Did they not lustily sing my name, a bevy of beauties arrayed beyond the distant touchline, after I had dashed speedily upon a loose ball, kicking it furiously towards goal, whereupon it flew at and thrashed hotly against the befuddled goalkeeper, and spent what wrath remained from my kick upon the inside of the upright, before rolling to a stop inside the goalpost?
At which sight I did exult mid-flight; still running I pumped my fists victorious, interminable waves of spontaneous laughter erupted from within as teammates closed in on me, we all bouncing up and down like gazelles, our very souls enthralled in celebratory ecstasy as high fives slapped left and right. Sustained bursts of cheering rent the air.
The buoyant uproar died down only very reluctantly under the referee's strident whistle-blowing, and lastly for the sake of the game's resumption the sound of jubilation eventually faded away amidst enduring palpable joy, only to leave the hot afternoon air quiet enough at last for the sultry sopranos of sensuous singing sirens to be heard:
"Tunaye Tony, aaa Tony,
Tunaye Tony, hamtamweza!"
My myopic eyes directed a futile gaze at the distant blur from which the melody emanated, a smile again stretched my lips; laughter again parted said lips as the song was incessantly repeated, striking a harmonious note with my racing heartbeat that pounded away with pride.
Showing posts with label Soccer Love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Soccer Love. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 5, 2017
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Out for weeks
"Mouthballers" had largely absconded this day's training session. Eight of us real aspiring footballers were in attendance. Mouthballers are those teammates who boss others around and complain much more than they eventually play. We were more concerned with ball being played than with arguing with the ceremonial referee's contentious decisions - what does he know? Is he not comfortably seated outside the playing area and declaring his opinions on infractions from far away? Just do what he says anyway and play ball. It was unfolding as the best training session we have ever had.
In the heat of the contest I received a pass on the right wing. With a simple sideways movement beat the defender and dribbled away from him. Just as I was clearing his space his knee struck mine and, alas, there was a sharp heavy impact between them, whence I keenly perceived a dislocation in my knee. I fell with a big shout.
The teammate with whom we suffered that delicate misfortune was genuinely sorry, his first instinct was to forget about the ball and turn towards me, closing in fast with outstretched palm and many expressions of regret. But I recoiled from contact and rolled away to protect the tender joint.
A quick thinking team mate convinced me to accept first-aid and he stretched the leg and bent affected knee back and forth a few times. The bones and muscles realigned properly yet not without some tense friction. But I could soon stand up and limp somewhat.
Thanks to adrenalin the wound seemed alright so that I foolishly completed that training session. Eventually hours later after my excitement level was depleted I felt that the knee was actually badly. It would require a long rest period.
Nothing saddens a footballer more than a long period off the pitch. Even the actual pain hurts less than the long compulsory rest. It always turns into a real test of patience.
Hence the title. I'm out for weeks (maybe months, but optimism is preferred) thanks to injury. Not off the society though. Off the pitch. This should release to me more than enough hours and head space.
I will report regularly on progress.
Monday, June 16, 2014
Of Touchlines and Final Whistles
I've got many other failings, but I LOVE football.
I mostly watch football so that I can play better football. (Subsequently this ongoing World Cup should leave me ten times better.) Thinking about football is the thing that once made me stare so dreamily at the horizon that my nearby friend thought I was fantasizing about some girl, and asked who that girl was. I laughed the question off as my thoughts soared back to football heaven.
The opportunity to play football is what justifies my patience with a coach who always strives to humiliate me. My love for football is bigger than my hatred of his behavior, so I play football no matter. I respect the guy, I love my team mates, I prefer the left wing, we are unbeaten five games into the district league... What's to cry for?
But - there's always a but. There's got to be a limit to my love for football. There's a time for everything. Priorities change. One day I'll have to hang up my boots for good (instead of buying ever more pairs!) and that day, as I can already foresee, will be an extremely sad day for me, whether it's tomorrow or many decades hence. But even before that, in the immediate short term, I am heavily invested in football playing in terms of time and resources; and I can't help but wonder... is this thing destroying or helping me? But my favorite practice shorts have the word "Believe" stitched into the embroidery, so I do just that.
