Football for me is now a seasonal affair that comes and goes every four years. It is like the flu, a fever that starts with the World Cup and ends with it! But I am a proud witness to the time when football madness gripped the entire nation.

Allow me to take you to a time when, for Bangladeshis, the Brazil-Argentina rivalry was perhaps non–existent. Yet, the passion for the sport was felt in every home; the youth would flock to the stadium in thousands, the elderly followed every game on the radio, and children would eagerly wait for the live transmission over the television.

The city itself would change on match days. The tea stalls buzzed with debates as old men, their faces lined with experience, argued passionately about the strengths of their teams. 

The air smelled of fried snacks and hot tea as pedestrians stopped mid-walk to glance at a black-and-white television set broadcasting pre-match analysis in a local shop.

Back in the day, the Abahani-Mohammedan rivalry was as fierce as Real Madrid-Barcelona. One will find it hard to believe — the anticipation of two giants playing against each other, be it a league match or the Federation Cup. 

From rickshaw pullers, shopkeepers, office executives to school children —everyone had a side to cheer. The entire city would go silent before a game, but riot police would take position near the stadium to keep the crowd in control. It was not just a game but a battle of pride fought with voices, flags, and an undying loyalty. 

Of course, we children were not allowed to go to the stadiums, but our cousins always made an exception to the rule (as long as our parents did not know about it). Oh! Those electrifying moments —the chants, the sea of flags, or even the smell of fried peanuts from vendors at the gates are still some of my fondest recollections of the time. 

We used to arrange mock tournaments in the mohallas. Barefoot on the streets, we played as if the world depended on it. My grandma made me a flag of Mohammedan SC, and every time the rivals would meet, I would wave it in excitement on the rooftop and in front of the TV. 

Players like Kaiser Hamid, Sabbir, and Mohsin were household names. Even the commentators were stars in their own right: Tawfiq Aziz Khan in his fluent English and Khoda-baksh Mridha with his distinct style brought the excitement of the stadium and lit our homes on fire.

The rivalry was so fierce that it became a ritual to send sweetmeats to friends supporting the losing side, while the victors would slaughter cows and rejoice over freshly cooked pulao-gorur mangsho. The feast was not just about the food but about the unspoken acknowledgment that, today, one half of the city had won.

I, like thousands of children growing up in the eighties, dreamt of national glory — playing for the team wearing the red and greens. We would stare at posters of the national team, imagining our names on those jerseys, believing that one day, we too would make the crowd roar.Now, please do not take me as an athlete or ardent sports fan. This was the feeling that most of us shared while growing up.

It continued well into the early nineties until repeated failure of the national side at international events reduced the game's popularity. Even winning SAF Games proved difficult for us. Our hearts still beat for football, but disappointment became a familiar companion. And then, cricket took over.For a while, it felt like the new beacon of our sports scene. But that, too, is a tale of unfulfilled potential.

For the last few days, the whole country has been talking about the revival of football. We are eagerly waiting for a change that will bring back the glory days of the game. But the real question remains: are we putting all our eggs in one basket? Only time will tell. Until then, let's hope, let's cheer, and let's keep dreaming!