Proposals to rid India’s penal laws of its colonial antiquity, by itself, as is the case with calls for greater policing, can seem insignificant, and even trivial, when considering a culture that is nourished by brazen chauvinism, but these mores are only enabled and strengthened by laws that are inherently bigoted. Where does, for instance, one begin to explain what “outraging the modesty of women” means? How is it that our laws fail to criminalize marital rape? What does the so-called “two-finger test,” which continues to be used as an evidence collection tool in rape cases, in spite of the Supreme Court’s specific dicta prohibiting the use of its results against a rape survivor, say about our criminal justice system? How does one explain the glaring variances in sentencing based on the victim’s prior sexual history?

All of these obtrusive fallacies in the law have only furthered a culture that actively encourages violence against women. There is an immediate need to shred anti-rape laws of their dogmatist wording and to view rape independent of ideas of “chastity” and “modesty,” which virtually equate the victim to the offender. Rape needs to be viewed for what it is: a sickening act of sexual violence on a woman. In its present form, Section 375 of the Indian Penal Code broadly defines rape as penetration—which has been interpreted by courts to mean the penetration of a woman’s vagina by a penis—without consent. Any act of sexual violence short of vaginal penetration—including oral and anal penetration—is therefore prosecuted either as an attempt to rape or under Section 354, which covers assaults intending to “outrage” a woman’s “modesty”—and is punishable with imprisonment for a term no longer than two years with or without a meek fine. Consequently, to insert a rod into a woman’s body, in the eyes of the law, amounts to nothing more than outraging her modesty, whatever that means. This may appear to some as a mere matter of semantics, but the legislature in retaining laws that are in keeping with archaic notions of “virtue” and “chastity,” is contributing to an acutely dangerous culture. Both of these provisions require immediate rewording. Rape must be defined with greater clarity to include not merely vaginal penetration, but also oral or anal penetration as well as penetration with foreign objects.[1] There needs to be a categorical recognition that rape with an object is potentially as traumatic as vaginal penetration, and the law must also explicitly recognize that the victim isn’t mandated to assert physical resistance to show a lack of consent. The exception to Section 375 must be removed, and marital rape ought to be specifically criminalized within the provision. Further, section 354 must be freed of its antiquated wording, and acts of sexual violence not amounting to rape need to be clearly defined (including criminalization of acid attacks, sexual harassment, groping, etc.) and graded based on levels of harm. That an act of sexual violence against a woman is an insult to her human dignity ought to be uncompromisingly recognized.

Human Rights Watch in a comprehensive 2010 report, “Dignity on Trial,” highlights the anathema of the “two-finger test,” which has come to represent standard medical practice, even though past sexual history has been disallowed in rape trials since 2003. As Pratiksha Baxi points out in this post, and as Jeet Shroff wrote in these pages, the test based on the survivor’s uninformed consent is inevitably introduced as evidence. The practice entails insertion by doctors of two fingers in the victim’s vagina to ascertain whether the hymen can stretch without tearing—as the HRW report showcases, the test is used routinely to determine whether a rape survivor was “habituated to sexual intercourse.” According to the HRW report, since 2005 at least 153 court decisions from 18 different High Courts have cited finger test results or doctors’ opinions about whether or not the survivor was “habituated,” “accustomed,” or “used” to sex. If the law of the land as laid down by the Supreme Court mandates that a rape survivor’s sexual history ought not to discredit testimony, how is it that results from finger tests are customarily introduced as evidence? Over and above being devoid of any scientific weight, these tests are also tantamount to torture—in many cases they can exacerbate the survivor’s trauma by mimicking penile penetration. The two-finger test must not only be banned but also criminalized—it is a damning indictment of a system that is bizarrely prejudiced against the victim.[2]

Finally, a few words on punishment: In the immediate wake of the horrific incident in New Delhi, there has been a clamor to introduce the death penalty, and even chemical castration,[3] for rapists. These suggestions, though, are far from helpful, and do little more than quench a thirst for immediate retributive justice. There is little empirical evidence to suggest that capital punishment serves as a deterrent for future crime, apart from being a state-sponsored abomination. The focus should instead be on the conviction rate. A mere 26 percent of all registered rape cases in 2011 lead to convictions, according to the National Crime Records Bureau, a statistic that is even more appalling when you consider that more than 50 percent of the cases go unregistered. The reasons for the low conviction rate are likely innumerable, but chief among them is the retention of colonial-era laws that place the burden on the conduct of the survivor as opposed to the conduct of the accused.

Setting right the legal system will admittedly only serve a limited purpose in alleviating the larger problem: a society that breeds inequality and contempt for women. There is a shocking lack of participation by women in politics, with more than 90 percent of the seats, for instance, in Parliament held by men. The Women’s Reservation Bill, which will guarantee a certain number of seats for women in the Parliament, has gone nowhere. Female feoticide remains rampant. Girls continue to be criminally undereducated. Our country, more than sixty five years after independence, remains brutally misogynous. That our laws, such as the provisions concerning sexual violence contained in the Indian Penal Code, encourage this culture is shameful. Correcting these, at the very least, may be a step in the right direction.

“Zero Dark Thirty” begins by telling you that what you are about to see is “based on first-hand accounts of actual events.” The 9/11 attacks are then expressed through a short audio montage of calls from victims, proceeding quickly to a “black site” in Pakistan, where an Arab male looking woefully maimed is shown being tortured by Dan, a tall, brooding CIA interrogator. Standing next to him, face covered in a black hood, is Maya, a red-haired woman, who will soon take over the mantle of the chase, and will play an active—if seemingly troubled and indirect—role in further torturous acts in an incessant bid to find the al Qaeda leader. We will then be told through a series of perplexing, breathless scenes that the Arab man, Ammar, worked for al Qaeda. Ammar, who refuses to divulge any information, will then be put through another few doses of vicious waterboarding and various forms of sexual embarrassment leaving him viscerally battered, bruised, and humiliated.

Soon Maya and Dan, based on the former’s advice, will take Ammar out for lunch—who on a diet of meatballs and cigarettes, and seemingly under fear of further torture—will reveal crucial information about a courier that would eventually lead the CIA to bin Laden. But not before a few others have been tortured or subjected to “enhanced interrogation,” as the CIA likes to describe its methods. Maya’s obsession—akin without the beguiling complexities to Carrie’s character in the superior (yet fundamentally flawed) TV series Homeland—with finding bin Laden will then be documented through a sequence of scenes that beggars reality. When the CIA first subjected a detainee to torture, as Mayer points out in her piece, the FBI agent at the scene raised strong objections, taking the matter all the way to the top of the Bush administration. But none of this merits mention in Bigelow’s film, which only glorifies the method, showcasing torture as an effective tool crucial to bin Laden’s discovery. Of course, there is no explicit endorsement of torture, but at various junctures there is an allusion towards it—it is categorically shown as a measure that was indispensable to the mission. Suggestions by some, such as Spencer Akerman of Wired magazine, that the movie effectively makes a strong case for the inhumanity of torture by showing the interrogation method in all its ignominy is infinitely off the mark—the only mention of the measure’s barbarity is in a 60 minutes interview of Barack Obama, who is condemning torture, which is playing on a TV screen in the background as Maya and other CIA operatives showcase their disdain, almost as if to say: “What does he know after all.”

