The Return of a Hockey Dinosaur – An OBA Adventure

There are reunions… and then there is the Old Boys Association (OBA) Reunion at Sainik School Kazhakootam (SSKZM).

Calling it a reunion is like calling the Kumbh Mela a neighborhood gathering.

Every year, alumni from the 1965 batch to the latest passing-out batch descend upon our beloved school with spouses, children, expanding waistlines, receding hairlines, replacement knees and, most importantly, an undying conviction that they are still seventeen.

Retired teachers arrive like living legends. We touch their feet with reverence, while silently praying they don’t remember the chemistry practical we cleverly escaped or the homework we creatively forgot.

The atmosphere is magical. Nostalgia hangs thicker than the Kerala humidity. Every tree reminds someone of a punishment. Every corridor reminds someone of a prank. Every classroom reminds someone of a nap disguised as “deep concentration.”

Traditionally, the reunion is hosted by the batch celebrating 25 years after passing out, working alongside the school authorities and OBA office bearers. It is a day-long carnival beginning at 7 a.m. and ending only after dinner, by which time everyone has eaten far more calories than they ever burnt during the sports events.

And speaking of sports…

Nothing reveals the passage of time better than watching fifty-year-old alumni convincing themselves they can still outrun teenagers.

The traditional battles are fought in cricket, football, volleyball and basketball, where the school cadets play with youthful energy while the Old Boys play with muscle sprain, less oiled joints and sheer optimism (though some of them are still fit and have the expertise enough to win games).

Last year, the 1998 batch revived hockey, thanks to a passionate group of former players. They also gifted the school an Air Pistol Shooting facility. This year, the 1999 batch named the reunion as “Fiesta ‘99”, raised the bar further by sponsoring an indoor badminton court and introducing badminton to the sporting lineup.

The school keeps becoming younger. The alumni keep becoming older. The competition somehow keeps becoming fiercer.

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Now comes my confession.

I wasn’t merely a hockey player.

I was once a Right Wing Back for the school team from 10th to 12th standard. During 1989–90, our team became Trivandrum District Champions. Most of the squad belonged to the 1990 batch, and many of us also happened to be school appointees—School Captain, Vice Captain and House Captains.

We even earned nomination for the National Championship.

Sadly, CBSE examinations had other plans.

Apparently, India believed passing Class XII was more important than winning national hockey glory.

Life moved on.

I captained my engineering college hockey team, finishing Runners-up in the Calicut University Championship.

Then came the Indian Air Force, where I represented my squadron in inter-unit hockey tournaments.

The last competitive hockey match I played?

The year 2000.

Twenty-six years ago.

For perspective, some of my present teammates weren’t even born when I last held a hockey stick.

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My relationship with alumni sports had already taught me a painful lesson.

Back in 2006, I enthusiastically played football during the reunion.

The match lasted an hour.

The fever, body ache and regret lasted a week.

Since then, I had wisely chosen the role of a spectator—the safest position in any sporting event.

Cheering, after all, burns almost no calories and requires no orthopedic consultation.

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When hockey returned last year, I was thrilled.

Unfortunately, rain delayed the match. Assuming it would be cancelled, I left for my hotel to enjoy what middle age values most—a comfortable bed and an afternoon nap.

Naturally, the rain stopped.

Naturally, the match happened.

Naturally, I missed it.

That was enough motivation.

This year, I volunteered.

After 26 years, I had absolutely no idea whether I still possessed any hockey skills.

My greater concern, however, was whether my body’s nuts and bolts would remain firmly assembled throughout the match.

I wasn’t worried about scoring.

I was worried about remaining structurally intact. My wife had warned the same!

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At 54 years of age, I turned out to be the senior-most player in the alumni squad.

The rest were younger than me by anywhere between eight and twenty-six years.

In sporting terms, I wasn’t a player.

I was a heritage monument.

I quietly told our captain, Lineesh (1998 batch),

"I’ll play the first fifteen minutes… before any of my spare parts decide to resign."

He graciously agreed.

I proudly wore the specially designed team jersey, borrowed shin guards from the school kit, acquired stockings from a teammate and squeezed into hockey shoes that seemed suspiciously optimistic about my flexibility.

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One of the happiest moments of the reunion was meeting Ramachandran Sir, our legendary hockey coach and former Physics Lab Assistant. SR Ramachandran sir became physics teacher in SSKZM and later taught in Bahrain for 17 years.

To us, he wasn’t merely a coach.

He was the sculptor who turned a bunch of energetic schoolboys into district champions.

I requested him to watch the match.

“If Sir is watching,” I thought, “at least I’ll try not to embarrass the 1990 batch.”

Before the match, we warmed up.

Sir arrived with his cheerful grandson.

He stood on the sidelines feeding me passes while I took shots at goal.

The first few attempts were… educational.

I missed the ball.

Then I powerfully struck the ground.

Then I generously donated the ball to areas nowhere near the goalpost.

Gradually, however, something magical happened.

The touch returned.

The ball began listening.

The stick remembered me.

Even those old, powerful hits from decades ago made a surprise comeback.

