturday, when Mauricio Pochettino is greying and frail, when Dele Alli is a grandfather of seven with a penchant for cheeky practical jokes. They’ll reminisce about it in the oxygen bars of Enfield and the hoverboard racetracks of south Essex. Where were you when Tottenham Hotspur bullied the European champions at Wembley?
Far more impressive than the fact of Tottenham handing Real Madrid their first Champions League group-stage defeat since 2012, and qualifying for the last 16 in the process, was the way they did it: with bravery and skill, composure and organisation. Remarkably, it was Spurs who played like the kings of Europe; Real like the club who once played Gary Doherty up front for an entire half-season.
Alli returned from his European suspension in spectacular fashion to score two goals. Christian Eriksen grabbed the other, and as the goals rained in the reaction around Wembley was not merely euphoria but disbelief: the dumb grin of the computer hacker who has just broken into the Pentagon mainframe by guessing “Password 1”. Dismantling the world’s best club should not be this easy.
Real, eight points behind a lukewarm Barcelona in the La Liga title race, were again a pale fraction of the team that has won three of the last four Champions Leagues, but in large part their errors were forced rather than unforced. Tottenham pressed them high, prevented them from passing the ball out of defence and turned the fabled Real midfield of Toni Kroos, Luka Modric and Isco into spectators.
Of course Tottenham rode their luck, just as they did a fortnight ago in the Bernabeu. There was a suspicion of offside to the first goal, for example, and a few jitters after Cristiano Ronaldo’s late consolation goal 10 minutes from time. And of course, Real created chances. Hugo Lloris played another blinder, both in terms of saves and distribution. Davinson Sanchez marshalled the defence brilliantly after a first-half injury to Toby Alderweireld. But for most of the 90 minutes, Tottenham looked secure.
Potential winners? Not an outlandish proposition, on this evidence. They will need a little luck with injuries and perhaps a little luck with the draw, even if they claim the three points they need to top the group. But in what promises to be one of the most open Champions Leagues in years, with the traditional giants stumbling and the five English clubs in rude health, at the moment it feels more of a risk to rule Tottenham out than to rule them in.
Pochettino has got them dreaming, and perhaps the warmest compliment you could pay them is that Spurs were not even extraordinary. This is their level now, and the ease with which they drifted around Real, past them, over them, was evidence of the mental strength that Pochettino loves talking about. A more clinical Spurs might even have turned this into a rout. Every attack seemed to result, at the very least, in a shot or a telling pass.
Harry Kane and Harry Winks had already enjoyed decent openings before Alli put Tottenham ahead. It was Kieran Trippier with the foresight to make the run down the right, Winks with the vision to pick him out, Trippier again with the courage to play the cross first time on the volley, and Alli with the strength to hold off Nacho and slide the ball in.
Wembley erupted, but as Real twitched briefly into life, this was a time when Tottenham needed their composure more than ever. Lloris made a couple of regulation saves from Ronaldo, while Moussa Sissoko and Kane both fluffed chances to double Tottenham’s lead. Ten minutes into the second half, though, they were in again: a dummy from Kane, a missed tackle by Casemiro, and Alli’s shot cannoning in off Sergio Ramos. Too easy again, and back in the centre circle Ronaldo simply shook his head sadly, trying to ignore the cheers of 80,000 crowing Cockneys around him.
It would get better still for Tottenham. Ten minutes after that, Alli threaded the ball through for Kane, who delayed the pass just long enough for Eriksen to sprint clear and tuck the ball past Kiko Casilla. And as Wembley clicked into full party mode, there would be more counter-attacks, more threatening crosses, more desperate clearances. There would be a goal for Ronaldo, grumpily smashing the ball home from close range as Real’s weight of crosses finally became too much for Tottenham to bear. There would be a few minutes of vaguely flaky defending as Real scented, however faintly and however briefly, an elusive comeback.
But ultimately, nobody will remember any of that. They’ll remember the champagne football and the broad smiles, the disbelieving roar of the Wembley crowd and the vaguely ethereal sensation that you get when entering uncharted territory. People say it’s the hope that kills you. But right now Tottenham is a place full of hope, and it’s never felt more alive.