The problem: torture did not lead the CIA to bin Laden. This has been established over and over again. As Scott Shane and Charlie Savage reported for The New York Times, “One detainee who apparently was subjected to some tough treatment provided a crucial description of the courier, according to current and former officials briefed on the interrogations. But two prisoners who underwent some of the harshest treatment — including Khalid Shaikh Mohammed, who was waterboarded 183 times — repeatedly misled their interrogators about the courier’s identity.” Senators Diane Feinstein—the head of the Senate Intelligence Committee, which has been investigating CIA’s interrogation programme—John McCain and Carl Levin wrote this in their letter to the Chairman of Sony Pictures Entertainment: “The CIA did not first learn about the existence of the [Osama] Bin Laden courier from CIA detainees subjected to coercive interrogation techniques. Nor did the CIA discover the courier’s identity from detainees subjected to coercive techniques. No detainee reported on the courier’s full name or specific whereabouts, and no detainee identified the compound in which [Osama] Bin Laden was hidden. Instead, the CIA learned of the existence of the courier, his true name and location through means unrelated to the CIA detention and interrogation program.” The CIA’s current acting director, Michael Morrell has similarly expressed his disappointment at the factual inaccuracies propagated by the movie, describing the impression that torture led to bin Laden’s finding as simply “false.”

What the film gives us though is blatant lies hidden behind a veil of artistic license. All of this  is even more distressing when you consider what Bigelow and screenwriter, Mark Boal, who worked with her on the superb “The Hurt Locker.” have said in their various interviews. Bigelow told Dexter Filkins of The New Yorker that what they were “attempting is almost a journalistic approach to film,’’ hinting that their purported intention was to get the facts right, and then portray it cinematically. Boal told New York magazine that the film is a “hybrid of the filmic and the journalistic,” while trying to assuage the criticism by revealing later that “It’s a movie, not a documentary.” Bigelow, however, adds that the film has no agenda, and “it doesn’t judge. I wanted a boots-on-the-ground experience.” In trying to simultaneously gloat about its accuracy while hiding behind the independence that fiction accords, Boal and Bigelow have tarnished an already repugnant film even further.

Filmmakers no doubt deserve an element of “artistic license,” and all art, as Alan Rozenshtein writes in the Lawfare blog, is not political, but the pursuit of bin Laden is of such immense historic relevance, that it required particular attention to detail. “If drama butted up against truth, Bigelow should have compromised the drama, not the truth,” Rozenshtein rightly says. And in any event, as the opening of the film suggests, and as Bigelow’s and Boal’s statements to the press have alluded, what is being portrayed as the movie’s selling point is its devotion to the truth. On that count, it not only fails miserably, it comes across as sheer propagandist junk.

President Obama in his press conference, a short while after the Newtown massacre, was understandably emotional and visibly moved. Yet, as David Remnick wrote in The New Yorker’s website, what is needed now is more than just raw emotion and mere words, and for the president to act Presidential. Admittedly, viewing the issue in black and white as “guns versus no guns”—as it should be in an ideal world—is impractical from a political perspective. But as mass slaughters transpire like a metronome, with stunning regularity, the least one would expect is a dialogue towards gun control. No longer is there any justification in putting this discussion off on the grounds that it is disrespectful to the departed.

Michael Bloomberg, the mayor of New York, might not be the most likable of politicians. But as John Cassidy rightly points out, Bloomberg, more than any other political figure, has once again called the issue like it is. In response to a question on specific steps that Obama can take given the various limitations (constitutional impediments, a conservative Congress and so forth), Bloomberg had this to say:

“Well, there’s a number of things that the President can do and a number of things that Congress can do. And there are a number of things that you and I can do as voters. What the President can do is number one through executive action, he can order his agencies to enforce the laws more aggressively. I think there’s something like 77,000 people who have been accused of lying when they have applied for a gun permit. We’ve only prosecuted 77 of them.

The President can introduce legislation even if it doesn’t get passed. The President campaigned back in 2008 on a bill that would prohibit assault weapons. We’ve got to really question whether military style weapons with big magazines belong in the streets of America in this day and age. Nobody questions the Second Amendment’s right to bear arms. But I don’t think the founding fathers had the idea that every man, woman, and child could carry an assault weapon.

And I think the President through his leadership could get a bill like that through Congress. But at least he’s got to try. And that’s his job.”

It is easy of course to view this series of mass slaughters as an issue that transcends gun control. Defenders of the present gun control laws, which allow Americans to own semi-automatic guns, such as the ones that Adam Lanza used at the elementary school in Newtown, argue that it is not the guns that kill people, but the people who wield them; that guns protect people more than they kill; and that owning firearms to defend oneself is far too ingrained in American culture to evoke reconsideration. All of these arguments are inherently fallacious and are an affront to a civilized society. In a small provincial village in China, a few hours before Lanza’s attack in Connecticut, Min Yingjun, a deranged man, went on a rampage in an elementary school, slashing twenty-two children and one adult with a knife. Unlike the Newtown massacre, all of them survived. It wasn’t, therefore, as much Lanza’s troubled upbringing that killed the children of Sandy Hook elementary school, as some might be, I shudder to say, happy to point out, as the semiautomatic guns that he fired away with disdain.

The argument that guns are a part of a deep-rooted ethos and that to impose control on possession of firearms would only add to a rancor that would have the U.S. “politically frozen and culturally inflamed,” as Dan Baum writes in a piece for Harper’s Magazine, is of equal moral curiousness. There is of course no denying the basic premise of the argument that guns are a part of American culture—but to not question that culture is reprehensible, and places the U.S. on thin ice as it continues to lay claim to a supposed—illusory—moral high ground.

Since the United Kingdom banned private ownership of handguns and semiautomatics, following the Dunblane attacks in March, 1996, there has been a substantial decline in the country of deaths through firearms. In Australia, likewise, a law banning the possession of semiautomatic and automatic rifles and shotguns, was passed in 1996 following a massacre in Tasmania that left 35 dead. The law, as studies show, has been a marked success: in the decade after the law was introduced, “firearm homicide rate fell by 59 percent, and the firearm suicide rate fell by 65 percent…without a parallel increase in non-firearm homicides and suicides.”

What is curious to the U.S., therefore, is not that it has a specifically high number of people capable of indulging in the most heinous of attacks, but that it continues to take pride in a malevolent culture that encourages people to own a semiautomatic Sig Sauer or a Glock—the weapons that Lanza apparently used on Friday. It must be pointed out that the logistics of implementing a gun control law in a country where there are nearly as many preexisting private guns as there are people would be a huge challenge, but amid this madness, one needs to start somewhere. Banning guns would not make these massacres go away, but that’s hardly an argument against the need for such legislation.