The one thing I am anxious for my soccer playing not to destroy is my walk with God. For it would be better to enter into life without a soccer career, than having a soccer career to be cast into hell. These thoughts have occasioned many struggles of conscience so far. Pending their resolution, I prefer the left wing despite being right-footed. And I don't appreciate the final whistle, since I can never seem to have enough of running around the opposing right back and making his outpost an ever-turbulent succession of breathless doldrums.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Match Report
Sunday. 5pm.
The half time whistle came as a relief to our team. We trudged to the sidelines, sweaty and lugubrious-looking , two-nil down the pathetic score. So far our play had been a tear-jerking series of screwballs lofted from our defense, sailing straight into the opposing keeper's grateful gloves. Meanwhile we absorbed two goals, including a contentious penalty kick and a gift to the opposition, courtesy of our atrocious defending and goaltending. (I myself was guilty of squandering two open scoring chances.) Half-time was a chance to get tactics in order. Surprisingly, no such tactics were discussed. Instead, accusations flew like aerial balls that preceded them.
Second half. We got a consolation goal from slightly improved play but the overall concept was the same - flying curveballs hasty with urgency, yet lacking direction. I was one of two strikers at the receiving end of this highly erratic supposed service, and I dashed up and down for the resulting loose balls for all my lungs' worth. But with four opposing defenders, and our three immobile central midfielders (who spent the majority of the match looking up at balls looping far overhead), the odds were stacked against a victory. We were playing like villagers.
The straw that broke the camel's back, for me, was two simultaneous injuries in my right groin and left ankle after one particularly stout defender dashed me to the ground, rather than allow my blistering pace to leave him in a cloud of dust. (Un)fortunately, there being no substitutes whatsoever on our bench, I had to see the match to its end. Thus was I the ceremonial figurehead - a striker whose main threat is his affected menacing looks as he limps grimacing about the attacking third.
Two - one the final score. At the end of the match our coach strictly barred us from commenting on it until the next day. A few discontent comments escaped some angry lips, but by and by the censorship prevailed.
As I sat on the grass mentally reviewing my own performance, the adrenalin in my body slowly declined to depletion, which proportionally amplified the pain from my injuries. And just when I thought I would spring to my feet and walk home, I, who had left the pitch at full time with a deceptive spring in my limp, was now stiff and arthritic. The team first aider saw this and immediately took to rubbing liniment into my injuries.
As I lay there groaning and wincing, who should I see on the sidelines but Anita, her eyes fixed on me.
Two - one the final score. At the end of the match our coach strictly barred us from commenting on it until the next day. A few discontent comments escaped some angry lips, but by and by the censorship prevailed.
As I sat on the grass mentally reviewing my own performance, the adrenalin in my body slowly declined to depletion, which proportionally amplified the pain from my injuries. And just when I thought I would spring to my feet and walk home, I, who had left the pitch at full time with a deceptive spring in my limp, was now stiff and arthritic. The team first aider saw this and immediately took to rubbing liniment into my injuries.
As I lay there groaning and wincing, who should I see on the sidelines but Anita, her eyes fixed on me.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Forewarned is Forearmed
Zdravko Logarusic. I first heard of him shortly after he was presented as Gor Mahia FC’s new coach a while back. In an interview that aired on prime time while I lazed on the couch, he complained bitterly to a swarm of sports journalists about the quality of players he found at the club. “Some players can’t think and run at the same time,” he said, clearly underwhelmed by the players affected. The way he said it, angrily and with an air of disgust, I fully expected an avalanche of rolling heads at the club.
But the guy shook me up a bit. I sat up. You see, in those days, I still dreamt of playing soccer at international level, or national league level at least (a boy must dream!). But along comes Mr. Logarusic, foreign coach with high credentials, complaining bitterly about soccer players who imagine themselves to be established. About these ones, Zdravko is saying “when they run they don’t think, when they think they don’t run.” What scared me most: that was the first time I ever thought about my in-game running in terms other than speed/pace. The instant he said that, I perceived that he was a tactician of such a high order that he even expected tactical running from his players, rather than people just taking off like lately beheaded chickens let loose. Anyway, thanks in part to his unabridged criticisms of the players he found at Gor Mahia, I began to work on my tactical game even if I am only playing soccer recreationally at grassroots level.
The acrimonious manner in which Logarusic parted ways with Gor Mahia FC was an anticlimax for me. I liked the guy from afar (which is not to say I have anything against current coach Bobby Williamson). But I’ll be listening keenly for whether any valuable criticisms that I can apply to my game will be forthcoming from Bobby.
