A Tale of Two Midfielders

I remember sitting down with a bowl of popcorn and a glass of soft drink (a long standing ritual) to watch Chelsea play against Liverpool in the UEFA Champions League a few years back. It promised to be a special occasion, like most of the European encounters between the two sides. We had lost to Liverpool thanks to a goal that never was from Raul Garcia, and then again later thanks to the heartbreak of the penalty shoot out which saw us crash out 4-1. I, for one, was itching to see us set the record straight. But that wasn’t the only thing on show that night. I and a million other like-minded Chelsea fans were watching on for another very special reason. One that stretched beyond the tremendously expansive boundaries of football.

England international midfielder Frank Lampard was a Chelsea legend in every sense of the word. I had started watching football because of him, and in the next 9 years of watching the beautiful game, Super Frankie had become an idol for me, just another one of his million star struck fans. So much so that every Chelsea match day would pass with me wearing the same Chelsea shirt with the words “LAMPARD” glistening at the back, every video tribute to the midfield God would be downloaded religiously to my computer, watched a million times without a shade of boredom. All those countless hours of Youtube-ing and watching Frank play contributed to a greater purpose I realized later, as at the age of 16, I earned a reputation of being an excellent goal scoring midfielder with an eye for a pass; a position that Frankie had made his own in the last decade. I owed Frank a great deal for his contribution to my footballing maturity, but little did I know that that night would inspire millions beyond any stretch of the imagination.

Less than a week before the Champions League tie, Frank lost his mother Pat Lampard (58) unexpectedly to a sudden and short bout of pneumonia. As the Chelsea fraternity kept her and the Lampard family in their prayers following their irreplaceable loss, they braced themselves for another irreplaceable loss in midfield in a night of impending European drama. But as the hustle and bustle of pre match predictions and analyses subsided, Frank Lampard’s name on the Chelsea team sheet less than a week after his mother passing away left everyone flabbergasted.

As the game kicked off, both teams looked to press the initiative after a 1-1 stalemate in the first leg at Anfield. Didier Drogba’s 12 yard finish was cancelled out by an equalizer from Fernando Torres, as the tie went into extra time. In the 96^th minute, Michael Ballack rushed into the Liverpool box and was fouled; the penalty was given. I rubbed my hands with glee as I expected Michael Ballack’s immaculate penalty-taking to give us the lead, but for the second time that night, I was stunned to silence as Frank placed the ball on the spot.

I simply couldn’t find the guts to imagine the thoughts that would have passed through Frankie’s head as he stood on the edge of the 18 yard box. And on a rainy night in West London with excitement and anxiousness at fever pitch, Frankie slotted the penalty home as I stood up along with each and every Stamford Bridge faithful, as Frankie ran to the corner, pointing to the heavens at the one fan that he wished would have seen him score. Watching my idol cry in front of the Chelsea fans was a bittersweet experience, as every football fan lauded a superhuman effort on the part of an absolute legend in Frank Lampard.

5 years down the line, last Friday, I stood in the middle of the football field awaiting kick off in my first competitive college game after losing my mother to cancer at the age of 19. The entire college was watching, among them a few special friends who had helped me through the terrible ordeal. And as I stood there, I remembered the game and Frankie’s will to play.

All I remember in that entire game was running my socks off, doggedly chasing every pass that I could. I hit the bar once, and the agony of being so close hurt even more. But midway through the second half, a beautiful through ball made its way to me, and I tucked it away into the bottom corner as the crowd exploded into cheers. Trust me, that feeling of raising your finger to the skies is the best in the world, knowing it was a special effort, for an extremely special person. We ended up drawing the game, but the sheer emotional rollercoaster of emotions was even more exhausting than the physical effort of chasing lost causes on the field. I realized how Frank would have felt seeing his biggest fan no longer there in the stands, as I stared at the very same place where my Mom had cheered me on from the year before. It was amazing knowing that the beautiful game had bought me so close to someone I’d only admired on TV.

Even today, when I see Frank raise his finger towards the sky after a goal, I realize why they call football the beautiful game. And as he closes his eyes and looks up to the heavens, I feel the exact same emotion rushing through my head, of remembering the one person who made me what I am today. Frank will probably tell you the same.