LIFE BY LOUIS: When football was football

A certain football club that suggests something to do with a pool that has a lot of liver in it has won a prestigious trophy. Forget the fact that the fans were not around to witness this momentous occasion. Because of the pandemic, they played to an empty field and their goals were witnessed by birds and cheered on by lizards. 

I am not a big soccer fan, but I hear the last time they won the cup, the main headmaster of this country was the man who was born and brought up in Sacho. I presume he was also the Coach Number One, Team Captain Number One and the Team Manager of all the main football clubs in the country.

Unlike junior cattle dip chairmen like me, I am told he had a lot of powers to make things happen. If our national team was playing and he attended the match, two things were guaranteed to happen.

First, the soccer fans would gather at the stadium gate and wait for him to arrive. The minute he arrived aboard Limousine Number One, the football fans would wiggle their index fingers and declare their unwavering support for and loyalty to the passenger in the First Limousine. They would also sing songs to the effect that the blood that flowed in their veins was pure and unadulterated Jogoo blood. Buoyed by these songs of praise, he would declare the stadium gates open and free for entry by all.

NATIONAL TEAM LIKELY TO WIN

The second thing that was bound to happen was that the national team was likely to win. Unlike nowadays when they are thrashed by teams from small islands that masquerade as countries, the national team then had a real cupboard full of cups that they had won. Any time our team was afforded a free kick near the opponent’s goal post, or a penalty kick, the person in charge of changing the score board already started preparing to change the scores. The goal was going to happen; it was just going to be a matter of time.

All that was needed was for the Football Fan Number One to lift his white club as the free kick was being taken. As one of our mighty footballers took aim and ran towards the ball, because we had mighty footballers then, the man from Kabarak swung his club over his head. The next minute, the ball would come flying past the opponent’s goalkeeper and the field would explode into a cheering roar.

Afterwards our winning team would be invited to the big white house on the hill and were treated to a banquet. This was a rare privilege reserved for big party bigwigs who were bringing busloads of defectors back to the ruling party from the opposition.

Those days I was a major fan of the local football scene. Back in the village I was so inspired to be a great soccer player so that I could also one day be invited to the House Number One for a celebratory meal with the leader of the ruling party.

Despite the immense powers wielded by the Footballer Number One, he was still not powerful enough to preside over the Matimbei Super League of our days. It was serious stuff.

The matches were held in distant villages and we were transported using open cabin lorries.

Very few people would allow their lorries to be hired to carry the players because they were assured that if the opposing team lost, the lorry was going to be stoned and the tyres deflated in a foreign land.

So the team was covertly dropped a mile away and would take the rest of the journey on foot. The team would be escorted by their village beauties to cheer the team and provide happy hour on the way back home.

Referees were picked at random, crooked to the core and with previous street fight and armed robbery histories.

Linesmen would come one each from the feuding sides, carefully selected from martial arts and boxing clubs in the village.

The match would run till 7pm and still draw because all goals including the most obvious ones were disallowed at the earliest opportunity to avert the potential of a full scale war.

The tension would be palpable and cheering would reach fever pitch. Suddenly, our star nicknamed ‘Mafia’ because of the terror he unleashed to our opponents would pick a loose ball. He would forcefully evade the five defenders marking him and kick a massive trajectory towards the opponent’s goal post.

By this time our supporters would be all over the opposing goalpost, some hanging on the bar and other putting fingers in the goalkeeper’s eyes and pulling down his shorts. The ball would hit the wooden goalpost and turn it into small splinters.

By the time the opposing linesman raised the offside flag to disallow the goal, our linesman had already declared a goal and the referee on the other ridge of the dark field could not see anything that was happening.

We would flock the field, the girls from the opposing team would join us in mobbing Mafia and carrying him on our shoulders.

The opposing team would start a protest. We would go back to our arsenal and unleash eggs that had refused to become chicken, called lazy eggs, and throw at them. The bad eggs contained gases that are classified as chemical warfare.

The ball would disappear in the melee, never to be found again. We would skip the return match because as the wise man said, he who adorns himself knows to what sort of dance he is going.