But the guy shook me up a bit. I sat up. You see, in those days, I still dreamt of playing soccer at international level, or national league level at least (a boy must dream!). But along comes Mr. Logarusic, foreign coach with high credentials, complaining bitterly about soccer players who imagine themselves to be established. About these ones, Zdravko is saying “when they run they don’t think, when they think they don’t run.” What scared me most: that was the first time I ever thought about my in-game running in terms other than speed/pace. The instant he said that, I perceived that he was a tactician of such a high order that he even expected tactical running from his players, rather than people just taking off like lately beheaded chickens let loose. Anyway, thanks in part to his unabridged criticisms of the players he found at Gor Mahia, I began to work on my tactical game even if I am only playing soccer recreationally at grassroots level.
The acrimonious manner in which Logarusic parted ways with Gor Mahia FC was an anticlimax for me. I liked the guy from afar (which is not to say I have anything against current coach Bobby Williamson). But I’ll be listening keenly for whether any valuable criticisms that I can apply to my game will be forthcoming from Bobby.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
The Footballer’s Guide to Love
Between soccer and love, parallels exist, albeit crude ones. (I must declare my fanatical soccer-playing at the outset so you know this is not an “objective” blog post.) Besides, my own observations and experience with Victoria FC provides all the evidence necessary to support such a claim.
Humor me. I daresay that love is at the center of the football game; otherwise it all makes no sense at all. Twenty-two men kicking one inflated leather ball around? Utter madness. Football’s greats have been people who loved the game enough to spend years, decades, in training. But their love for the game overcompensates for the lacking rationale. (Of course, a fat paycheck jumpstarts motivation.)
I will attempt to frame technical aspects of the game within the corresponding love scenario. Granted, I have been single for quite a while now. A reader may feel convicted to point out that I therefore do not qualify to talk of love, as though potential employers and their demands for “experience” have not already driven me up the wall. I encourage such to sit down and argue with me later in the comments section. (“You wanna step outside and talk about this one on one, like men?”)
Kidding. Here goes. *Whistle blows*
Possession: the team collectively strives to keep the ball. It is a basic winning strategy – one can not score goals without the ball. Similarly the lover must strive to “keep” the beloved at all times while protecting him/her from the concerted attempts of worthy rivals to dispossess him/her by all means, including two-footed tackles.
Passing: by spreading the ball around, possession is preserved. Naturally, every individual player dreams of stunning the crowds with a spectacular solo effort. Practically, however, a reasonable player usually sees a better positioned teammate and relinquishes the ball to him despite his own strong cravings for stardom. There’s more to any pass than cold strategy; there is also an implicit trust that the receiving player is fully capable of making a positive contribution. Besides, if you give a pass, it will come back to you sometime, right? If you love something, set it free, yes? Therefore, if you want to receive more, give more. This is love.
Finding space: Players thrive when they break free of their markers in preparation for incoming passes. You will not see a player fighting his opponent physically, overpowering him and afterwards taking the ball. That’s a direct red card. Rather, intelligent space calculations and movements are made to minimize contact with opponents and maximize possession. Each player runs into his own area of unobstructed turf as he best judges fit; consequently, teammates end up spread out. Therefore, if you are in love, just get your own space and permit your beloved as much space as they need, alright? None of that neurotic clingy-possessive business, okay? Then things will work.
Dribbling and ball control: requires skill and passion. The player understands and cooperates with the ball in order to maneuver it as he will. That is my definition of “the zone”: where ball and player are on a superior level of alertness together. Similarly with love: ideally, there is to be “one mind” between two – shared goals, basic understanding, synergy. This makes obstacles fun to overcome; passes between opponents find their targets accurately, and goals become rewarding.
Yes, I DO think too much. My unlikely parallels between soccer and relationships end there.
Humor me. I daresay that love is at the center of the football game; otherwise it all makes no sense at all. Twenty-two men kicking one inflated leather ball around? Utter madness. Football’s greats have been people who loved the game enough to spend years, decades, in training. But their love for the game overcompensates for the lacking rationale. (Of course, a fat paycheck jumpstarts motivation.)
I will attempt to frame technical aspects of the game within the corresponding love scenario. Granted, I have been single for quite a while now. A reader may feel convicted to point out that I therefore do not qualify to talk of love, as though potential employers and their demands for “experience” have not already driven me up the wall. I encourage such to sit down and argue with me later in the comments section. (“You wanna step outside and talk about this one on one, like men?”)
