I had the honour—yes, the honour—of playing 2nd String Football (or so we were told) Foxtrot Squadron (Foxies) in the National Defence Academy (NDA) and that too as a final term Cadet about to pass out into the Military Life. In a classic strategy plotted by the dear course mate and Sports Captain's sleight of hand, the 6th String was quietly transformed into a dummy 2nd String. A clever ploy yet a painful one as each match for this team would be a Herculean adventure! Unknowns awaited each afternoon that the whistle of the referee would unfold for this team with all sorts of characters bundled in and majority with 2 left legs.
The whistle cut through the air and charging at us came Kilo Squadron's (Killers) ORIGINAL 2nd String—fast, ruthless, smelling blood right at the beginning. From the first kick, the ball refused to leave the Foxtrot half. Wave after wave slammed into us. Boots clashed. Lungs burned. Hearts thumped in the throat. The Killers sensed something odd. We weren’t slick. We weren’t polished. But we broke their rhythm, disrupted their patterns, refused to collapse.
Twenty minutes of brutal haggling later as Foxies gasped and with their 2 legged game— HELL BROKE LOOSE. Seven goals. Seven minutes. Like a machine-gun burst. The referee—poor chap—was a young Navy Lieutenant with no NDA Background and maybe was his first sortie with the future military strategists. He was completely overwhelmed, unable to read the carnage unfolding.
Killers thought the kill was complete and Foxies being their Sister Squadron as once upon a time Killers had originated from Foxies, they let it easy. The tempo dipped. Breathing returned. And then—the young Officer conducting the match caught the scent of the Foxies 2nd string.
Second half? Not football. It was a typical military style rolling session. Both Squadrons rolled— Foxies for foxing around, Killers for not killing Fox. And then— Fate walked in pristine white Navy shoes. The Deputy Commandant, a 2 Star Admiral, stepped onto the field. He saw dust-covered cadets rolling, a scoreboard screaming 7–0. The young Lieutenant explained, almost apologetically. The Deputy Commandant listened. Paused. And then smiled. “Even I was a dummy 2nd String player once,” he said quietly. “It takes courage to face an original 2nd String. These Foxies will be a tougher lot from now on. Keep the game on. Report the goal margins to me tomorrow.” He walked away. The whistle blew again.
And something shifted. Foxies stood taller. Spines stiffened. Eyes hardened. And that’s when the quietest Fox came alive. We had a Bhutanese cadet in the team— Barely five feet tall, slow, smiling, happy-go-lucky. Never volunteered. Never demanded attention. But that day… the second half lit a fire in him. He took the ball under control near the edge of the D. Killers closed in; certain this was easy meat. What followed stunned everyone. That small Fox leapt into the air, outside the D, and thundered a goal mid-air—for a heartbeat, the ground fell silent. Then—roars. That was the spark. The hidden gem revealed.
The Bhutanese Fox dazzled again and again— drawing defenders, creating space, unsettling giants. Those footballing antics, buried till then for close to 2 years, came alive. And Foxies scored three goals. When the dust finally settled, the board read: Kilo 10 – Foxtrot 3.
But those 3 goals— they were ours. Carved from courage. Won against a Goliath team. The 11 Foxies on the field had a reason to celebrate. Not the margin. The moment. We became footballers that day. The Deputy Commandant came over to Foxtrot and said words that stayed forever: “Damn good fighters. In battle, you will meet unequal enemies. The spirit you showed today—that wins wars. Keep the fight on.”
Cheers—to Football. Cheers—to Footballers. And cheers to Foxies and to you, O my reader, — especially the quiet ones— who learn to fly when it matters most.