Gideon Haigh in writing recently about Jacques Kallis made reference to Amarillo Slim’s advice to players of Texas Hold’ Em: “play fast in a slow game, slow in a fast game”. As is the case with Kallis, Cook’s career strikerate has never crossed 50 once, constantly hovering around the 48 mark, at which it presently finds itself. There are sessions of play when Cook’s batting can seem dour and obstinate, but to accuse it of lacking inspiration would be tantamount to questioning the very pursuit of excellence.

Cook’s 136 (not-out at the time of writing) in the ongoing Eden Gardens Test was once more a statement of purpose and industry, an outstanding example of batsmanship. The pitch admittedly looked placid, but when you consider that India had floundered its way to a relatively meager 316, Cook’s innings stands out even more as a pillar of majesty. Coming as it did on the back of hundreds in consecutive test matches (a fighting effort in vain in Ahmadabad and a match-winning display in Mumbai) there was a feeling of inevitability about this innings—as though it had been foreordained almost. But it was none the poorer for that.

When he’s at his best, Cook’s footwork is a real treat to watch. Not from an aesthetic standpoint, as it can be with, say, Michael Clarke, but through a measure of its effectiveness. It’s staggering, for instance, as Sanjay Manjrekar pointed out in commentary, how deep Cook can go into the crease when playing strokes square of the wicket. There is a minimalism about his footwork, but he is rarely found wanting because of it. He doesn’t plunk his front foot forward nor does he remain utterly still. The only quirk is in his hands, when he lifts his bat backwards in a jerk, but for the most part his batting is a perfect riposte to the ball that is bowled. And the tempo of his batting means that you can zone in and out of the Test, as he moves along like a serene stream.

But every now and then Cook will shock you. Sport, as with any other form of art, is at its best when it catches you by surprise. And what I’ll remember most from his century on Thursday was a six that he hit off Ashwin shortly after lunch—a little hop down the pitch was followed by a wonderfully clean and straight hit that cleared the boundary with ease. It struck the eye at the time, and it continues to resonate even now.

But let’s first consider Edward Cowan, shall we? A player, who not too long ago looked destined to miss the boat, and who having finally made it looked ill-suited to the form’s rigours—he certainly showed that he could bat time, but as his average of just under 30 over seven Tests showed, he had struggled to make the runs needed to solidify his place in the team. Cowan even wrote—and spoke—eloquently about the travails of the sport, the aspects that make it both implausibly hard and intensely exhilarating. His book, In the Firing Line, written in the form of a diary, is a similarly excellent read that lays bare the difficulties of a first class cricketer with remarkable honesty. Cowan’s story is both interesting and inspiring largely because he is, as Jarrod Kimber wrote in this piece, like you, me, and the other guy: an ordinary bloke.

Taking strike against Dale Steyn, the world’s best fast bowler, and the rest of his outstanding cohorts, at the Gabba must have surely been a surreal moment even for Cowan, but he came through the examination with a sense of quiet assurance and a Test match century. It wasn’t a pretty innings—Cowan’s ungainly back lift is a particular sore on the eyes—but it was one that was planned to perfection. For much of the early parts of his knock, which began shortly after tea on the third day, Cowan compelled himself to refrain from the front-foot drive, and left balls outside the off stump with wonderful precision. Anything short, however, was smoothly pulled, mostly in front of square. The result: he got a good measure of the pitch even as the scoreboard ticked along at a fair clip. The early part of his innings was even more notable when you consider that his first three partners were removed before the team’s score had crossed 40. David Warner edged a beauty from Steyn to the slips; debutant Rob Quiney hooked one to fine leg off Morkel; and Ponting was once again done in by the vulnerabilities that have increasingly plagued him in the beginning of an innings. Cowan, though, was composed, confident and polished. He began the fourth day on 49 together with a well-set Michael Clarke, and with the South Africans uncharacteristically erring in line, he unveiled a greater array of strokes, particularly a sleek cover drive, which he used to put away any ball verging on the over-pitched. And finally when he reached his first Test century, just after lunch, with a sweet pull off Philander, he celebrated with joy and dignity, a hop and a leap, followed by a little look upwards at the sky, thanking his mentor, Peter Roebuck, who had died on the same day, last year (the moment is captured splendidly by Kimber in a piece for Cricinfo).

Every moment of Cowan’s fledgling international career has been a rigorous examination, a test if you will. It is a tribute to his supreme mental skills that he has come through these initial trials with a century of the highest class against the world’s best bowling attack. But most importantly, it serves as another indicator of the beauty of Test cricket—Cowan’s journey from adequate first class batsman to a Test match centurion has been nothing short of alluring even if one caught up with it only upon his breaking into the Australian team.

I am reminded here of what Simon Barnes of The Times once wrote: “A one-day game is a mere short story, a Test series is a roman-fleuve, a series of novels that unwinds over the course of a season.” Eddie Cowan is only eight Tests into his career, but just his story alone—if one were to consider it complete today—feels like a roman-flueve—the narrative built brick by brick, with ebbs and flows, changes in pace and rhythm, beginning brightly, going through a period of attrition, and ending on a romantic high. No sport can offer a story of this ilk, which is why its distressing to see some of the figures that the brilliant Gideon Haigh offers in this post.

By Haigh’s account (aided by statistician Ric Finlay) there was an average of 44 Tests a year between 1995 and 2011 including 55 in 2001 and 54 in 2002, but so far in 2012, even though we are almost half way into November, there have only been 29. The blame, Haigh says, lies with the burgeoning popularity of T-20 internationals and the various other T-20 leagues including the Indian Premier League and Australia’s Big Bash. Test match cricket, the most beautiful form of sport, is dwindling at a rate of knots. The solutions are sadly not immediately apparent. The ICC’s idea of a Test championship featuring playoffs between the top four ranked teams is a good one even if not flawless (as Haigh points out), but the real problem lies elsewhere—there is no space, I feel, for three forms of the same game. The perniciousness of T-20s notwithstanding, what’s clear is that it’s a form that’s going nowhere in the immediate future. One wouldn’t be ill-advised in saying that the 50-over game should be the one to suffer, but considering the popularity of the form’s World Cup, I suspect it isn’t going anywhere either. All of this leaves Test cricket on a slippery slope—cherish it while you can, as Haigh says, but also hope that someone smart can find the magic potion.

After his victory over Federer in the men’s singles final, Andy Murray evaded John McEnroe’s question on whether he’d trade his gold medal for a grand slam triumph with as much deftness as he showed with the placement on his backhands on Sunday. He said something on these lines: “Now that I have this, I’d like to win the U.S. Open.” I am not suggesting here that Murray doesn’t value his gold medal. He was ecstatic with his performance in the final; the win clearly meant a lot to him—tears of despair from three weeks ago at Wimbledon were transformed into tears of joy. The emotions were real and Murray along with hordes of British fans will treasure this victory in the years to come.

