The Candyman

I entered the stadium behind her, watching her self-consciously adjust her hair as she searched for our seats. A woman’s hair was like a man’s new phone — in need of constant attention. Several flights of stairs later, we found our vantage points — it was several hundred feet above sea level. We could have spotted Frodo fighting bird flu if he had flown past us on one of Gandalf’s eagles. My seat was 4S and I thought it was appropriate since it cost a bomb.

The stadium was nearly full. Most of the audience looked out of shape and probably had never kicked a ball, even one that laid in their paths. True spectators indeed.

We sat and I tried to wriggle my bottom into a more comfortable position. It was of no use — you needed to be blessed with a plastic Barbie-like bum to sit in seats like this. The crowd roared like marriage guests spotting a full buffet. It was unusual as the game had not started and I craned my neck to spot the reason. It was a Mexican Wave. We threw up our hands and contributed our share to the undulation that circled the stadium.

“Do you know why it is called a Mexican Wave?” I asked

“Because the Americans were too slow to patent it?”

I smiled. Finally, we were warming up. The wave stopped as the crowd roared again. The game had just started and the goalkeeper was flying through the air in an arc like a windshield wiper straining to reach a few outlier rain drops just out of reach. The net sagged with its checkered bounty — it was a goal. There were roars and back-thumping in the audience, the way early cavemen would have celebrated their upcoming non-vegan dinner after bringing down a brontosaurus.

“We are out of candy,” she said, arching one eyebrow.

I pointed suggestively at the sugary film coating my lips.

She smiled and shook her head. Apparently I was not lip-smacking material.Yet. We needed to work on that.

“I am going to the refreshment stand. Are you joining me?”

Of course I was. The crowd roared as if supporting my decision.

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