Kidding. Here goes. *Whistle blows*
Possession: the team collectively strives to keep the ball. It is a basic winning strategy – one can not score goals without the ball. Similarly the lover must strive to “keep” the beloved at all times while protecting him/her from the concerted attempts of worthy rivals to dispossess him/her by all means, including two-footed tackles.
Passing: by spreading the ball around, possession is preserved. Naturally, every individual player dreams of stunning the crowds with a spectacular solo effort. Practically, however, a reasonable player usually sees a better positioned teammate and relinquishes the ball to him despite his own strong cravings for stardom. There’s more to any pass than cold strategy; there is also an implicit trust that the receiving player is fully capable of making a positive contribution. Besides, if you give a pass, it will come back to you sometime, right? If you love something, set it free, yes? Therefore, if you want to receive more, give more. This is love.
Finding space: Players thrive when they break free of their markers in preparation for incoming passes. You will not see a player fighting his opponent physically, overpowering him and afterwards taking the ball. That’s a direct red card. Rather, intelligent space calculations and movements are made to minimize contact with opponents and maximize possession. Each player runs into his own area of unobstructed turf as he best judges fit; consequently, teammates end up spread out. Therefore, if you are in love, just get your own space and permit your beloved as much space as they need, alright? None of that neurotic clingy-possessive business, okay? Then things will work.
Dribbling and ball control: requires skill and passion. The player understands and cooperates with the ball in order to maneuver it as he will. That is my definition of “the zone”: where ball and player are on a superior level of alertness together. Similarly with love: ideally, there is to be “one mind” between two – shared goals, basic understanding, synergy. This makes obstacles fun to overcome; passes between opponents find their targets accurately, and goals become rewarding.
Yes, I DO think too much. My unlikely parallels between soccer and relationships end there.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Unconventional Tactics
As an amateur soccer player, I have some of my own insight into why Kenyan football has failed to progress on the international scene. It is because of a certain rigidity of tactics at the grassroots level. There is a tyranny of wrong attitude that can be summarized as “We don’t play like that here!” This reminder is always delivered by the resident style-of-play gatekeeper, who is typically the team captain, or one of his burlier inner crew members, if not the coach himself. “Your leg will be broken.” Thus warned, the talented upstart consequently conforms to the prevailing mechanical methods of play to remain relevant.
On the contrary, teams which have the guts to embrace new tactics reap hefty rewards in the league. (Gor Mahia FC by Logarusic? AFC Leopards' "Total Football" by Jan Koops? Yes, by all means yes.)
But I am a lowly amateur, don’t listen to me.
I used to play for my university soccer team (as a veteran benchwarmer for the most part.) Before the match began our team would warm up. Warm-up entailed a series of highly structured moves and sudden claps and noises intended to frighten the opponent into psychological tail-folding. Then we would troop into our half of the pitch, form a circle, briefly discuss tactics, pray quietly and then shout sharply to startle the opponent further. Then the substitutes and benchwarmers like myself would leave the pitch in the most intimidating, self-aggrandizing manner possible. The match would then begin. When we scored a goal, we gathered at a corner and danced something irreverent, partly in order to also hammer a psychological blow against our opponents.
(Of course we did not hold the University League monopoly on psychological terrorism. A certain rival team loved to shout ALL their internal communications and in-game tactics - in Luo.)
In this post, I’m just trying to reveal that your opponent will not always limit the battle to the battlefield. They will try to defeat you in your mind first, before the battle even begins. Be aware of this; that once they jinx your mind with fear, your vision and execution of tactics is paralyzed by your own knocking knees.
Fear not. Fight the good fight.
On the contrary, teams which have the guts to embrace new tactics reap hefty rewards in the league. (Gor Mahia FC by Logarusic? AFC Leopards' "Total Football" by Jan Koops? Yes, by all means yes.)
But I am a lowly amateur, don’t listen to me.
I used to play for my university soccer team (as a veteran benchwarmer for the most part.) Before the match began our team would warm up. Warm-up entailed a series of highly structured moves and sudden claps and noises intended to frighten the opponent into psychological tail-folding. Then we would troop into our half of the pitch, form a circle, briefly discuss tactics, pray quietly and then shout sharply to startle the opponent further. Then the substitutes and benchwarmers like myself would leave the pitch in the most intimidating, self-aggrandizing manner possible. The match would then begin. When we scored a goal, we gathered at a corner and danced something irreverent, partly in order to also hammer a psychological blow against our opponents.