An argument may even be made that though tennis made a return to the Olympics only in 1984 after a 60-year gap, with the top players now taking the event seriously it could become a genuine marquee event at the Games, but come Rio when the sport is back on the clay courts, I doubt it will generate as much interest as this past week at London did. Tennis needs not the occasion of an Olympics to generate interest, but a venue of importance. The Games on the other hand will retain significance regardless of which city is chosen as its host.

Yet, Murray’s victory is seminal not merely because a triumph in the sport’s most famous arena will add sheen to his achievements, but because it could set him on the path to carve out a legacy that he endeavours to create. Just as his victory in the Davis Cup Final in 2010 set Novak Djokovic onto one of tennis’ most remarkable winning streaks, Murray’s performance at the London Games could set the platform for greater success. For Murray it has never been a case of a lack of talent—before his Wimbledon final this year against Federer he held a winning head-to-head record against the Swiss. Yet he came a cropper every time he played Federer in a grand slam contest. At the Wimbledon final a few weeks back, he started the match with a bang, yet faded like a withering flower. Here, however, he was imperious, earning his first victory in a best of five sets match against Federer. The pressure of the occasion was unequivocal, but Murray stood steadfast; he swarmed Federer’s backhand wing with a focus that never wavered. He moved with exquisite precision and pummeled his groundstrokes with remarkable accuracy, angle and pace. When he’s at his best, Murray’s movement is peerless—none of the others in the top four possess the nous that he displays in covering the rectangle. But, apart from serving as a magnificent display of his talents, more importantly Murray, perhaps, proved to himself that he is capable of beating the best players on the big occasions (even though this was merely an illusory big occasion). After his heartbreaking defeat to Djokovic at the Australian Open semifinal earlier this year—a match in which he came close to toppling the Serb—I wondered, “If the rivalry at the top of men’s tennis could become even more implausibly grand.” I think now we may well be heralding a new era, one in which Murray will go into the latter stages of a grand slam as a genuine, unmistakable threat.

It was tennis at its most beautiful. It was also tennis that ultimately proved beyond Murray’s reach. As hard as he tried—and he did give it the old college try—he came short; but he didn’t as much as fail as Federer prevailed. “I think I played some of my best tennis the past couple of matches,” said Federer,” after the final. Now, if that’s the best tennis that Federer has ever played, then it’s likely the best that anyone has ever played—a sort of tennis nirvana.

For over two years we wondered if Federer can regain his old aura, his old magic—in truth, he had never lost it; he was merely sharpening his game, altering his tactics, and searching for a way to overcome the new challenges. At the French Open in 2010, playing as defending champion, Federer was overpowered by Robin Soderling in 4 sets; and weeks later, against another powerful striker of the ball, Tomas Berdych, another quarterfinal exit ensued, this time on the hallowed grass at Wimbledon. This, we felt, was the beginning of the end. Having made 23 consecutive grand slam semifinals, Federer had now lost in the quarterfinals two grand slams in a row. How could he?

When I watched him through this period, I often wondered what he was doing wrong; maybe Federer himself wondered as much. There was nothing palpably amiss with his game, if his movement had gotten a little less precise, or if he wasn’t as quick as he once was, it certainly wasn’t apparent to the naked eye. But Federer knew he had to reinvent his game—maybe tactically he wasn’t doing what was necessary to overcome the era’s trials. To understand the magnitude of his achievement this past Sunday, we must consider all that has transpired between his defeat to Berdych at Wimbledon till now. The evolution was subtle but definite.

The first thing Federer did to set himself back on the road towards the top was to hire Pete Sampras’ former coach, Paul Annacone. This, considering that he had played for years without a coach, was a clear indication that he recognized the need for reinvention. The speculation was that Annacone—a serve and volleyer during his playing career—would urge Federer to play an even more attacking game, a game that would see him charge forward, and maybe borrow a trick or two from the Sampras manual. But this was conjecture emanating from a romantic—and mistaken—notion. In this power-baseline era, coming up to the net, even behind a heavy serve, could be tantamount to committing suicide. Instead, Federer worked on other aspects of the game, particularly his single-handed backhand, perhaps, the weakest stroke in his gloriously rich repertoire. It’s quite possible that his movement had suffered in recent years, that he wasn’t able to glide across the court as efficiently as he once could, and as a result that he couldn’t run outside the ball to convert enough backhands into forehands, with his usual transcendent elegance.

Victories at the Stockholm Open and the Swiss Indoors followed soon after Annacone was hired, and Federer, it seemed, was returning to his best. At the U.S. Open in 2010, right up until his semifinal meeting against Djokovic, Federer had looked sublime—he had thrashed Soderling, for instance, in three easy, straight sets in the quarterfinals. The semi, though, was the making of the new-Djokovic. Federer played beautifully for much of the match, but with his serve letting him down in some crucial moments, and with Novak playing out of his skin, he ultimately came a cropper. Some analysts said his decline was fast turning from gradual to terminal. But just weeks later, Federer was majestic again—he dismissed Djokovic (who may have admittedly had the Davis Cup Final in his mind) 6-1, 6-4 in the semifinal before beating Nadal in 3 sets (6-1 in the decider).

The year turned, but Federer, it seemed, was still in decline. In Melbourne, he again ran into Djokovic, who had hit serious heights, and was in the middle of one of the hottest winning streaks the game has ever seen. He was returning serve, perhaps, better than anyone ever had; and his ability to turn defense into attack was boggling the mind. But in the French Open semifinal, a few months later, it was Federer’s turn to be inspired. Barring a poor third set, the Swiss was supremely clinical—his court coverage on the day against a rampant Djokovic was as close to perfection as you could hope to see. He was able to more than hold his own on the backhand-to-backhand crosscourt rallies, and maybe whatever he was working on was finally coming to fruition; the resurgence we thought had commenced. But regardless of his form, and any perceived resurrection, he wasn’t going to beat Nadal on the Parisian clay. At Wimbledon, Federer found himself a new problem. He had never lost after winning the first two sets of a grand slam match, but that’s exactly what he did against Jo Wilfred Tsonga in the quarterfinal. Maybe the decline was more a product of mental frailties—the Federer of the old would have dismissed Tsonga, we all opined. It almost seemed as though Federer was being too casual—we criticized the same demeanor that we would have hailed as a sign of his effortlessness had he been victorious.

So off he went to New York. Again, there was nothing conceivably wrong with his game: he sailed through the early matches, including a majestic rout of Juan Monaco in the fourth round in which he lost only 3 games. The loss to Tsonga at Wimbledon was avenged in the quarters, with remarkable ease. “We’ve heard about signs of Roger Federer’s descent from the mountaintop,” wrote Steve Tignor of Tennis.com. “Was this win, with all of its old-fashioned easygoing excellence, a sign of ascent?” It certainly seemed so for large parts of his semifinal against Djokovic—in the first two sets, Federer was at his fluid best; he was covering the court with a supreme sense of authority, and the ball was flying off his racket, particularly off the forehand wing. Djokovic, though fought back, winning sets 3 and 4, but found himself down two match points in the fifth set—what happened next has been all too well documented to have to recount here, but again Federer had come up short in spite of playing some exquisite tennis. Maybe his time really was up. Maybe he was no longer capable of summoning his best when it mattered most. Yes he was still winning other tournaments; he was again terrific in the World Tour Finals at London, but what of the grand slams? What of number 17? Will it ever come?

