lettersofsanthi

[lettersofsanthi]

a letter to césar azpilicueta

Dear César Azpilicueta,

I think Chelsea are in a tailspin: a crisis, if you will. The blues have had a long legacy of strong leadership candidates, especially in our successful modern era of football: John Terry, Frank Lampard, Michael Ballack, Didier Drogba, Ashley Cole, Joe Cole, and Petr Čech, just to name a few. However, as the greats, and the team’s stability for the past two decades, grow and fade out, the holes in focus of training start to appear.

Of-course training is not meant to develop player character, especially not at the highest level of the game, at one of the most successful clubs in their league. You do not employ José or Conte because you want to develop mentally strong men; you employ them to win trophies: to play the tactical game, to bring out the physical abilities in grown men, and to rack up the pounds in rewards.

It is beyond naive to expect development of character to come in so late in a man’s life. Yet, it is a questionable flaw in the youth system if you will, or a element of the team that has slipped our focus. 
Replacements are never easy to think about: they’re subtle subconscious reminders that your favourite, your rock, your stability will, inevitably, leave you stranded someday. As much as we try to remove emotions from football, there’s always fear shimmering at the thought of aging captains.

This isn’t an issue that is subjective to Chelsea FC. The past two years have given way to the end of an era of the magnificents, of the modern legends: Arjen Robben, Kaka, Gianluigi Buffon, Andrea Pirlo, Phillipp Lahm, Daniele De Rossi, Xabi Alonso, and Francesco Totti.

All of a sudden there’s a universal void that football enthusiasts wonder will ever be filled.

Beyond that, it seems as though their fellow teammates and coaches are warped in the same mental state, which has created an oblivion over their needs. In the case of Chelsea, one must notice, we have had our lovely Gary Cahill lined up and prepped for over a season. And, don’t get me wrong, my heart has forever fluttered at the thought of the Englishman leading the Blues above and beyond where we left off with legendary Terry. In the midst of a failed title defense, the second in the past five years might I add, one would have expected that with all the grooming Gary received, he would be able to lead the team from the back, serving as the true steadiness of the Champions of England.

But, with his irregular playing time having being left out of Barcelona game and many big clashes since, his job had become exponentially more difficult. He now has to do all the leading, the motivating, and supporting but from the sidelines: a place where, when it comes from here, it seems less sincere, and disjointed.

Having suffered two consecutive premier league defeats, to Manchester United and Manchester City, it is evident that there are issues plaguing the team. Considering that I am no expert and only have the on-pitch visuals and off-pitch rumors to draw conclusions from, the possibilities are endless: tactical inconsistencies, team cohesion failures, and absent team morale. How would I, or anyone not in the dressing room, know? 
However, it is almost evident that control, when it is even visible on the television screen I scope off, is skeptical. And who is there to blame for that? Beyond that, who is there to turn to instead?

Oh, overlooked and under-appreciated Azpi: a rescuer of sorts; a beacon of shining hope in a sea of insecurities and uncertainty. Our second-to-Gary, silent savior for a defender who saves the goalmouth, scores the occasional screamer, and keeps team spirit pumping when shoulders start to slump. He’s the strength, the stability, and, all of a sudden, the soul of this team. 

I should have expected nothing less form a man named Cesar.

Blinded by the emotional heights of the asset disposal of John Terry, the accumulating gap between us and second-place Manchester United (oh, the glorious beast Manchester United), and the questionable transfer window involvement that resulted in Olivier Giroud and Danny Drinkwater, I have misrepresented the leadership roles in my own club. How could I denounce you: a man of focus, determination, and plan-making?

In essence, here is some recognition: my moment of realization and awakening. Azpi, thank you, for stepping up and keeping calm — for always having the ‘it’s not over’ team spirit that is evident in your intensely-defensive mannerisms that make an appearance in goalless encounters and heavy defeats. 
It has been a while since we’ve had a non-Englishman captain who was not responsible of bashing the nets, and, for some (definitely not me), it may seem hard to adjust to as the majority of your supporters are Englishmen themselves. Yet, you — the Spaniard of support — offer a sense of hope. You are the epitome of everything we wish footballers to be without knowing so: a footballer who loves football, a footballer who pledges his love to a team and its support system (die-hards, enthusiasts, directors, youthful learners and all), a footballer out of the tabloids, a footballer who doesn’t talk unnecessarily and out of turn, a footballer with true integrity to the sport beyond his teammates, and, beyond all of that, a footballer with a heart for every minute of every game.

