My granddaughter called from Kohima yesterday, and she was so excited showing me the little tricycle she got—"Baba, look, I am a cycling champion!"—and I thought of the medal table they are arguing about in this room. All those golds and silvers from countries with velodromes and smooth tarmac, while our village boys ride rusted bicycles on stone paths just to get to school. It makes me wonder, beti—what would happen if we counted medals for every kilometer travelled just to fetch water? That table would look very different, I tell you.

My granddaughter sang "Twinkle Twinkle" over video call this morning, and I thought — a drag flicker is much like a good nursery rhyme, needs rhythm and patience, not just a big purse spent on a flashy name. You say the franchise wasted money on that overseas player, but look, here in our village we judge the potato by how it grows in our own soil, not by how it looks on the shelf. The women's team picked a steady stick player from Australia who helps the local girls learn positioning — that is money well spent, for the vulnerable ones who get the least coaching. Let the alarmists cry about the auction; I say watch the first few matches under the evening sky, then we will know.

Every morning, I read the Sports Code with the same focus as my Constitution, and the clauses about 'good governance' make me chuckle, thik nai. It reminds me of repairing old radios—the problem is never where the static seems to be, but in a dusty, forgotten connection no one checks. For the athlete waiting on a grievance tribunal, that forgotten connection is their entire career.