The evidence of early 2012 suggested it wouldn’t. Again, up until the semis in Australia, Federer had looked superb; he played with such silky elegance that I wondered if it mattered at all whether he won another grand slam. This time, he was on Nadal’s side of the draw, and the two produced another memorable match, but Federer had beaten his great rival only twice in nine meetings in grand slams, and he wasn’t going to improve upon it here. Again, I watched closely, to try and identify holes in his game—but there was nothing palpably wrong; he had merely lost to a rival against whom he had a far inferior head-to-head record to begin with. But it was another semifinal defeat, and another sounding of the death knell.

More of the same followed in Paris, but this time, Federer had struggled (relatively) through the early rounds. He had dropped a set each to Ungur, Mahut and Goffin, and came back from two sets to love down against Juan Martin Del Potro in the quarterfinals. So there he was, in another semifinal, against his most recent nemesis, Novak Djokovic. The Serb, though, almost humbled him on this occasion—an easy straight sets victory. This was Federer’s third consecutive loss in the semifinals of a grand slam—for almost no other player would that have been a sign of a crisis. For his part, Federer kept telling us that he was playing well, that he wasn’t far away—and he was right. He was making the latter half of the second week with supreme ease, and there was nothing noticeably wrong in his game; the rub of the green, though, wasn’t going his way. Yet, we felt, it had to be more than just that. He had gone nine grand slams without triumph; his longest streak since he won his first in 2003. He was playing some terrific tennis, but tennis that was ultimately not good enough for him to overcome his greatest challengers.

What was it then that won him the title at Wimbledon? We can point to a lot of factors not least the silken splendor of his forehand, his superb serving and even the brilliance of his volleying, especially in the final (it certainly seemed like he had gone back in time). But more than anything else, it was what was new about Federer that made the difference, viz. the improvements that he had made to his singlehanded backhand. Murray, more than anyone bar Nadal, has exploited Federer’s chief weakness (his backhand wing) to great effect in the past. Before the final, Murray had a winning record against Federer; his ability to pound strokes deep into that corner had often caused Federer much trouble. But on Sunday, Federer was able to outhit Murray from that wing. He not only played a lot of clever slices, but he also powered his backhands crosscourt with remarkable pace and accuracy. All the dazzling brilliance of his former self wouldn’t have been enough to beat Murray on the day. He needed his backhand to click, and it did—it was not merely sufficient, but vital. In combining something eminently new with a transient return to his greatest days, Federer achieved tennis perfection. Wasn’t it beautiful?

The first set went in Nadal’s favor, 6-4. The Spaniard could have been excused for thinking what all the hype about the unbeaten run was. He was outhitting Djokovic from the baseline, pushing him wider and wider on the backhand wing, and constantly opening up the angle for the down-the-line winner. Yes, it was a struggle, at times, but it was a struggle that he was used to, a struggle that had routinely helped him succeed in the past, a struggle that had seen him win 16 out of 23 matches against the Serb.

The second set saw Djokovic change both gears and tactics. He was unafraid of going for broke with his forehand, and he used his strong, double-handed backhand down the line—a stroke that he hits with remarkable pace and precision—to constantly push Nadal deeper and deeper into an abyss of uncertainty. Djokovic was able to use, perhaps, his most feared weapon, and direct it at Nadal’s achilees heel. He was blending caution and fearlessness with a hitherto unseen élan. He had his own serve broken once, but broke Nadal twice to take the second set 6-3. The third set saw the Serb take on an even more imperious air—he was recovering and placing balls with extraordinary accuracy from absurd angles. It was tennis at a different level, and it was a step too high for the world’s number one player.

The stage shifted to Miami, two weeks later. Again, Djokovic won in three. Madrid, on Rafa’s clay? Novak in two straight sets. Rome where Nadal had won the title six times? Djokovic in two easy ones. Could he do it in a grand slam final against Nadal, we wondered. We wouldn’t know at Roland Garros where Djokovic fell in the semifinal to an inspired Roger Federer, paving the way for Nadal to retain his championship. At Wimbledon then, in the hallowed grass, where Nadal was the defending champion? The answer: a resounding, authoritative yes.

Yet, this was no case of the vanquished having played poorly. Nadal was superb in the final, he’d have likely beaten any other opponent. He was striking the ball gloriously, finding angles that would have resulted in winners against anyone else. But Djokovic chased them all down; he was sliding on the grass like a skater on ice, twisting his body into weird, gymnastic shapes, and fighting and staying in every point before somehow finding either the room for a winner or forcing Nadal into an error. Djokovic’s excellence had now reached an otherworldly level. He had thrown down the gauntlet and how. This, you thought, was perfection, only there was even more to come from the Serb.

At the U.S. Open, Nadal would again face Djokovic in the final, this time a Djokovic who had defeated Federer in a truly epic five set semifinal, one in which he had saved two match points, the first with “The Shot.” The final was a punishing, beautiful affair—4 hours and 10 minutes of spellbinding, exquisite stroke-making. Nadal pummeled shot after shot with depth and topspin, Djokovic skidded across the blue, acrylic floor and returned with strokes of beguiling angle. It was nirvana for the neutral tennis fan. It was like you, as a viewer, were a part of the struggle. You couldn’t take your eyes of the ball; it was an exhausting, yet thoroughly mesmerizing spectacle. But for Nadal, who had not too long ago conquered the great Federer, this was decidedly cruel. He had, after all, been the best player in the world, perhaps, on all surfaces, between 2008 and 2010. He was still seemingly doing nothing wrong. He was playing as well as he could, hitting shots that would have been winners against any other opponent, yet Djokovic in lifting his tennis beyond earthly expectations was now untouchable.

How much longer could he sustain this, we wondered. Nadal did too, we’d imagine. Maybe the end of season break would shatter Djokovic’s resilience, and provide Nadal with time to make the tactical tweaks required to overcome his latest challenge. What could these tactical tweaks be? Was there anything that Nadal could seemingly improve?

The answer, oddly enough, would present itself in a grueling, psychologically crushing defeat that Nadal suffered at the Australian Open Final in January—his seventh in a row to Djokovic (the full match is available here, in case you’re interested). If we thought the final at Flushing Meadows in September was exhausting, this left us, the viewer, in a heap of pain. A tennis match that lasted for nearly 6 hours, a tennis match, which ebbed and flowed into a vibrant, entrancing theatrical performance. Djokovic lost the first set 5-7, only to take the second and the third with relative ease—relative only in the nature of the score-line. Nadal, we thought, was broken beyond redemption. Yet, he fought back, plugged away like the champion that he is, and took the fourth on a tiebreaker. The fifth saw Nadal get to within six points of victory, but Novak was more aggressive in the final phases, ever the anti-choker, as Siddhartha Vaidyanathan describes him in his latest piece. But even though Djokovic had triumphed, the match was indicative of a slight change in the tide.

