I saw a boy from my own village, just a slip of a thing, kicking a ball with no shoes on the wet road near the market. Last year he was running after a Lajong match, and now I hear he is signed with a team in Goa. God bless him, but I wonder if the big clubs will remember the damp fields and the stone-walled houses that grew his feet.

Haba nga na Shillong da kaba pynsaw ia u ri-kyntieng (ceremonial shawl) ha une u sla kynthei. Katba dei ban am, u lok u tang ban iehnoh ia ka jingthoh jong ki kmie ki kpa na ka bynta ka printed cloth kaba duh shiteng ka jingmut. Hyndai, u doh uba dap da ka jingstad — uwei u khasi uba la leit na Jainta u la ong ba shisien u la iohi ia ka niam ha ka FC (Shillong Lajong) ba ki dkhot ki la ioh ia ka jingkyrshan kaba sngewtynnad. Haba iohi ia ka pisa, nga pynkup ha ka biscuit tin kaba la dap — tang ban pynkhreh ia ka loom kaba bha na ka bynta ka khun ka kynthei jong nga.

Ka ri-kyntieng iari ha kawei pat ka sngi, bad my mind wanders to Martinelli's knee. I know pain that sits deep in the joints, from this damp air. But we must trust the physio, like we trust the old patterns – the healing is in the rhythm. For the trophy, only God bless, but my niece says with Rice in midfield, even my biscuit tin hopes feel a little lighter.