By Lyzander Edgar Sohkhlet
I can still remember the exact patch of terrace from which I first saw them. It was not a seat, JN Stadium did not have the comfort of modern plastic chairs back then, but a rough step of cement, cool against my legs and smelling faintly of rain. I was small enough to have to crane my neck above the shoulders in front of me, but big enough to feel the electricity running through the crowd. Red jerseys glinted under the late afternoon sun, and there, in the middle of the pitch, were our boys Shillong Lajong. For a child in Shillong in the late 2000s, there were no bigger stars. The world might have been talking about Messi and Ronaldo, but in our corner of the hills, we spoke with equal passion about Seityasen, Eugeneson, Aibor, and the rest of that fearless side. They weren’t just a football club; they were living proof that talent from our small, rain-drenched city could take on the big boys of Indian football and win.
I must have been no older than six, bundled up in a jacket against the evening chill, the air filled with the thrum of drums and the chants of “La-jong! La-jong!” echoing across the concrete terraces. The pitch under the glow of floodlights seemed like a stage where our city’s pride performed, not just for victory, but for all of us. In those moments, Lajong wasn’t just a football club; it was an extension of Shillong’s heart.It wasn’t just about football. It was about identity. Shillong Lajong was our heart; it was us. The players came from our hills, the chants were in languages we spoke, the stories were ours to tell. For a Shillongite, especially one growing up in those years, supporting Lajong was less a hobby and more a duty of the heart. Of course, it wasn’t always sunshine. Lajong’s years in the I-League were a dance of triumphs and heartbreaks. There were nights we went home hoarse with joy, and others when the mist seemed heavier because of defeat. But even in the lean seasons, the connection never broke.
People feared that the lull in top-flight football would also quieten the spirit of the stands. Yet, like the monsoon clouds that refuse to leave until they’ve had their say, Lajong stayed present. They rebuilt quietly, they worked from the grassroots, and they reminded us that football, like life here, is a game of patience and persistence.
And now, this Durand Cup. This run has felt different. Not just because of the results, though the results have been more than satisfying, but because of the way they’ve been achieved. The Lajong we’ve watched these past weeks have played with a kind of swagger that recalls those early, fearless seasons.
The midfield has been water-tight, the counter-attacks quick enough to make you spill your tea if you’re not careful, and the goals… oh, the goals. They have been the kind you replay on your phone long after the stadium lights go out. Against big opposition, Lajong have not merely held their ground; they’ve dictated terms. Every match has been a reminder to the rest of the country that Shillong football is not a relic of nostalgia, but a force that can still shape the future of the game. And then came NorthEast United. On paper, it was a David vs Goliath story, but on the pitch, David came armed with an army of fans and a heart big enough to fill the stadium. The match was a thriller, tense, fast, and unrelenting. Lajong matched the ISL side stride for stride, their midfield carving spaces where none seemed to exist, their defence absorbing wave after wave of attack.
The turning point came late. A single lapse, a moment’s space given to an experienced striker, and the ball was in the back of the net. One-nil. The scoreboard didn’t care that Lajong had played better football for large parts of the game. It didn’t record the near misses, the woodwork rattled, the goalkeeper’s heroics. It simply read defeat. But for those of us watching, it was no loss. It was proof. Proof that a team from our small city could stand toe-to-toe with the giants, not as plucky underdogs but as equals.
For the city, the Durand Cup journey has been an excuse to gather again. Markets talk about last night’s score before they talk about the price of tomatoes. Strangers smile knowingly if they see you wearing a red scarf. In tea stalls, uncles debate formations and substitutions like seasoned pundits. The energy has spilled into the streets, and for a place often caught in headlines for the wrong reasons, it is a joy to be noticed for something unifying. What moves me most is seeing kids in the stands now, eyes wide, flags bigger than their torsos, memorising every pass and tackle. I know exactly what is happening to them. They will carry these images for years, maybe decades. They will tell stories about the day they saw Lajong put six past a fancied opponent. And somewhere among them will be the next generation of players, inspired to lace up their boots because they saw their hometown heroes do it first.
Shillong Lajong’s story has always been tied to the story of Shillong itself. A club that has weathered changes, adapted, fallen and risen again, reflects a city that has done the same. The Durand Cup is just the latest chapter, but it feels like one that could open the door to more, more investment in local talent, more consistent seasons at the top level, and perhaps another golden era. For me, standing in the stands this time, no longer craning over shoulders but still humming the same chants, I feel the same rush I did as a boy. The cement steps have been replaced by proper seating, the floodlights are brighter, and the jerseys are new but the essence is unchanged. It is the red of our hills, our soil, our passion.
And if you close your eyes when the crowd roars after a goal, you can almost believe you are that child again, looking down on the pitch for the first time, thinking: these are our boys, and this is our game.