Often, when we think of Nadal, we think of his biceps, his stamina, his power, his endurance, the sweat, the toil—all distinctively physical characteristics. But Nadal is more than his physical form. He is a master tactician—every shot that he plays is well thought out, every move that he makes is calculated. There is nothing chancy about his game. His strokes are placed with acuity, and he maneuvers the spin on his shots depending on the opponent and the surface. As, Tom Perrotta wrote in the WSJ: “Nadal’s consistency hides his often-brilliant tactics.”

Nadal was very quick to grasp that there were two essential elements of Djokovic’s game that were hurting him more than anything else—one being, the backhand down the line to his weaker wing, and the other, Djokovic’s return of serve. There was, though, at first viewing, nothing he could do to counter the Serb’s weapons.

Yet, perhaps on greater introspection, aided no doubt by his uncle and coach, Toni, Nadal realized that he needed to move away from his preferred serving areas. He has a tendency to serve to his right-handed opponent’s backhands—he almost always serves down the middle on the deuce court, for instance. At Roland Garros, this year, he apparently began each of his games in his first four matches with serves down the middle: extraordinarily predictable, but with the spin that he gets off the court, a tough serve to return effectively. But against Djokovic, this is a serve that rarely works. Novak has an amazing wing span that helps him not only reach the curved serve, but also return it with terrific depth and accuracy off his backhand, almost always right at Nadal, forcing him on to the defensive.

Craig O’Shannessy, who researches tennis strategy, pointed out in his review of the Australian Open final, that Nadal did, in fact, alter his serving strategy for the match. “His mix of serve location was better than usual,” O’Shannessy wrote. “On first serves, Nadal served out wide in both courts 39 times, at the body 41 times and down the middle to the ‘T’ 57 times.”

Nadal was broadly successful with his strategy–he came closer than he had in his previous six encounters to defeating Djokovic. Yet there were additional tweaks required, and these would be displayed, first in Monte Carlo and Rome, and then in the final at Roland Garros.

In Monte Carlo, as O’Shannessy said: “Nadal served much more to Djokovic’s forehand in this match and reaped the rewards of serving not where he prefers to serve but where Djokovic is not as deadly returning.” The key, though, was not just in the placement of the serve, but in that Nadal was able to use his forehand on the second shot a lot more. ““My serve worked very, very good,” he said. “Sure, I had a few free points with the serve. But most important thing, after the serve, I had the chance to go inside with my forehand a lot of times, so this makes a big difference, no?” he said after the match.

In the finals in Paris, Nadal showed a completely different dimension. Not only was he able to retain his new serving tactics against Djokovic, but he was also able to use his backhand far more effectively as a defensive weapon—he made only 23 unforced errors on the wing to Djokovic’s 37. O’Shannessy wrote: “[W]hen Nadal served, he was able to keep Djokovic away from his backhand far more effectively. Nadal served four times in the fourth set, and only hit 16 backhands in those four service games. That enabled him to use his sword a lot more when serving, where he hit 36 forehands for four winners and only one error.”

These may seem like minor tweaks, but when you’re used to serving predominantly to a right-hander’s backhand—particularly on the deuce court—making a change in the peak of your career is far from simple. But Nadal knew that to overcome his new challenge he had to work harder than, perhaps, he ever had, and force Djokovic to do things differently. And therein lies his greatness.

]]> http://www.criticaltwenties.in/sport/nadal-tweaks-tactics-to-overcome-the-djokovic-barrier/feed 5 http://www.criticaltwenties.in/sport/euro-2012-on-france-carrick-and-spain http://www.criticaltwenties.in/sport/euro-2012-on-france-carrick-and-spain#comments Mon, 28 May 2012 19:24:44 +0000 Suhrith http://www.criticaltwenties.in/?p=4945 The upcoming 2012 European Championships at Poland and Ukraine is just a over week away. Here is a quick glance at France and Spain’s chances, and a player that England will sorely miss.

***

France is now unbeaten in 19 games under Laurent Blanc, but both its best and worst facets were on display in the recent friendly against Iceland. Any backline comprising Philippe Mexes has enough reasons to be worried, and Iceland, although content to play on the break, cleverly exposed France’s frailties in the first half, taking a 2-0 lead through goals from Birkir Bjarnason and Kolbeinn Sigthorsson. Sigthorsson ran the channels superbly, constantly catching Mexes and Patrice Evra out of position. And with France starting with only one designated holding midfielder in Yohan Cabaye, it seemed every time Iceland broke it could score, particularly when the intelligent Gylfi Sigurdsson was on the ball.

In the second half, though, France’s tasty attacking talents came to the fore. Hatem Ben Arfa was magnificent playing off the right wing – a position that he’s adapted to adroitly at Newcastle United, and he was at the centre of most things that France did well. He constantly linked up with the lone striker, Karim Benzema — his former club-mate — and it was his sublime skill inside Iceland’s box that eventually helped right-back Mathieu Debuchy to pull a goal back. Frank Ribery and Olivier Giroud came on late in the second half to wonderful effect, as well. The pair exchanged an exquisite one-two before Ribery icily lobbed the goalkeeper for the equalizer. Giroud was the architect for the winner too, heading down with remarkable precision for centre back Adel Rami to ram home a powerful effort.

Blanc gave Yoann Gourcuff plenty of on-pitch time, but the once-elegant playmaker looked a shadow of the player that he was, under Blanc at Bordeaux. It’s still unclear whether Gourcuff would make the final cut, but an attacking quartet of Benzema, Giroud, Ribery and Ben Arfa is as good as any other team can muster, not to mention that France will likely have Samir Nasri, Florent Malouda, Mathieu Valbuena, and Jeremy Menez in reserve. The only concern for France is that their good work may be undone by shoddiness in defence. Evra may well be dropped for Gael Clichy, who was in fine form for Manchester City in the latter phase of the season, but the lack of an obvious replacement for Mexes — who also wore the captain’s arm band — must be particularly worrying.

***

Nobody, not even the greatest of English optimists, is expecting England to so much as stand a chance at the European championships, but that the country’s best midfielder isn’t going to the tournament is a disgrace. Roy Hodgson revealed shortly after announcing his squad that Michael Carrick had informed the F.A. that he’d rather be excluded from the squad than play an occasional role off the bench. Hodgson said he’d have to be convinced that Carrick was better than the four central midfielders that he had picked, and that he would be willing to return to the format.

Carrick, though, is exactly the kind of calming presence that England needs in midfield, and he would have entered the competition on the back of a stupendous season with Manchester United — one in which he performed far better than each of the four central midfielders that Hodgson initially picked.