Modern era football is plagued with the absence of patience. Hence, the rising in price of footballers. Everyone waits for transfer windows; everyone’s focused on the monetary value of the player they think they need instead of developing the loyal ones they already have.

Everyone wants to buy success, and nobody wants to achieve it.

Similar to the flaw of capitalism, the information-era football transfer window allows the upper-level teams flourish at the expense of the mediocre ones. On August 24th 2012, Chelsea snatched you for a solid fee just short of 8 million and six years later, you’re priceless. In a mess, in a rot even, when we’re struggling to find the heart to chase a fourth-place finish, or have faith in our team’s tactical ability — you offer reassurance that the players’ hearts are in the right place.

I livelily feed off the idea that you are emotionally invested in this club, which is riddled with falsehood for passion (am I to forget that Diego Costa kissed the badge on multiple occasions?) because of the financial stigma that surrounds us. In an leaderless epidemic, one’s eyes are finally drawn attention to the fact that many players in the current squad are neither here nor there in terms of lifetime commitment to this club. During every transfer window, there is a living question mark attached to Eden Hazard’s head as his predicted price and the names of interested clubs spur around in whispers across the continent. Those who are bound to the club for a few more years, however, are still not elements of the Chelsea name that seem to pledge their being to the millions of supporters for every minute they step on the pitch.

I know its a little pre-millennial to expect such antics.

But, it’s all your fault then, Azpi, for igniting the flame of hopelessness that passion is enough. I hope that maybe someday it will be enough again. Until then, you keep leading us, because I assure you: I see and I thank you.

Yours in the Chelsea name and in thanks Santhi

[lettersofsanthi]

a letter to marco asensio

Dear Marco Asensio,

I don’t watch La Liga religiously— I barely watch a full ninety minutes. Honestly, I prefer the rigid and raw style of the Premier League.

Oh, but you, Sir, you make me want to watch La Liga. You remind me how stylistic and gorgeous Spanish football truly is. There’s no rubbish with you, is there? It’s just ‘I’ve come here to do my job, so I will do my job.’ Goodness me do you deify football— you’re one of those few players that serve to be justifications for the seemingly insane exaltation of this sport.

Atop all of that praise, you’re simply twenty-one years of age. I’m baffled; I have been baffled. Oh, divine footballing being, please promise me you ought not to burn out come the end of this season? Promise me that Marco Asensio’s talent ought to flourish in the future, beyond Real Madrid (if need be), throughout his international career?

I beg you remain this calm, most of all. I beg you don’t hype up your being too much, yet exalt yourself as needed— we should all take a moment to give credit where credit is due. I’m not saying don’t accept a raise or ask to stay benched— because I’m in favour of both more monetary gratitude and playing time, but — I’m saying, promise me your cool-kid serenity shall remain on and off the pitch. 

Real Madrid, Spanish National Team, fans, friends, family, critics, pundits, the lot of you, let the man play football because he is ravishing at it.

I foresee a Ballon D’or or two someday, but then again, who doesn’t? I can’t say I see a World Cup winner (although my heart hopes to witness it), but I see a great World Cup tale. I see all of us, sitting with our grandchildren one day, telling them the great story of how we watched the game on a big screen with a few mates, of which some we don’t see today, and of how Asensio deserved glory (and I don’t believe in entitlement), and how he didn’t get it. We’ll tell them how he fought and fought and fought, and how he lost. Why? Because the best have always had an obstacle that that had to knock them down, the final hurdle, before they can rise way above it, and way above the rest. 


So, in one of my most metaphysical letters, here’s to the gorgeous footballing being that is Marco Asensio, and here’s to the failures I beg you encounter on your way to pure and utter success and glory, for you are a man that has the tools and desire to obtain such. Onwards and upwards, beautiful. Believe you me, I’ll be sitting quietly, just as you do going about your phenomenal games, and watch, in awe, as you ascend and become a star: one of the greatest footballers that have ever been in being, a footballer that will trademark his generation, an almost-built warrior.

yours in sole excitement and awe,

Santhi

[lettersofsanthi]

a letter to àlvaro morata

Dear Àlvaro Morata,

This letter is a combination of many things: a sincere welcome to London and Chelsea Football Club, a genuine welcome to the Premier League (I do hope you have the most comfortable stay here. Oh, please make yourself comfortable, your grace), a thank you for your efforts from green-light of your signing, and a simple expression of encouragement from a football enthusiast, and a lover of your work, to you, in a most professional manner.

