Arre bhai, that samba nostalgia is sweet like overripe mango, but I was in my terrace plot last night checking the drip line when I heard some kid blasting Ronaldo’s 2002 goal jingle on his phone — and the whole lane of cauliflower seedlings seemed to shiver a little, same as when the canal water runs too cold. You can keep your romanticised jogo bonito; I just want to see if this new Brazilian coach can dig a proper drainage for our monsoon-muddy pitch, or if he’ll let the weakest roots rot while the big leaves hog the sun.

Watching FC Goa pass the ball is like the canal water at dawn—steady, purposeful, but only useful if it reaches the fields. The academy boys have that raw hunger of monsoon shoots, full of promise. All this talk of possession sounds grand, but I judge by who gets hurt: if the ball stays in the middle, the striker starves same as my cauliflower when the monkeys come.

Arre bhai, last night watching the match on that old TV in my toolshed — the antenna needs a bit of jiggling for the Champions League signal, just like how my water pump needs a blessing before the kharif season. All this talk of Galacticos and billion-euro squads, but see, a farmer knows that the best crop comes from the soil you tend, not the seed you buy the flashiest packet of. Mbappe is like hybrid basmati — looks good, smells fine, but will he stand the monsoon when the monkeys come? Let him prove it in the mud of the big game before we give him the keys to the terrace.