DOCTOR SOCRATESAuthor- Andrew DowniePublisher- SIMON & SCHUSTER Rs 699His is the engaging tale of boundless talent lost to self-conceit, and the history of football — which has seen Indian football mavericks, too — has many more intriguing life stories, writes KUMAR CHELLAPPAN
Comments
In a Bangla short story, Bostrong Dehi, Nabendu Ghosh, a prolific author and noted screenplay writer in Bombay’s film industry, captured the anti-colonial, anti-capitalist rage and revolutionary tonality of the times, the prayer in Sanskrit (Vastram Dehi) an invocation for being blessed with cloth, to be covered, in this context, to cover one’s shame. Even more sharply in this context: Please donate cloth (with which to cover the dead).
I read it in a collection of short stories published in early 1946, just months before Direct Action Day, in a Bengal already charged with religious tinder, and starved, ragged after the deprivations of war and induced famine, a time when basic cloth, even shari, was rationed, sold against a permit. The poor wore the generally coarse cloth when they could get it; the better-off used it to cover quilts and cushions. A black market thrived even for such low quality cloth.
The villain in the story is Chhaganlal Marwari, who after arriving from “faraway Rajasthan” to “this forgotten village” to trade in cloth, worked hard for years to arrive at his station. Now he lives in a two-storey house in the middle of the bazaar, lording over the village, “in the same way English merchants arrived with just one ship full of goods to trade and slowly built fortresses along the coast”. Chhaganlal – Sheth-ji – meets the impoverished farmer Teenkori, who is desperate to replace the one worn shari his wife Horimoti has, which she wears all day and then removes at night to cover herself with a short cloth so the shari lasts a little longer. As the plot unwinds, the Sheeth-ji implacably exploits Teenkori’s situation, denying him cloth for his wife, until, driven to desperation by his wife’s condition and his own helplessness and shame, he steals cloth from the businessman. Teenkori is caught, jailed – and ultimately released as villagers beg the Sheth-ji’s benevolence. Meanwhile, tormented by guilt, the farmer’s wife Horimoti kills herself. Nabendu Ghosh ends the story in this way:
The Birlas, Goenkas, Poddars, Bajorias, Khaitans, Sekhsarias, Somanys and Jhunjhunwalas and several thousand of their blood brothers in Bengal may today own much of the state and vast areas of commercial India to which they spread with their capital nurtured and expanded in Bengal – even as they employed Bengal, paid Bengal salaries and perquisites. With their wealth they may own enormous political reach. They and their kind may even be among the greatest patrons of art and culture in West Bengal, in India; Marwaris even funded Satyajit Ray’s breakout movies, and his more successful ones. Some may even dress like a Bengali jomidar with all the social nuances of the perfect bhodrolok, sleeves of the panjabi perfectly crinkled – gili kora, as we say it – the dhuti exquisitely woven and worn with panache, with its front sharply pleated, like an accordion, and the end of it either folded elegantly over a wrist, or discreetly tucked into the pocket of the panjabi. All this could happen in grand mansions owned by the Marwari in Kolkata, or spacious bagan-bari in the suburbs, or villas by the Hooghly – country houses and “garden estates”, former accoutrements of colonial and Bengali grandees.
But for most Bengalis they remain Mero. Maura. Whatever, as long as it’s derogatory.
It is interesting to see their influence in Bengal and Calcutta of those days. My theory is that they were bankers and traders patronised by Mughals. When Babur came to India say in 1526 and established Mughal Empire, that was just 22000 Mughals-thats it. To continue ruling India, their lineage needed allies. They invited lot of Persians so that official language, painting, calligraphy, architecture, education everything stayed in Persian hands for hundreds of years. Key Military positions like artillery and others were either in Central Asian hands or in the hands of Rajputs. Same way Banking operations were in Marwari control. If you go to Old Delhi, start from Lahori Gate of Lal Qila and step towards Chandni Chowk-what will you see- Jain temple built in Shah Jahan time only. Even in Old Lahore, you will see remnants of Jain temples.This shows their power. When Mughal Empire became weak, the various Governors became independent Nawabs but followed the same style of administration. Murshidabad had its share of Marwari bankers. They changed sides to British - infact one of the reason of failure of 1857 Mutiny (if you say so) was the non co-operation of this community as Sepoys morale went down with no salaries for months. They refused to give credit while giving it to company-bahadur.
Ancient Trade routes changed and so did the masters of the subcontinent, Marwari community also left for Calcutta, Madras, Karachi, Bombay from Rajasthan villages. First World War and orders for Jute bags brought lot of profit for Birla. I dont know much about their political patronage in West Bengal politics but they used to be with Congress party and possibly now with BJP in other states. In undivided Bengal, power was always going in the hands of Muslim league -Haq, Nazimuddin, Suhrawardy because of sheer numbers. Partition was favourable for them
instead of giving 5% shares to Arjun Kapoor like owners, why don’t they pay that much to player like ronaldinho / gerrard and give them some position (not necessarily a player, may be in academy or something ) and use them for marketing as well
so many kids follow European football, isn’t that right type of appeal to those kids than some chu..... filmstar or some cricket player who’s very busy?