You’ve spent the last bunch of years traveling Europe, I see, and I do believe you’ve found a great home for the next couple of them. Sure, Italy was majestic and exquisite; oh, what it must be like to play stylish, artistic football. See, I’ve always seen Italian football as more stylish than the broader realms of football, for some odd reason. Obviously, the Spanish are the most flair-filled, but the Italians seem to have a pattern: a sense of respect for the game and its players to the extent that they manage to paint a picture of appreciation through careful dribbles, long-winded and quick, timed passes, and calculated, strong tackles. Maybe it is the heart and intensity and desire that seems to be present all the time: every game, every training session, every word of explanation post-match from the fans, the managers, and the players alike. You posses all of these things, Àlvaro: exquisiteness, carefulness, the ability to pass balls of all lengths (as all footballers at a professional level should), and elements of desire and heart.

You decided to take a little trip to Spain, your home country of-course; you went back home for a year. You re-found out Real Madrid wasn’t for you. Real are quick, mentally and physically; they are always moving, on defense and on attack; their emphasis on off-the-ball movement is absolutely spotless. They’re high class, top in the world arguably; it’s every footballer’s dream, Real Madrid and high-class, elite football: broadcasted in, nearly, every country across the globe, fans screaming and crying and jumping as a result of your ability. That’s, of-course, if your get game time, which you didn’t. You made a great decision leaving. You were not going to get enough game time ever, if you stayed. They would continuously bring in star players, who were smashing it at their own, lower-level clubs. You would be stuck in the cycle of bench-warming, which is critical to one’s football career at your age.

Somehow, you managed to make your way to London, England. You made it to the Premier League: arguably, the most competitive elite football league on the planet. You chose Chelsea, the current Premier League champions. You (in theory) have replaced their goal-scoring machine of the previous season: Diego Costa. You've got some big shoes to fill, Mr. Morata.

Thank you, again, for choosing Chelsea. I genuinely believe that was the right choice: the ultimate and unpredictable test that is the Premier League, guaranteed game time, Champions League Football with a team that has a sustainable squad (as opposed to Liverpool, who could’ve have conned you otherwise), and a comfortable environment playing with some of the best of your national team: Pedro, Marcos Alonso, César Azpilicueta, and Cesc Fàbregas.

Anyways, as I was saying, you’ve got some large shoes to fill: Diego Costa scored 22 goals last season. Sheesh. That’s a goal, on average, about every second game. I don’t see that being a problem for you, however. You bagged 20 goals for yourself in 43 appearances last season, even as a Benzema-Back-Up; big ups to you, son. What is evident, however, in your first league games is a, seeming, lack of confidence. I understand it is a new team, a new style of play, a new coach, new responsibilities, you’re young, etcetera, etcetera. I’m not sure if it's the lack of facial hair that has prompted this element but, Àlvaro, my darling, claim your style of play, claim your ability. You are such a strong player, yet I get the sense that you’re overpowered by the longer-lasting footballers in the team. Their command and leadership is important (and also a little bit whack at the moment without Terry, oh bless his soul, and Cahill), and is starting to give me chills because of how imminent it is (goodness, I beam at the television for ninety minutes straight), but, this is a friendly reminder that, you have a right to be there. Your decision-making and vision is just as exceptional as that of Marcos Alonso’s and Willian’s. You’re a team player, which obviously we love, but, goodness me, love, take a shot every now and then: have a go, slam that twenty-percent-chancer and see what happens (I have you in my fantasy team and if you took a few more risks and allowed the Universe to help you out, I would be bagging a boatload of points every week, thank you— p.s. you bagged me 24 massive points this week, you beast). Structure is so important; trust me, I know. You’ve got that under control though. And maybe I’m jumping the gun and you’re focusing on comfort: I mean, it’s only been three league games, maybe you’re gradually coming out off your shell.

