Sleepless nights watching the beautiful game

The 1990 FIFA World Cup will always remain intertwined in my memory with the cold, rain-soaked nights of the southwest monsoon in Kerala. Even today, when the first rain of the season arrives in June, carrying the scent of wet earth and the sound of water dripping from coconut leaves, my mind travels back to Kannattumodi, a small village near Mavelikara, where, as a 24-year-old football fanatic, I lived through one of the most unforgettable months of my life.

Television was still a novelty in Kerala then. Though Doordarshan arrived in the State after the 1982 Asian Games, TV ownership remained limited. By 1990, however, television sets were slowly finding their way into homes, becoming windows to a larger world. Italia ’90 was perhaps the first World Cup that many ordinary Malayalis could follow live from start to finish.

For a month, sleep became a luxury. Most matches were telecast late into the night. The monsoon outside made the experience even more magical. The rain would fall steadily on the tiled roofs. Frogs croaked from the paddy fields. Occasionally, a gust of wind would rattle the windows. Wrapped in a thin shawl against the chill, I would sit with eyes glued to the screen, my eyes fixed on distant stadiums in Italy.

The World Cup transformed those nights. Matches were played thousands of kilometres away in Italy, yet they seemed strangely close. Every night, after dinner, we the fans prepared ourselves for another vigil. The world outside disappeared into darkness and rain, while the television screen bathed the room in a soft glow.

The football fever was infectious. Every morning, conversations shifted from crop prices and local politics to goals, penalties, and refereeing decisions. Youngsters debated tactics. Elders who had never seen Italy on a map suddenly knew the names of Naples and Milan. The World Cup had arrived in rural Kerala.

My heart belonged to Brazil. Like countless football lovers in Kerala, I had grown up admiring the magic of Brazilian football. The yellow jersey symbolised joy, creativity, and artistry. Though the Brazil team of 1990 was more pragmatic than the dazzling sides of earlier decades, I believed they would go all the way. Then came the heartbreak.

Brazil dominated much of their Round of 16 match against Argentina. Time and again, they attacked, only to be denied by bad luck and stubborn defending. Then, in a cruel twist, Diego Maradona produced a moment of brilliance, setting up Claudio Caniggia for the winning goal. I remember the silence that followed. The rain continued outside, but the excitement inside me vanished instantly. Brazil were out. For days, I carried that disappointment with me.

Yet the tournament marched on. Cameroon captured the world’s imagination. West Germany displayed remarkable consistency. Argentina fought their way through adversity. Night after rainy night, I continued watching, despite my shattered hopes.

The final in Rome saw West Germany defeat Argentina 1-0 through Andreas Brehme’s penalty. The Germans lifted the trophy, becoming world champions. I watched the celebrations with admiration.

Thirty-six years have passed since those monsoon nights. Television has changed. Football has changed. Kerala has changed. But whenever the southwest monsoon arrives and the rain taps gently against the window, I can still see that flickering Doordarshan screen at Kannattumodi. I can still feel the chill of those sleepless nights, hear the distant thunder, and remember the dreams of a 24-year-old football lover who fell even deeper in love with the beautiful game.

thomasjacob@ymail.com