Frank Lampard, although influential in Chelsea’s F.A. Cup and Champions League run, has had a largely subdued season, and even though he can lay proper claim to a place in the squad, he’s hardly going to provide the base in midfield that international football mandates. Steven Gerrard may be England’s captain, but ravaged by injuries, he isn’t anywhere near the player that he once was. In any case, it has been proven beyond doubt that his speculative passing, bereft of even a modicum of consistency, won’t cut it in an international competition. Gareth Barry, Hogdson’s initial pick — now replaced by a centre back, Phil Jagielka after picking up an injury — is pedestrian at best and adds almost no value going forward, with his positioning as an anchor-man hugely suspect. That he’s won as many caps as Glenn Hoddle says more about the way England is run than about his own footballing ability. Scott Parker for all his tough-as-nuts tackling is a poor passer of the football, and hasn’t the class to influence games from midfield at this level. He is also susceptible to regular injuries, bringing into attention the only other options that Hodgson has for the position: James Milner and Phil Jones. Milner is hardworking and full of perseverance, but isn’t an international class footballer, while Jones is hugely inexperienced and can scarcely be trusted to run a midfield.

Possession and its values are often overestimated, but a team that enjoyed a mere 44 percent of the ball, as England did against Norway in a recent friendly, isn’t going to threaten anyone in the Euros. A midfield of Parker, Lampard and Gerrard will only bring to focus England’s familiar failings: a shocking lack of technical excellence. Play Carrick alongside Parker with one of Lampard and Gerrard, and it’s a different story altogether. Carrick isn’t a forceful tackler, but his positional sense is peerless. He wins balls in midfield by intercepting cleverly as opposed to resorting to rash, last ditch tackles, and there is no midfielder in England — barring Paul Scholes — who is smarter at using the ball. Yes, he plays a substantial number of passes backwards and sideways, but expansive, reckless passing will only work to your detriment in international football. Carrick is the classiest midfielder that England could have chosen, and it’s a damning indictment of the way the team is managed that he isn’t going to the Euros.

***

As defending World and European champions, Spain starts the tournament as overwhelming favourites. Vicente Del Bosque has a galaxy of midfield stars to choose from, but he is likely to stick to the three who started in South Africa 2010: Sergio Busquets, Xabi Alonso and Xavi Hernandez. David Silva and Andres Iniesta will likely provide support to the lone centre forward, with Juan Mata, Cesc Fabregas and Santi Cazorla coming off the bench. However, with David Villa — perhaps Spain’s greatest ever striker — ruled out due to injury, Del Bosque will have to choose between Fernando Llorente, Alvaro Negredo and Fernando Torres for a starter’s spot. Llorente’s relative immobility and Negredo’s inexperience at the level means that Torres – in spite of his woeful form – may well get the nod. And therein lies Spain’s chief concern.

With Carles Puyol also ruled out, the defence wouldn’t be as solid as it was in the previous two competitions, but there is enough experience – in Raul Albiol, Sergio Ramos and Gerard Pique – to ensure that there are no significant mishaps. One would imagine that with the midfield that Spain has it would be a shoo-in for the knockout stages. If Torres can find even an ounce of form by that stage — although the evidence of the season gone-by suggests that he wouldn’t — there may be no team capable of stopping Spain.

]]> http://www.criticaltwenties.in/sport/euro-2012-on-france-carrick-and-spain/feed 3 http://www.criticaltwenties.in/sport/reminiscing-about-pep-a-retrospective-on-guardiola-and-his-team-60-years-from-today http://www.criticaltwenties.in/sport/reminiscing-about-pep-a-retrospective-on-guardiola-and-his-team-60-years-from-today#comments Sat, 28 Apr 2012 16:39:37 +0000 Suhrith http://www.criticaltwenties.in/?p=4858 The man is sitting with his back slightly hunched on the edge of a black easy chair in his home in the Nilgiris Hills in Southern India. His thin silvery grey hair sits like a crown on the top of his head; his knees have gone creaky and old; his skin is wrinkled and weary, and his eyesight has weakened considerably. But he still strains himself and looks at the projected screen through his large black-rimmed glasses. Sitting next to him on a cushy leather sofa is a young boy of 10: his grandson who visits him at his home every summer. Spritely and merry, the boy, dressed in a blue and red football top, with the name Anakolov, and the number 10 etched on its back, is equally transfixed by the wafer thin screen that is showcasing moving images clearer than anything else you can see a few feet in front of you. Behind them on a plain white wall hangs a large framed picture of a man with a shiny balding head, unruly stubble, and wearing an immaculate grey suit with a black V-neck sweater: a photograph of Pep Guardiola on the sidelines of the Camp Nou, gesticulating with his right hand to a player on the far end of the pitch.

It is May 2072 — Barcelona is playing Paris St. Germain in a hugely important league game. Some 20 years earlier the elite football clubs of Europe had broken away to form a rogue league, a commercial behemoth, the formation of which people had anticipated for decades. There are some clubs from outside the continent too in the league, and games are played across the globe, from Melbourne to Hong Kong, San Francisco to London, and Sao Paulo to Durban. Today’s game is at the Princeton Hall Stadium, a sparkling state-of-the-art arena in Tokyo that can seat close to 120,000 spectators. Barcelona, two points ahead of Bayern Munich — the German giants who have won the league three out of the last five years — in the competition can seal the trophy with a win today. PSG has nothing to lose or gain, it is fourteenth in the league and is comfortably clear of the relegation battlers — the poor teams that may have to return to their respective national leagues.

The young boy, a Barcelona fan since he started watching football — down to his grandfather’s allegiance to the club – has never seen his team win any honours. The old man hasn’t seen his beloved Blaugrana win in years either. He longs for the 2050s when the team lifted the last of its European trophies; he longs even more for the brief days when Josep Guardiola prowled the sidelines, the days of Xavi, Messi, Iniesta and Puyol. “Oh what a team that was,” he thinks to himself, reminiscing in his mind about the foundations of his fandom, as the Ukrainian referee blows the whistle to signal the beginning of the match.

The Barcelona eleven is made up of players from all over the world — two Spaniards, an Italian, a Russian, a Bulgarian, an American, two Brazilians, a Japanese, an Australian, an Egyptian and a Paraguayan. Twenty minutes into the game, and it’s still goalless. Not much of consequence has happened, except a video referral for a contentious tackle near the edge of the box that the referee had waved on. Replays show that Barcelona’s Japanese center back Haruki Kiyo had got none of the ball and had, in fact, cynically hacked down PSG’s Brazilian winger Falcao. The decision is reversed; PSG is awarded a freekick, and Kiyo receives a blue card (one that is these days accorded for violations that are not so bad as to be sent off for, but are nonetheless more severe than ordinary yellow card offenses). Falcao takes the free kick himself, and blasts it high, wide and handsome. The score remains unaffected.

“How times have changed. Back when I was growing up, we played so fluidly,” the man tells the boy, cursing the rigid 5-4-1 that Barcelona plays today — a return almost to the dreaded Catenaccio days of Italian football under Helenio Herrera some 100 years ago.

