In the season of brightness
Countless spectators
Come to spur on
Their favourite teams,
Gather to inspire
Their own idols.

I stand aside
Alienated from it all
Deriding the twelfth player.

How different he is,
That twelfth man!
Amid the game,
The noise,
The roar of acclaim,
He sits alone
And waits —
For the moment to come,
For the time to come,
For that incident to happen
When he too can play
With shouts of praise,
Tumultuous applause,
Words of support
Just for him,
And he'll be one of them
Respected like the rest of them.

But that rarely happens.
People still say
The bond between game and player
Is for life.
But even lifelong bonds can snap,
And the heart that sinks
With the last whistle
Can also break.

And you, Iftikhar,
You too are a twelfth player,
You wait for a moment,
For a time,
For an incident . . .

You too Iftikhar
Will sink —
Will break.