With his open hand curving up towards heaven from the corner of his forehead, he saluted me. Then pointing at himself, he said with a smile,

– George Fernandez.

– George Fernandez? I repeated.

He nodded.

– I like it, George. I said.

And that’s how we met.

George waits tables at the neighbourhood mamak, a hole-in-the-wall which serves up cheap eats, Indian-Muslim style. It has an extensive menu nobody cares about because everyone only orders prata, thosai, nasi goreng, mee goreng, some sort of curry, kopi, or teh. Once a while, someone would absent-mindedly ask to see the menu, forgetting where they’re eating, that would send the music to an abrupt scratching halt.

Like all the other staff, George works for a wage that makes the owner rich. Like all the other staff, if George weren’t at the front of the house, he’d be at the back cooking. Unlike all the other staff, George has a little secret.

When he was sixteen, he was dubbed by the Birmingham press in England as “the kid with the silky feet of butter.” They were referring his knack for gliding with the football up-field, slipping through converging defences, like he was sliding around on his feet when everyone else was contending with bog on the notoriously heavy pitches of Britain.

One writer even wrote, “It is as if whichever part of the pitch Fernandez is had frozen over, and he is just skating past his opponents.”

But there was always going to be one naysayer who challenged, “Ha! This is academy football. Let us see him do this in the big leagues.”

It’s more like by accident now when George looks at these clippings. He’d be flipping through this or that, looking for something, and he’d stumble on one – a proud moment, a forgotten time capsule. This he had done by design. He would’ve long thrown out all his clippings but for reasoning that perchance the Lord might call him to remembrance of having once done something with his life.

George was highly favoured by his coaches at the academy. They were completely impressed that the plaudits never got to his head. Day after day, he kept his head down, kept his nose clean. Like a sponge, he applied himself to absorbing all the technicalities of the modern game. He would do extras after every training, look after his body, and never miss recovery.

– Sit down, George.

Paul Keynes, director of the academy, was all smiles behind his desk. In the time that George had spent at the academy, he had grown closest to Paul in particular. Paul was a second father to him, who protected him, mentored him, taught him things only a father could a son. George was never in the habit of saying much, so Paul did most of the talking all the time. It made for a very efficient relationship. Neither of them wore his heart on his sleeve. They didn’t need to, and that was the special part.

– Yessir. Thank you, sir. Quintessential George.

– So your number is called. They want you to go up to the men’s team next week to start training with them. In the meanwhile, their representative will meet with yours to dot the i’s and cross the t’s of the contract. But I think they’re going to offer you a year with an option.

George seemed perplexed.

– Son, I must say you’re my first who’s not jumping out of his chair.

– Sorry, sir. I just don’t know what to say.

– George, you’ve always been the pensive one, so take all the time you need to process this, then switch gears because you’re going to need it next week.

George was silent, head bowed. The wheels in his head were turning. Paul was familiar enough with this to know to leave him be.

Then George lifted his head and said,

– What if I’m not ready?

Paul knew he had to be careful now because George didn’t ask, What if I’m not good enough?

– Son, remember when we taught you how as you come out of traffic, midfield, you’d have about two seconds to scan and hit that open man because defences would’ve shifted while they converge on your running with the ball?

– Yessir.

– That was two years ago now. Since then, you’ve exceeded expectations to become quite the exponent of the two-second rule. We’ve felt like that was the last significant teaching we could give you. We had only kept you back these last two years so your bones could get a little stronger, you could put on a few more pounds for the rigours of the men’s game. Now, I’d say you’re more ready than ever.

*

I wish George were from Birmingham, England. I wish he rose through the football academy system. I wish in his signature ranging runs, the ball just ahead of him, the world at his feet, the Indian diaspora held its breath because one of its own, though named, George Fernandez, is king. And dare I wish all Birmingham wore his jersey in the streets!

Like all the other staff, George is a migrant worker from Tamil Nadu, south-east India.

The day he was born, K. Maria Sunitha, his mother, raised him, all swaddled, to her lips and kissed him. Then she held him tightly in her bosom, closed her eyes, and made a wish which she told no one. When she opened her eyes, she named him, K. George Fernandez.

The day he left his mother behind, he held her in a long embrace, kissed her, and made a wish which he told no one. Then he got on his first-ever flight, flew across the Indian Ocean, to start work at this neighbourhood mamak.

Like all the other staff, George works a twelve-hour shift at this eatery that stays open all-night, all-day, everyday. Like all the other staff, George gets a day off when he gets a day off. Like all the other staff, George eats at the restaurant, showers and sleeps upstairs. Like all the other staff, George saves most of his pay cheque, with a portion going towards his phone data plan, in his case, so he can video-chat with his mother.

However, in my fictive mind, forget Birmingham! I’m the king of Kolkata. So unlike all the other staff, I have made George Fernandez my generalissimo.