Named by the game
The Maidan may know the former Mohammedan Sporting star as Moidul Islam but that wasn’t his name when he came to Calcutta from Midnapore in 1973. “I was born Mohiul Islam. It was commentator Ajay Basu who kept using this name on the radio. And before I knew, I was Moidul to the entire state. So I too started using that name,” says the FD Block resident.
Name change was not new to Islam. He was spotted on the village fields by the games secretary of State Transport Corporation Dasrathi Sinha. “On his advice, I shifted to Calcutta. He even arranged for my accommodation at the STC tent on the Maidan. Whenever I visited his home, he would introduce me to his elder sister as Mridul.”
After playing a year in the second division for Suburban Club, he was signed by Kidderpore Fotbal Club. In 1977, he got his first job with Port Trust of India, which had a football team. But when he got a call-up from Mohammedan in 1979, he quit without telling his family. “Word reached our village that I was jobless. I was away playing in Nagji trophy then. My father got worried that if I got injured my career would be over. I had to reason with him.” But he would soon get another job, with Food Corporation of India.
He shifted to Salt Lake in 1983, putting up first at Karunamoyee Housing Estate. He was with Mohammedan then. “I was the only club footballer staying in Salt Lake in those days. People would queue up in front of my building, seeking free match tickets. In those days, the club gave us tickets against deduction from our payments. I could not manage even after picking up a thousand.” He would shift to the FCI Quarters in DL Block in 1991.
Islam gets nostalgic talking of the 80s. “People would queue up from 3am at the Maidan in search of tickets. If we lost a match, it would get difficult for us to get out of the ground. We were escorted home in police vans. Football was rarely on TV except for the big matches at the Salt Lake stadium. Where is that kind of craze now? People don’t go to the ground even if they get tickets.”
The big crowds for the Fifa Under-17 World Cup, he suspects, were driven by a craze to attend a World Cup and also to see the renovated stadium.
He gets goosebumps on remembering the 1.10 lakh people in the stands when East Bengal played Diamant club of Cameroon in 1990. “Anandabazar Patrika printed a picture of me tackling Roger Milla (the 42-year-old star of the year’s World Cup). He got upset that I stuck to his side through the match. Diamant won but by a slender margin of 2-1.”
Other than Durand Cup and the IFA Shield, he has been a part of every tournament win in his 10 years with Mohammedan, three years with East Bengal and one year with Mohun Bagan. Among his clubmates, he has great respect for Mohd. Habib, Gautam Sarkar, Shabir Ali, Prasun Banerjee, Prasanta Banerjee among Indians and the Iranian duo Majid Baskar and Jamshid Nassiri. “My son Tariq grew up in their laps.” He remembers having brought Chima Okorie to Mohammedan while he was a student in Waltair. Emeka (Ezeugo), Chibuzor (Nwakanma) and Christopher also played with him at Mohammedan. He is upset that because of retired players from abroad being hired in the cash-rich Indian Super League, local strikers are not getting enough opportunities.
He is not sure how much hosting the U-17 World Cup would help Indian football. “Unless the infrastructure is in place and sports is made mandatory in school, nothing will happen. Around the time Mannada (Sailen Manna) played football, they were close to the other teams. But the rest of the world improved in leaps and bounds while we stagnated. Look at the standard of the youth teams of African nations like Ghana and Mali which came to the tournament!”
Salt Lake may be blessed with grounds, but parents here, he says, think football is too laborious a sport.
Islam is a poster boy for communal harmony. “We are a family of pirs. My uncle was a maulana in a madrasa. But we grew up in a harmonious atmosphere, with friends from one community participating in festivals of the others.” All hell broke loose when he fell in love with Sonali Das. “She was the only daughter and their family was dead against this alliance. Nonetheless we went for a registered marriage in 1983.” Even his daughter-in-law Priyanka is Hindu. “Tariq too has married for love. We had a grand reception in FD community hall in 2010,” smiles the 62-year-old who can sometimes be spotted playing football with the likes of musician Upal and filmmaker Shoojit Sircar at the Bikash Bhavan ground.
http://www.independent.co.uk/sport/football/european/tottenham-vs-real-madrid-dele-alli-goal-goals-eriksen-champions-league-group-h-ronaldo-a8032456.html
They’ll still talk about this game, years from now, decades from now: when Harry Kane is that jowly bloke off Soccer Saturday, when Mauricio Pochettino is greying and frail, when Dele Alli is a grandfather of seven with a penchant for cheeky practical jokes. They’ll reminisce about it in the oxygen bars of Enfield and the hoverboard racetracks of south Essex. Where were you when Tottenham Hotspur bullied the European champions at Wembley?
