The Football Fallout

In the football-obsessed town of Mirzabad, you weren’t judged by your grades, your looks, or even your mother’s famous ghee parathas.

Nope.
You were judged solely by how hard you could kick a football—and whether it broke a window.

Two boys ruled the field like Bollywood heroes:

• Zaid: lightning-fast, constantly chewing gum like it was a power-up, and could dribble past three defenders and a sleeping dog without blinking.
• Kabir: sharp-eyed, slightly overconfident, and always wore his headband which smelled suspiciously like pickles left out during summer vacation.

They were best friends, co-captains, and proudly known across the district as “The Mirzabad Messi” and “Mini Ronaldo (with extra drama).”

Everything was perfect… until The Finals.

The stadium was packed. Even Grandma Shahida brought binoculars. The popcorn guy was doing black-market sales. The scoreboard blinked: 2-2. Ten seconds left. The crowd was screaming like someone had spotted Shah Rukh Khan.

Kabir had the ball.

Zaid was WIDE open—flapping his arms so wildly he could’ve taken flight like a confused pigeon.
“I’m open! Pass”

But Kabir saw glory.
A solo goal.
A highlight reel.
Maybe even a shaving cream sponsorship.

He shot.
He missed.
By a margin so wide the ball nearly hit a pani puri vendor.

The whistle blew. Mirzabad lost.

Silence.
Then chaos.
Aunty Rehana fainted. A child cried. A goat ran onto the field wearing someone’s team jersey.

In the locker room, Zaid didn’t speak to Kabir. At lunch, he changed tables. And the final blow—he unfollowed him on Instagram and removed him from the ‘Football Memes Only’ WhatsApp group.

The breakup was official.

Kabir tried to explain. “Zaid, I panicked! I thought I was about to become famous!”

Zaid stared at him with a glare so intense, three people in the hallway caught goosebumps.

Kabir quit the team. Trained alone. Stopped attending parties. Grew emotionally distant from biryani. He was broken.

Then came The Regional Trials—the golden ticket to pro academies.

Zaid was now team captain. Fierce. Focused. And suspicious that someone had put chilli powder in his socks.

Just before kickoff, he saw him.

Kabir.
Leaner. Meaner. Wearing a new headband that smelled like Vicks VapoRub and vengeance.

They locked eyes like two saas-bahus in a daily soap climax.

Zaid muttered, “Time for payback, Ronaldo.”

The match was madness.
Passes flew. Goals exploded. Someone lost a shoe.

And then—Kabir ran for goal. Like a Bollywood hero chasing a train.

Zaid charged.
He didn’t slide. He launched.
Kabir FLIPPED.
Like a paratha mid-air.

The referee blew his whistle so hard his dentures nearly popped out.

Kabir rolled on the ground, clutching his ankle and still somehow eating a banana.

Zaid stood over him, both victorious and mildly terrified.

Later, at the clinic, Kabir lay on the bed, bandaged leg up, munching chips like a retired superstar.

Zaid entered, dragging a chair with Oscar-worthy dramatic tension.

“I came to say sorry. For… you know… treating you like a football.”

Kabir grinned. “Bro, you tackled me like a flying auto rickshaw. It was epic.”

They laughed.

Zaid leaned in, serious. “Why aren’t you mad?”

Kabir shrugged. “Because revenge is easy. But forgiving you felt better. Also, I’m faking the injury to skip math class.”

Zaid snorted. “Respect.”

Kabir winked. “Next time you want revenge, at least wait until I’ve had breakfast.”

Zaid: “Deal. But next time… pass the ball.”

Kabir: “Only if you promise not to do aerial stunts.”

They fist-bumped. The goat bleated in approval somewhere outside.

Final Whistle Wisdom:

Friendship is worth more than fame, forgiveness takes more strength than revenge, and in football—as in life—sometimes it’s better to pass the ball.

We all make mistakes in the heat of the moment. Sometimes we choose personal glory over teamwork, ego over empathy, or pride over partnership. But true friendship isn’t about being perfect—it’s about learning to apologize when you mess up and having the grace to forgive when someone else does.

Kabir learned that chasing glory without his team cost him more than just a goal—it cost him his best friend. And Zaid realized that revenge might feel sweet, but letting go and moving on is even sweeter (especially when there’s chips and laughter involved).

In the end, trophies may gather dust, but friendships built on trust, honesty, and the occasional flying tackle?
They last a lifetime.

And always remember:
In Mirzabad or anywhere else, never underestimate the emotional damage of being unfollowed on Instagram. 😆