It is the wee hours of the morning of June 23, 1986 and a young boy sits crouched around a tiny television intently watching the actions that transpire on the grainy black and white screen in front of him.
Sometimes he gestures wildly, yet inaudibly, clearly irritated or let down by the actions of the men in the picture.
The room in which he sits is dark and the only light is the one that emanates from the TV screen.
It lights up his face and the furrowed lines of nervous tension that accompany all life-long sports fanatics are already visible.
His floppy hair falls over his eyes at times, but he ruffles it away distractedly, almost uncaringly.
It is eerily quiet; there is hardly any noise as the analog volume bar in the rickety Singer TV set is cranked almost close to mute.
John Helm (or is it Martin Tyler?) is often drowned out by the audible snores of his father who sleeps on a mahogany bed not five feet away.
If he wakes up, it could be curtains.
This means that the boy has to sit close to the screen; so close that sometimes the faster cuts in the sequence leave him squinting and rubbing his eyes.
But this is a price he is willing to pay to watch the actions that unfold on a sweltering Azteca pitch half a world away.
This is Diego Maradona versus the English after all and the young boy sitting in Bangladesh would not have missed it for the world.
Presently, his older brother tiptoes into the room and whispers in his ear that he has to go to school tomorrow and that it is already far too late.
The second half must be forsaken.
The younger sibling pleads.
Just a little bit more he says and the older one already knows that it is a lost cause.
He sits down alongside his younger brother, a resigned look on his bearded face, convinced that there is no fighting or stopping this labour of love.
Fifteen minutes later, both sit there awestruck; clinging on to each other in the desperate hope of finding some tangible yet inaudible connection to explain the events that they have just witnessed.