Far more impressive than the fact of Tottenham handing Real Madrid their first Champions League group-stage defeat since 2012, and qualifying for the last 16 in the process, was the way they did it: with bravery and skill, composure and organisation. Remarkably, it was Spurs who played like the kings of Europe; Real like the club who once played Gary Doherty up front for an entire half-season.
Alli returned from his European suspension in spectacular fashion to score two goals. Christian Eriksen grabbed the other, and as the goals rained in the reaction around Wembley was not merely euphoria but disbelief: the dumb grin of the computer hacker who has just broken into the Pentagon mainframe by guessing “Password 1”. Dismantling the world’s best club should not be this easy.
Real, eight points behind a lukewarm Barcelona in the La Liga title race, were again a pale fraction of the team that has won three of the last four Champions Leagues, but in large part their errors were forced rather than unforced. Tottenham pressed them high, prevented them from passing the ball out of defence and turned the fabled Real midfield of Toni Kroos, Luka Modric and Isco into spectators.
Of course Tottenham rode their luck, just as they did a fortnight ago in the Bernabeu. There was a suspicion of offside to the first goal, for example, and a few jitters after Cristiano Ronaldo’s late consolation goal 10 minutes from time. And of course, Real created chances. Hugo Lloris played another blinder, both in terms of saves and distribution. Davinson Sanchez marshalled the defence brilliantly after a first-half injury to Toby Alderweireld. But for most of the 90 minutes, Tottenham looked secure.
Potential winners? Not an outlandish proposition, on this evidence. They will need a little luck with injuries and perhaps a little luck with the draw, even if they claim the three points they need to top the group. But in what promises to be one of the most open Champions Leagues in years, with the traditional giants stumbling and the five English clubs in rude health, at the moment it feels more of a risk to rule Tottenham out than to rule them in.
Pochettino has got them dreaming, and perhaps the warmest compliment you could pay them is that Spurs were not even extraordinary. This is their level now, and the ease with which they drifted around Real, past them, over them, was evidence of the mental strength that Pochettino loves talking about. A more clinical Spurs might even have turned this into a rout. Every attack seemed to result, at the very least, in a shot or a telling pass.
Harry Kane and Harry Winks had already enjoyed decent openings before Alli put Tottenham ahead. It was Kieran Trippier with the foresight to make the run down the right, Winks with the vision to pick him out, Trippier again with the courage to play the cross first time on the volley, and Alli with the strength to hold off Nacho and slide the ball in.
Wembley erupted, but as Real twitched briefly into life, this was a time when Tottenham needed their composure more than ever. Lloris made a couple of regulation saves from Ronaldo, while Moussa Sissoko and Kane both fluffed chances to double Tottenham’s lead. Ten minutes into the second half, though, they were in again: a dummy from Kane, a missed tackle by Casemiro, and Alli’s shot cannoning in off Sergio Ramos. Too easy again, and back in the centre circle Ronaldo simply shook his head sadly, trying to ignore the cheers of 80,000 crowing Cockneys around him.
It would get better still for Tottenham. Ten minutes after that, Alli threaded the ball through for Kane, who delayed the pass just long enough for Eriksen to sprint clear and tuck the ball past Kiko Casilla. And as Wembley clicked into full party mode, there would be more counter-attacks, more threatening crosses, more desperate clearances. There would be a goal for Ronaldo, grumpily smashing the ball home from close range as Real’s weight of crosses finally became too much for Tottenham to bear. There would be a few minutes of vaguely flaky defending as Real scented, however faintly and however briefly, an elusive comeback.
But ultimately, nobody will remember any of that. They’ll remember the champagne football and the broad smiles, the disbelieving roar of the Wembley crowd and the vaguely ethereal sensation that you get when entering uncharted territory. People say it’s the hope that kills you. But right now Tottenham is a place full of hope, and it’s never felt more alive.
BEING SOCRATES: THE BRAZILIAN FOOTBALL LEGEND