The clock had just struck 9am when we reached our seats at Salt Lake Stadium. The crowd was still sparse, and my daughter — a die-hard follower of Lionel Messi —looked around carefully before choosing two spots that would “give us the best view” of him.

The anticipation was electric. The King of football was about to appear before his subjects in a city once considered the Mecca of Indian football.

“Messi…Messi…Messi…” The chant echoed through the stadium as giant screens replayed LM10’s 2022 Qatar World Cup heroics. The surgical strike against Mexico. The otherworldly assist to Nahuel Molina against the Netherlands. The clinical penalties against Croatia and France in the final. Messi’s seven goals and three assists played on loop.

As the stadium filled, the cheers grew from loud to deafening. Everyone was waiting for one man. The message to the organisers was clear: bring on the man we came to see. They had travelled from across Bengal, from other Indian states, even from abroad. A Nepali flag fluttered in the stands. A group of theatre artists had come from Bangladesh — hoping to catch a glimpse of hope at a time when their country desperately needed it.

The crowd grew impatient, but not restless. They had paid good money, knowing full well Messi wouldn’t be playing football. They just wanted to see him.

The long wait

It was past 10am. The announcers stepped in with a string of performances: “Country Roads,” “Waka Waka,” Anik Dhar’s “Vandemataram,” and a song about Messi that got the crowd humming. Western and Indian classical dance recitals filled the middle of the pitch.

But as the wait for Messi continued, the decibels dropped to near silence.

The children were the first to crack.

“Baba, etobar Messi’r naam bolchhe, kintu Messi aschhe na keno, Dad, why is there no sign of Messi in spite of so many announcements?” asked a Class III student seated next to me.”

Her father had no answer.

A 20-minute football match between veterans began. The crowd watched with little interest, eyes fixed on the tunnels, waiting for God to emerge.

The match was barely into its second half when it abruptly ended. A roar greeted the announcement: Messi was arriving.

The moment & the letdown

It was around 11.30am. His cavalcade appeared on the giant screen. The stadium erupted.

Dhakis played at the tunnel entrance. At 11.31am, the moment arrived. As his white car rolled onto the red track, the stadium found its voice again — loud, cheerful, hopeful. I raised my phone, ready to capture my daughter’s face as her dream came true.

But I couldn’t get the shot.

Messi was there, and wasn’t. Everyone around him — including minister Aroop Biswas — crowded so tightly that spectators couldn’t see him. The crowd had expected Messi to circle the stadium in an open vehicle, waving to them. Letting them experience their dream moment.

It didn’t happen.

The booing started — aimed at the organisers, at the administration — for blocking their view. The artist who lifted the 2022 World Cup was before them, but under cover.

Hope flickered when Messi walked to one end of the field.

Perhaps he’d take a lap? But no.

At around 11.53am, all hell broke loose.

Messi rode off the field.

And rage took over.

Barrage of ‘missiles’

Water bottles flew through the air. Bucket chairs were ripped from their moorings and hurled onto the pitch. Mob frenzy had taken over.

A techie tried to break a chair. A regular football spectator intervened, urging the techie not to vent his anger on the furniture used by fans. The man’s anger — reflective of the stadium’s mood — erupted.

“I sacrificed my Puja vacation to come here from Bangalore to watch Messi, and this is what I got!” he shouted as he smashed the seat and threw it down. “I bought two tickets for more than ₹20,000. All for Messi. Will you compensate for my loss? The loss of not seeing Messi?”

Iron frames rained down from the upper tiers. People feared injury and ran for shelter. The crowd felt cheated. Their anger focused on organiser Shatadru Dutta and minister Aroop Biswas.

In less than 30 minutes, the chants of “Messi…Messi…Messi” had been replaced by boos and shouts of “Shame!”

As we left the stadium dejected, walking past angry crowds still pulling down gates and hoardings, a Class VII student from Patna named Vishu Prasad turned to his grandfather, Badri Prasad.

“Why didn’t they let us see Messi?” the boy asked. Badri had no answer.

Neither did I.