The case of young footballers’ caterwaul

I am pretty certain, you have been to a restaurant with uppity ambience accompanied with some others you care a lot about. On some of those occasions you were no doubt seated next to a family with a kid keen on shrieking and howling for some reason better known to him. Probably the reason was well known to his mother too, but knowing her child rather well ignored it all as business as usual. She and her partner continued enjoying the meal blissfully oblivious to the horrific sounds the young one was emitting. It posed embarrassing problems for the restaurant staff who were torn between the Shakespearian dilemma — to interfere or not to interfere, that being the question.

On one such occasion, the scene was a restaurant of some renown along with a fair bit of romantic aura. A set of two couples sat on a six-seater set with two little boys next to the table where my wife and I were trying to celebrate our wedding anniversary with lit candles, flowers, balloons. The works. Pretty early into the event, the kiddos decided to use one of the aisles between the tables as a strip for kicking the inflated rubber ball and yelling, “Goal”! All else was generally inaudible chatter including what my wife was saying to me. The 6-year old footballers’ two sets of parents dined in blissful oblivion. As a matter of fact one of the two young ladies — perhaps the mother — looked on in delighted parental adoration.

The restaurant staff — panic written on their faces — cowered, and wondered what to do.

The guests from another less affected table asked the baffled waiter that they be moved to a somewhat less proximate able. I asked for the same. The restaurant manager looking paler by every passing second was at his best embarrassed politeness. He said, “Lemme see what I can do”. Thereupon, he retraced his steps and blended himself into the wall curtains, hoping that all the aggrieved guests will mistake him for one of the paisleys on the tapestry.

All this while the young footballers kept scoring goals. After watching the recent France-Croatia game in the recent World Cup, I had learned that the game lasted for 90 minutes, plus some if there wasn’t any extra time added for injury. The thought was discomforting.

Another young couple in their early twenties sat on a table, the location of which could be described as smack in direct line of fire. It may have been the way the young man held his partner’s hands. Or was it that under the table footsie that went on for some time? I wasn’t certain which; but something about them suggested they were using the time out at this expensive joint for reaching a momentous decision. It could have been something akin to how they should catch the girl’s father at his weakest moment to extract a “yes” from him. In such a situation incessant and vociferous jubilations from one lad or the other can be rather distracting. That being how it was, an errant ball from a miss-kick hit the young woman on the back of her head, which in turn, released a bang of her hair from the bun she would have no doubt painstakingly crafted. The horrified young man must have been an actor of some distinction, for he admirably masked his rage. Instead, he got up and promptly moved to the only vacant table — holding his dinner plate in one hand and the woman’s hand in the other.

The manager had chosen to be a silent observer praying for a shorter version — not unlike T20 in cricket — of that football game.

Like all other guests, my wife and I were pretty much left to our own devices. I considered getting up with a start, violently flailing my arms, and yelling, “Fire! Fire!” That, I hoped, would have pulled the nonchalant parents from their trance, grabbed the kids and run for the outdoors. The restaurant establishment knew me well as a frequent client and would have charitably assigned a Good Samaritan motive to that act, but attendant publicity in the morning newspapers appeared like a heavy downside. I spurned the thought.

Meanwhile, the din continued.

Then, all of a sudden, serendipity struck me. I extended my leg into the aisle right when one of the footballing kids was likely to run into it. The kid tripped and fell hollering to the skies. I had to obviously be the first responder to check the damage. I exclaimed, “Oh! I am sorry, young lad. I was getting up to go to the rest room when you decided to make that run for the goal.” Turning in the direction of the merrily chatting foursome, I said, “Are you the parents of this kid? Please help out here.” I needn’t have said that for the doting mother was all over the prostrated kid, enquiring about his welfare. The manager saw the opportunity to emerge out of the curtains and said, “Madam, I was just about to advise you that playing football between tables was not such a good idea.”

The football game abandoned, the kids sat with their parents, sulking for the rest of the evening.

Pradeep