Sunday Afternoon Adventure

It was a quiet Sunday. I was lying on the floor watching football since morning; I had just nodded off, when I heard the front door slam. A rowdy crowd materialized out of thin air and they started searching the place. I had an inkling that something was wrong – I knew I was in trouble. I tried to roll behind the sofa but one of them spotted me lying on the floor and made a beeline for me, while beckoning the others.

Before I could even say ‘English Premier League’, I had been manhandled across the street onto the ground that kids used. Three seconds later I found myself tasting the earth. I tried to get up, but the guy who had spotted me was holding me down with his feet. They had a whispered conversation and soon surrounded me. Their menacing glances pierced me. They resembled dogs on leashes when a piece of meat was lying in front of them. Their leashes unleashed and all of them leapt towards me.

I started counting, one, two, three… thirty-seven, thirty-eight… one-hundred-twenty-one, one-hundred-twenty-two… After one-hundred-ninety-six, I lost count; I was busy trying to avoid the kicks – rather then counting them. Rarely did they see where I was being kicked; they kicked for the fun of it. I could see a weird frenzy, an unchecked excitement in their eyes. They were having fun! They were actually enjoying! People sure can get so sadistic.

It started raining; I thanked the good God for sending the rains to save me. I expected a reprieve any second. I was starting to make a checklist of my injuries when reality crashed the dream world yet again. The intensity of the kicks increased, the madness in their eyes multiplied. They were slipping in the slush trying to kick me; nonetheless they were kicking me. Doggedly they kept on. Sometimes I even felt, I was soaring through the air only to hit back the ground harder.

I was thinking what would be scribbled on my epitaph when all of a sudden they stopped. They were panting badly, tongues hanging out. Even in that condition, the image of Pete Sampras playing a Wimbledon match with his tongue hanging out flitted through my mind.

I was trying to get up and go home, when one of them lifted me, again – I resigned to my worse-then-the-worst fate and pumped myself anticipating the kicks. Surprisingly none came; instead I was carried home by my assaulters, and was deposited on the sofa.

Wish I might have been a human being; it is tough being a football.