Jogo bonito

Chefs masked in mortality

Are concocting a recipe for immortality

This much I know

It goes by the name-JOGO BONITO.”

Men are mortal. That’s a tautology, right. Immortality is limited to the keeps of the Gods up there, whose residences are lavish; what with, stars serving as LED’S, the moon for a night lamp, the sun for a floodlight, comets to supply the strobe effects and the occasional rainbow – a colorful garland hinting at heavenly festivities. If that’s a view you have subscribed to, think again. Bid sayonara to logic and join the reception committee of serendipity. The recipe to immortality stands revealed, plain as black and white:

Throw in an innocuous little ball,

A pair of able feet

And a teaspoon of imagination

And bingo you have sporting nirvana. Have a sip, experience epiphany, enjoy apotheosis and feel immortal. I bet, you will explain-“Wah, Jogo Bonito (the beautiful game), wah soccer!!!”

Say hello to soccer. It’s the mantra that mortal ‘feet’ recite to perform immortal ‘feats’. It’s the master key that a pair of harmless ‘soles’ employ to unlock the emotions of a billion expectant ‘souls’. It’s the compass that mankind uses to navigate through the mists of malice, storms of strife, icebergs of indifference, the potholes of poverty and the fog of fractured existence. It’s the emblem humans emboss on their 24x7 lives to switch from the sedentary to the stupendous, from the momentary to the momentous. Simply put, it’s the lingua franca of humanity.

Central to the recipe of soccer are the ‘spices’ of precision, imagination, elegance, passion and lady luck. You see, it adds to the taste, aroma and the aesthetics. Expert chefs (read: soccer sorcerers) unfailingly conjure up the ‘right’ dish. They go by the names Ronaldinho, Zidane, Messi, Ballack, Beckham, et al. you are advised to watch these chefs go about their ‘spicy’ jobs:

The precision of their passes might force an atomic clock to opt for VRS, the imagination in their moves could ensure the extinction of a Mr. Harry Potter or a Mr. Frodo Baggins, the elegance of their play would make even Mona Lisa seek the solace of a purdah, the passion they exude could test the loyalty of a fidayeen, the lady luck who stalks them may just about put the casinos in Las Vegas out of business.

Watching these chefs go about their jobs is like window-shopping in the mall of eternity. When they are at work, time and space are as dead as the dodo. Never has the process of brewing a potion held greater promise. Passersby would get to taste such exclusive delicacies as the Brazilian samba, Argentinean tango, Mexican wave, the German blitz, the azzuri antics, English ambushes and African assaults. But the soup-de-grace would of course be soccer.

As for the location of the ‘kitchen’, I would be more than willing to sound you off with a spatial clue:

Not some years ago, this ‘kitchen’ had a wall that partitioned it into the east and the west halves. Luckily sanity prevailed and the wall was broken.”

I have to hurry for in the ‘kitchen’, I hear the strains of samba to the mellifluous tune:

“East or west,

Achtung, Jogo Bonito is the best.”