Without stopping to look down I jump off the Satabdi Express with a hundred other passengers before and behind me. We are like water from a spout, poured too quickly into the grimy train station. We trip over each other and each other's children before sloshing against the grey walls opposite and pillars in between.

The train, now far behind me, was air conditioned, and now outside I'm having trouble breathing. The April air in Chennai is so thick you could gargle it and spit it out. The humidity immediately wraps itself around me. It's like wearing a wetsuit underneath a sweater in the middle of July.

When I talked to my friends about the trip in the days leading up to it their eyes would go wide as they tried to convince me to reschedule.

"No, no too hot now. Go a different time."

Unfortunately Chris is only in town for a week and we have meetings already lined up.

We hurry through the crowded, dimly lit train station, stepping over sleeping travelers and weaving around toppling piles of luggage. After six hours on the train it feels good to test my legs.

We finally emerge from the sweltering maze into the sweltering city and begin searching for a rickshaw.  There should be 40 of them swarming tourists lost in a new land, but we see only five or six. We would later learn that everyone is at home watching the Cricket World Cup which happens once every four years. The final match is pitting India against their neighbor, Sri Lanka.

Eventually we do find a driver. He charges us 175 rupees for a ten minute ride that should only cost 25, but it's a seller's market so we reluctantly accept. We arrive at the hotel and walk into the lobby just in time to see India loose the World Cup. As I fall asleep the trains gentle rocking continues somewhere deep in my inner ear.

The following day is filled with meetings and planning, but as it winds down Ravi, our sports director, offers to take me to a state football match where one of our former players is competing. Oasis runs multiple football leagues throughout South India for boys and young men growing up in the slums. We use these leagues to give them a reason to not join a gang or follow their fathers into alcoholism. Role models like Ravi are able to show them that there are new and better ways to live, if they only decide to work and work hard for it.

We jump on Ravi's motorcycle and head out to the stadium.

The blazing sun is setting, kept at bay behind tall buildings as a cool wind finds its way to us from the nearby ocean. People escape their various places of work and flood the sidewalks to chat, sip chai and eat deep-fried street food. As our motorcycle cuts left down a narrow street, the sunlight begins breaking free, flashing rhythmically though each gap in the passing buildings. It feels as though it's chasing us, desperately trying to keep up. All of this is seen through half-shut eyes. I made the mistake once of fully opening them while on the back of a motorcycle. The stinging is instantaneous, as small particles of dust hit your eyeballs at 30 miles an hour.

As we find a seat in the stadium, Ravi points our player out to me. From the distance it's hard to make out any distinguishing features except for the big number 10 printed on the back of his jersey.

Ravi offers a few details about Number 10's life before Oasis. He grew up with a dad who was perpetually drunk and a mother who was gone all day cleaning houses just so they could survive. He and his younger brother stayed in school and at night would sleep beneath a roof made of dried palm leaves. For a long time, this was their future. Then several years ago they began playing with Oasis and have since become quite skilled at the sport. They've made good friends and found mentors in their coaches, especially Ravi.

Now Number 10 is paid a decent salary to play football with the state's equivalent to our minor leagues  and, according to Ravi, he has a real chance at playing professionally within the next few years. His younger brother plays for the division below him but is getting better every season.

Even with the 200 or so other spectators (all male), the massive stadium is practically empty. The men behind us yell down to the players with every steal and missed shot. "They're shouting swear words," is the closest to a translation I can get out of Ravi. A old man is sprawled out on the concrete floor below us, sleeping off his afternoon beers. Children jump over him to get back to their seats.

Number 10's team is losing, 2-1, with one minute left in the game. Suddenly his teammate breaks free with the ball and dashes towards the painted goal posts. A stampede of stained yellow jerseys close the gap and quickly surround him, but it's too late, he's already in shooting range.  With a swift kick the ball rockets out from the cluster of players, cuts left and just barely misses the goal. As the ball rolls away from the field the referee blows the whistle. The game is over.

We pack up and Ravi drops me back at my hotel.