In that case: my, oh my, I cannot wait until you’re out in the open. With an almost-guaranteed ninety minutes per week, I can’t wait to see you unleash that Spanish flair, that Italian respect and appreciation, and some new-found English passion. Zlatan labelled himself a lion last season. I’m going to label you a peacock. That’s right: a beautiful bird, with feathers to spread and flaunt, with controlled anger, with composure to fear, and all within a slim-cut, seemingly-harmless exterior. You don’t look like the most explosive player on the pitch, and I’m saying that that’s goddamn beautiful, and I encourage you to keep it that way. Stay subtle but influential. Stay calculated and calm. Stay humble, but not quiet. Stay strong and passionate but composed. You make it impossible for your competitors to hate you, by your sportsmanship and character, but make them fear you. Don’t talk yourself up, you don’t need to. You don’t need to express your personal validation to be feared, to be intimidating. Your composure, your subtly, your mystery is intimidating enough; it is more intimidating than any talk anyone could put out there on your behalf.

My, oh my.

Apologies. I just had to take a moment there to appreciate the picture I see in my mind of you tearing up the pitch despite your gentle aura.


All there is to do for now is wait: oh, the waiting game is so painful. I can’t wait, Àlvaro Morata, I cannot wait.

Yours, 

Embraced in shudders of excitement as I wait,

Santhi

[lettersofsanthi]

a letter to the entire Croatian nation

Dear darling Croatian nation

I offer my thanks and recognition in its totality. What a treat you have blessed us with; what an honour it is to be shared these beings with you. I have, personally, always appreciated and admired Croatia as a footballing nation more than the average football enthusiast for the simple fact that they force the joining of football rivalries, Barcelona and Real Madrid: a gentle representation of the greatest unity, and, thus, proof that football has this beautiful irony attached to it. This is achieved through the club-competitors Luka Modrić and Ivan Rakitić joining forces for the greater good, and due to the desire for the success and pride, of their country. And my, oh my, is it phenomenal to watch those two geniuses, perfectly in tune, set up and play off one another.

However, the Champions League Final did not feature Barcelona, it instead pinned the godly Luka Modrić against, his other lovely teammate, Mario Mandžukić: two players that stole the show, for me. Sure, Cristiano Ronaldo slammed the net early on and, again, in the second half, and was only another, somewhat redundant, goal shy from, achieving another record to his impressive and world class status and, becoming the first ever footballer, in history, to score a hattrick in the Champions League Final. Sure, Toni Kroos tore up the field with his concise and calm presence. Sure, Paulo Dybala produced some tasteful runs and balls in the Madrid half. Yet, in one of football’s most unkind games, nothing stared at me so blankly as the ability of the Croatians did.

Mandžukić’s talent was finally showcased to the world in all its flair, in all its entirety, through that stunner of a goal: that poetic, parabolic even, change of displacement from his feet to the top righthand corner of the net. A goal that is, surely, going to go down as one of the best. A goal that we, all of us, shall retell to our children as an accurate depiction of pure football finesse, over and over and over again. If you missed his hardships and determination in the Euros last year, at least you caught a glimpse of his genuine potential.

As for the Mr. Modrić, gee, I haven’t the slightest idea of where to begin. His acrobatic and perfect-ball-epitomising cross that resulted in Real Madrid’s third goal, and Cristiano Ronaldo’s second of the night? The unreal, one-footed balance paired, somehow, with power, of neither too much nor too little quantity, that managed to meander through the labyrinth constructed by the goal line, the Juve defenders and Gianluigi Buffon himself. What a lad.

Henceforth, I would like to express my appreciation to all who inhabit the country of Croatia. Thanks is owed to the few that ensured their original involvement and love for the game from a young age. Thanks is owed to those whom they watched play growing up; those whom they idolised and were, therefore, motivated by. Thanks is owed to their coaches of their youth, and their respective teammates— all who ensured their continued interest, their continued dedication: including those who were better than them, who kept them on their toes and kept them desiring success and the ultimatum. Thanks is owed to anyone whoever went to a game in support of their country, who indirectly supported and recognised their playing ability. Thanks is owed to whoever announced the sporting results on their respective desired radio stations, whoever informed them, knowingly or not, of football as a global sport. Without each and every one of those beings, and many, many more, neither of them would be were they are today, neither of them would be of the quality they are today.

Today, they inspire others on a global scale, on the same scale that inspired the youthful versions of themselves. Today, they are their heroes. Today, being where they are and playing how they play, they are creating the next Mandžukić and the next Modrić. Today, they give joy to more than they know. Today, as a result of all your love and support, we all succeed, we are exposed to an opportunity to feel a little more happiness. You have produced phenomenal footballers. You have produced shining stars for human beings that will glaze on long after their present footballing ability  will last them, long after their proprioception and weapons of attack fail them, long on into the generations to follow. They will shimmer, personified by characteristics of determination, hard work and integrity.