“At least we’ve been tight this year, not conceding silly goals like we did last year,” says the boy in reply. “And Anakolov is in such great form. I hope he scores today.”

Anakolov is 6-foot-3, is built like an ox, has two good feet (as they say in football) and can score goals of astonishing variety. He has almost singlehandedly carried Barcelona this season. But the old man yearns for the golden era; he yearns to watch for one last time Barcelona play in a nonpareil style, pinging it around with élan, tiki-taka football as the history books refer to it as.

“This is such anti-football. How can the same team that once under Pep played such a lovely game play like this?” the man asks the boy, who is beginning to get somewhat irritated with the story telling. In truth, at all times except during an actual game, he loves listening to his grandfather speak about the glory days, the days when Barcelona was the best team in the world, a team that redefined football, a team that invented a new style, a team that others could only look at with dreamy-eyed wonder.

Another few minutes pass by; Anakolov has a shot from distance that sails over the bar. PSG is now beginning to put Barcelona under pressure, with Falcao particularly rampant on the right wing.

“I still remember that goal against Sevilla or maybe it was Mallorca, in 2010,” says the old man. “I was your age at the time. Xavi, Iniesta, Messi, Villa, Pedro were all involved. Oh boy, how glorious we were. We must have played some 15 one-touch passes, before Villa finished.”

“Players were moving diagonally, vacating constrained areas and taking up new spaces, they were constantly stretching the game,” continued the old man. “Possession was everything for Pep. We’d pummel teams into submission by passing the ball around. Simple, effective passes, and then suddenly a bit of genius from Xavi or Iniesta, which would crack open the opponent’s defense.”

The boy is now beginning to get a bit worried about his team’s chances. The PSG striker Marc Ventura has hit the woodwork once, and has gone close on two other occasions.

“We were never dominated like this in those days,” says the old man. “Pep wouldn’t have tolerated it. Whether we were playing Manchester United in the final of the Champions League or Real Madrid in El Clasico, we controlled the game. We played it on our own terms.”

“What do you mean we played it on our own terms,” the boy queries. “Was it like how Bayern play these days?”

“Oh no, the Germans aren’t a patch on that Barca team,” says the old man. “We would have 70 percent, sometimes 80 percent possession. Every time we gave the ball away, we’d press from the top, we’d hound teams into giving the ball back, and once we got it back, we kept it. Busquets would play neat and simple balls in midfield to Xavi, who was the chief conductor. Xavi would then spray it around if needed to Alves on the right wing, or maybe to Messi or Iniesta ahead of him. It was just such unbounded joy.”

“Why don’t we play like that these days,” the boy asks, even as Barcelona once again gives away possession easily in midfield.

“You would think it’s easy to replicate,” says the old man. “But we had a lot of things going on. We had a bunch of footballers that had grown up together in La Masia. There was a philosophy installed by the great Dutchman, Johan Cruyff.”

“We won 13 trophies in four years then, didn’t we,” says the boy, as he reaches out for a coke from the fridge at half time.

For the first time that evening, the old man smiles nice and wide, showcasing all his missing teeth.

“Yep. Thirteen in four years! Can you believe it,” he says. “I think it was all down to Pep. Yes we had great players, Messi, Xavi, Iniesta, but he gave them the belief. He laid down the style. We were nothing without the ball, so he made sure we kept it, and we kept it well.”

“So was it then that you started supporting Barca,” the boy asks, even as they wait for the second half to start.

“Well, I was just starting to watch football then, all my friends were either Man United or Chelsea or Arsenal fans, they loved the English league. I did too. But once I saw Barca, I was hypnotized. Oh that 2011 Champions League final against United. We killed them. This was the final of the Champions League, but Pep had us playing with such fluidity. Messi, Pedro, Villa up front, Xavi and Iniesta in midfield, it was just gorgeous.”

“You keep talking about that Pedro goal,” says the boy, who has watched the goal himself many times, but isn’t old enough to appreciate the genius in Xavi’s play, yet. He’ll get there, the old man thinks to himself.

“The way Xavi delayed the pass there was just phenomenal. Messi made an initial run, but Xavi waited, Messi took the left back, Evra, I think it was, with him centrally, opening up space for Pedro, and Xavi immediately slipped him through. It was a simple ball, but it was ingenious. It was football of the highest quality.”

The referee blows the whistle; the second half gets underway and almost immediately PSG takes the lead. Their English center back Ryan Jones heads home Falcao’s bending free kick. The old man cusses and then apologizes. The young boy sighs and plants a kick into thin air. They had heard at half time that Bayern were leading 2-0 against Ajax Amsterdam, and if things stayed that way the Bavarians would retain the title.

The man and the boy watched on in anguish as PSG continued to mount wave after wave of attack. Their club was doomed, to another year of failure, to another year of sacrificing a rich tradition.

“I at least wish we didn’t lose playing such rubbish,” says the old man. “Even in Pep’s last important game as our manager, against Chelsea in the Champions League, we stayed true to our style. Chelsea was down to ten men, and we should have probably won. But it wasn’t for a want of trying. We still passed the ball around superbly, we still stretched the game, and we played like Barcelona should.”

Another few minutes elapse, and PSG doubles its lead. Falcao is again the tormenter, planting a cross virtually onto the feet of Ventura, who, this time, finds the net.

“I still remember our 5-0 win against Madrid, like it was yesterday,” says the old man, beginning to show nonchalance towards the ongoing game. “This was against Mourinho’s Madrid, not any team.”

“Yes, I read about it in that book on Barca,” says the young boy, referring to one of the strings of works that have been written about the period. “Xavi scored the first goal, didn’t he? Has there really been no one else like him?”

“Yes, he was special that boy,” says the man. “But Pep gave him the freedom. Under Rijkaard, Xavi was still treated as an anchor, sitting in front of the defence. Pep saw Xavi as the fulcrum. And when Iniesta, Xavi and Messi played together, it was poetry in motion. They’d zip the ball around with pace and precision, and they’d constantly flitter in and out of confined spaces.”

The doorbell rings, and the boy races to get it. Another old man, bald with a disheveled beard and wearing a tweed coat, walks in cane in hand.

“He’s still reminiscing about the old days, isn’t he,” he says to the boy.

“Let me tell you something. I was a Madrid fan, have always been. But what your grandfather tells you is true. That Barca team under Pep was special. Very special. There hasn’t been another team like that since.”

“I read about Di Stefano’s team and the Dutch total football teams,” says the boy. “They said those were very good too.”

“Well, those were before even our times. What I can vouch for is that I haven’t seen football of the calibre that Pep’s Barca produced being repeated, since,” the old man’s friend says.

PSG scores another. Eighty minutes have gone. The league is Bayern’s. The boy switches the television off. The three decide to take a walk.

“That Barcelona team came to define an epoch,” says the guest as the three walk out of the door. “When they beat us 5-0, all us Madridistas could do was to stand up and applaud.”

“We haven’t seen football like that again, and we probably never will.”