It felt like meeting an old friend who still remembered your nickname.

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Just before kickoff, I walked over to the school team.

"Boys," I smiled, "please handle me gently. I’m older than some of your fathers."

They laughed and promised they would.

Looking back, I suspect they interpreted “handle gently” as “only score eight goals.”

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The mandatory group photograph followed.

Every reunion begins with a photograph in which everyone stands confidently.

Every reunion ends with the same people searching for pain relief.

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The whistle blew.

Immediately I realised hockey had evolved while I had been busy raising a family and attending office meetings.

No offside.

Different foul rules.

Ultra-light fibre sticks.

Everything had changed except my determination.

Since I knew only half the rules, I decided to specialise in the other half—enjoyment.

Fortunately, most of the alumni had adopted the same strategy.

Despite my rusty reflexes, I managed to stop a few attacks, clear some dangerous balls and feed our midfielders down the right flank.

Then our spirited forward, Col. Jithin (2005 batch), brilliantly scored our first goal.

The alumni erupted.

For a glorious few moments, we believed history was repeating itself.

Then reality politely introduced itself.

Within ten minutes I was breathing like an ageing diesel engine climbing Munnar.

Every inhalation sounded like a motivational speech.

Every exhalation sounded like a resignation letter.

I immediately substituted myself with a much younger player before my lungs filed an official complaint.

Fifteen minutes into the game came the first water break, and a delegation from the school team marched up to me with a formal complaint worthy of FIFA headquarters:

"Sir, the referee is being far too lenient towards your team!"

Without missing a beat, I replied,

"Of course he is! We are Argentina, you are Egypt, and I am the ‘outstanding’ Messi!"

The boys burst into laughter, the referee looked blissfully unaware of his sudden promotion to international controversy.

However for the rest of the match every decision was fair and the final scores attested that, contrary to the FIFA score in the Argentina-Egypt game.

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Watching from outside, I discovered a wonderful career option.

Coaching.

More specifically…

Outstanding coaching.

Not because I was outstanding.

Because I was standing outside.

From the touchline, I enthusiastically shouted instructions that became progressively louder as my running responsibility reduced.

During the quarter break, I gathered the defenders and advised them not to keep playing dangerous balls through the centre.

"Use the flanks! Feed the midfield! Stretch the game!"

One of my batchmates happened to record these animated tactical briefings.

Looking at those videos later, one would easily conclude that I was either the national coach… or a politician addressing a public rally.

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Meanwhile, the young cadets were playing breathtaking hockey.

They were faster.

Sharper.

Clinically superior.

Our enthusiasm remained world-class.

Our scoreboard did not.

It read 1–7.

By then, I had quietly removed my hockey shoes and slipped into ordinary sports shoes to give my feet a peace treaty.

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Then came the final quarter.

Col. Jithin re-entered.

And suddenly my inner eighteen-year-old began shouting from somewhere inside my fifty-four-year-old body.

"Go back!"

Ignoring the wiser voices from my knees, ankles and lower back, I marched onto the field again.

I didn’t even bother changing back into my hockey shoes, stockings or shin guards.

Middle-aged confidence is a remarkable phenomenon.

It often survives long after athletic ability has retired.

I managed to intercept a few attacks, clear a couple of balls and send passes towards the flanks.

One thing became crystal clear.

I could still steal the ball.

I simply couldn’t run away with it before the teenagers politely reclaimed it.

The cadets scored once more.

Final score:

School 8 – Alumni 1.

One of my batchmates was doubtfully adamant that the score was 12-1.

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After the final whistle, both teams shook hands.

"Well played."

And we genuinely meant it.

The youngsters had displayed exceptional hockey.

The Old Boys had displayed exceptional courage… by merely showing up.

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Was I exhausted?

Absolutely.

Did every joint in my body issue an individual protest notice?

Without question.

Did my nuts and bolts loosen slightly?

Quite possibly.

Would I need a week to fully recover?

Almost certainly.

But something else became equally clear.

I could still play.

Perhaps not for sixty minutes.

Perhaps not with the speed of my youth.

But enough to remind myself that somewhere beneath the layers of age, office work and family responsibilities, that old hockey player still existed.

And that feeling was worth every aching muscle.

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Of course, no modern sporting achievement is officially recognised until photographs and videos are forwarded to every conceivable WhatsApp group.

Within minutes, the evidence travelled to:

• School alumni groups
• Engineering college friends
• Office groups
• Family groups
• Probably a few people who had absolutely no interest in hockey whatsoever

After all, opportunities to enjoy the limelight become rarer with age.

If one survives twenty-six years away from hockey, returns at fifty-four, keeps all body parts reasonably functional, and completes a match against teenage cadets…

…one has earned the unquestionable right to beat one’s own drum.

Loudly.

Very loudly.

Until the next reunion.

Or until the orthopedic appointment.

Whichever comes first.

True to its name, “Fiesta ’99” turned out to be less of a reunion and more of a joyful time machine—one that transported us back to our carefree school days and left us with enough memories to keep smiling until the next reunion.