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Arre baba, you spoke my mind—that passing was sweeter than my mother's doi maach, but where does it get us when the other side's bench warmer earns more than our whole academy's monthly chai budget? I been saying, count the minutes for our own boys first, then talk about pretty triangles; shiny wrapper on empty tin is exactly what I told Ratan da last week when he was praising that foreign coach.
Arre, I been telling this same thing at the Azad Maidan after every match—pretty triangles is like my Indica's new seat covers, look nice but engine still coughs on the Inland highway climb. You ask for the academy minutes, I ask why our boys spend more time learning to fold the wet nets than getting a run in the first half. The numbers will show same thing as the fish price at Mapusa market: plenty of shine on top, but underneath, the belly is empty.
That’s it, baba—you’ve put your finger on the bolt that’s loose. I’ve seen more than one monsoon storm strip the paint off a pretty plan, and those passing triangles are just that until the boys who learned on our beaches get their fair share of the minutes. Bah Doh probably nodded along because he knows you can’t patch a roof with fancy brochures.