At the Sunday market, I saw a little boy’s shin all black from a kick, and his mother bargaining for a roll of surgical tape. We have the same struggle at the nursing home—antiseptics run out, so we use turmeric water from the kitchen. Big tournament promises all these fancy electronic vests, but tell me: does the smallest kid in the local dojo get her bruises cleaned with something better than salt water? Focus on that first, the rest will follow.

This morning in the balcony, with my first sip of chai, I was thinking: our hospital’s generator sputters just like this team’s middle order — one big storm and everything goes dark. But my mother’s fish tenga never fails even when the market is thin, because she knows exactly when to add the lemon and when to wait. I’ve seen too many seasons of *bor maah* wash away the hopeful new roads to fall for big promises about 'next year.' All I ask is that the most vulnerable boy in the dugout gets the same chance to learn his craft as the star.