Words cannot fathom a description of the extent of beauty of the gift of these men you have given us.

May you continuously grace us with many more beings of this nature. May you be graced with many more beings of this nature.

Yours in true appreciation and utter speechlessness Santhi

[lettersofsanthi]

a letter to arsène wenger.

Dear Arsène Wenger

I send my utmost fulfilled and true congratulations in light of your recent FA Cup win, despite Alexis Sánchez’ controversial handball prior to his opening goal. As a Chelsea supporter, I surrender. Not only do Arsenal deserve this trophy, this win, but you do. In fact, you needed it. I’m grateful to my philosophical football superpower that Arsenal won today for multiple reasons including the importance of variety of success in football, the levelling of heads within the Chelsea team, and, perhaps most importantly, the reward for loyalty.

It is no secret that you, Sir, have had a terrible year within the eyes of the public, of your own supporters and the media. The constant slurs of the dropping performance and seeming lack of focus. ‘Wenger Out’ had been projected across the globe, including at one of South Africa’s Anti-Zuma protest marches which was rather comical to see. In accordance with its inappropriateness, it expressed the extent to which football stretches. This publicity can be detrimental in your case. I can honestly say I was disappointed. I was disappointed in how the purpose and importance of being a football supporter had deteriorated. What ever happened to supporters being the twelfth man? Premier League, because of its monetary aspects and worldwide publicity, is starting to produces fans of the same nature. Fans that do not want anything other than the best, which, one can argue, is fair in spite of what they are paying to watch the game, be it live or via television or team-specific broadcasting. However, as always, money breeds shallowness to the weak; shallowness breeds greed. The chatter surrounding your dismissal, Sir, was evident of this. More and more football supporters of the modern age are so easily turning their backs and jumping on band-wagons. After gifting this club, you home, with twenty years of you life, commitment and honour, they suddenly decide that it would be alright to just shoo you off because of a less-than-average season, and that, my wonderful Sir, is not okay. My view on this, however, does alter throughout the season, especially since it neared a close. Upon the final standings of the 2016/17 season, and the official outcome that Arsenal would not be playing in the Champions League for the first time in the entirety of your managerial career there. That was the ultimate justification for all Wenger Out protestors across the globe. Yet, I, being the amateur philosopher that I am, felt that that should not nearly be enough for Arsenal supporters to turn on their big dog, on ye ol’ Arsène. There are many players who did not always fulfil their potential entirely under your watch, and you never gave up on them, neither did the supporters, so I ask: why you, then, Sir? The universe compensated for my beliefs with this win, if you follow. They gave the supporters something to cheer about, gave them a reason to chant “Wenger In” for a while, as well as, as some may argue greatly, an opportunity to leave on a lovely note. Nonetheless, the Wenger Out concept is a complex tale for another day. This is a day of celebration, no?

As a Chelsea supporter, I’ve done my dos of celebration throughout the past two weeks after being declared champions and coronated accordingly, and was looking forward to another trophy, aimlessly tossing aside all Arsenal chances. In fact, I was set to write two examinations the following Monday: Mathematics Paper 2 and isiZulu Paper 2. Furthermore, being in Grade 11 ensured there’d be not time for messing about. I accordingly planned my mental study timetable, saying: ‘hm, kick off is at six thirty, and incorporating stoppage and half time, we’ll give it a two hour duration. Oh, and plus trophy and medal time, so another forty-five minutes?’ We could say I got ‘round to studying much earlier than that. I’m a classic example of it ‘going to my head’. Hence, this cup final loss, just like the winning streak loss to Tottenham earlier in the season, should be seen as one of the crucial events in the club’s history: reminders for people like me, who are common to appear in the team someday, if they be not there already. For it is these days, Sir, that prepare the team for harder work. It is these days that humble the team that seemingly has everything going for them. It is these days that break them down and have them head-in-hands kicking themselves for not putting their hearts on the line. These days build leaders, captains: watch out for Gary next season. These days build rivalries and desire: watch out for the Community Shield next season (not that the Arsenal-Chelsea rivalry wasn’t entirely riveting this season). These days build fire, fire within us supporters and within the players, that ought to burn long into the night and far across the forest. We shall burn, and we shall come for you with blazing fingertips.

Assuming you remain where you be as of now, Mr. Wenger.

Sending sincere and true thanks and congratulations Santhi