(Of course we did not hold the University League monopoly on psychological terrorism. A certain rival team loved to shout ALL their internal communications and in-game tactics - in Luo.)
In this post, I’m just trying to reveal that your opponent will not always limit the battle to the battlefield. They will try to defeat you in your mind first, before the battle even begins. Be aware of this; that once they jinx your mind with fear, your vision and execution of tactics is paralyzed by your own knocking knees.
Fear not. Fight the good fight.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Hill, Hair, Hat, Her
My soccer team mates schedule Monday evenings to sprint up and down a steep slope of tarmac road. Repeat until failure.
This rigorous regime enhances strength, stamina and explosiveness, which are good things for soccer players. That being said, the uphill dash inflames the leg muscles with hot pain and bakes the lungs alive. Often it feels like there will never be enough oxygen in the world for catching one's breath with. (That is just three minutes into pulling on sneakers.) The routine involves chasing cars and motorbikes uphill, with a resolute intent of beating them to the top. (A few drivers glance at their rear-view, take us for some bungling carjackers and floor the gas pedal.) (Most Chinese motorbikes can easily be overtaken while sprinting uphill. Their riders absolutely HATE it.)
At the end of "loading" (we call it that), your speech and heartbeat echo discordantly within your own skull, so you avoid talking until you're sufficiently rehydrated. And you are supposed to walk home. The journey home is fraught with impromptu muscle pulls, the inevitable consequence of repeatedly charging to the top of an indifferent hill.
***
On my way home one dark Monday dusk, I met one of my friends on the sidewalk. She announced her presence by grabbing my hat off my absent-minded head. I spun to the challenge, half expecting to have to chase a street kid down the middle of the road, only to come face to face with her laughing visage.
"Anita"
"I saved your seat and you didn't show," she said pulling my hat on her head. I always fancied it to be a hat for the artistic types; and it blended nicely with her soft feminine features, but it clashed irreparably with her formal skirt-suit. She'd been working all day. I felt like a relative bum, especially considering what time I woke up.
Meanwhile, I also felt naked, my unkempt hair being on display in the middle of town for all the world to see. My fingers were itching to grab the hat off her head but she was smiling and holding my stare while she awaited my excuses with a cynical smile.
"I went to church somewhere else." My ear drums rang with internal echo. Dehydration. Talking was too much work. I wasn't even sure I didn't smell sweaty and soccer-socksy. RT if you know the smell. "Can I have my hat back?"
"No!" she giggled, shaking her head. "I bet you didn't go to church at all."
"I'd gone to Nairobi. My hat? Before someone I know sees me." Spasms of soreness glowed like coals embedded into my skeletal frame. My lower back felt like something was broken in there.
"It's mine now." Her smile crept wider. Her eyes said she was serious. My heart sank.
A steady stream of pedestrians walked past us, around us, back and forth. Touts called out destinations from matatus passing on the nearby road. I could grab the hat and run...
A fortuitous breeze cooled my head. I breathed the fresh air. "Can we sit down somewhere and discuss it?"
"Good idea! I'm starving."
Minutes later, as she was having fries and I was draining my third bottle of water, the flow of conversation ceased abruptly. A muscle pull erupted deep in the core of my right hamstring.
Spontaneous hard words escaped my lips.
This rigorous regime enhances strength, stamina and explosiveness, which are good things for soccer players. That being said, the uphill dash inflames the leg muscles with hot pain and bakes the lungs alive. Often it feels like there will never be enough oxygen in the world for catching one's breath with. (That is just three minutes into pulling on sneakers.) The routine involves chasing cars and motorbikes uphill, with a resolute intent of beating them to the top. (A few drivers glance at their rear-view, take us for some bungling carjackers and floor the gas pedal.) (Most Chinese motorbikes can easily be overtaken while sprinting uphill. Their riders absolutely HATE it.)
At the end of "loading" (we call it that), your speech and heartbeat echo discordantly within your own skull, so you avoid talking until you're sufficiently rehydrated. And you are supposed to walk home. The journey home is fraught with impromptu muscle pulls, the inevitable consequence of repeatedly charging to the top of an indifferent hill.
***
On my way home one dark Monday dusk, I met one of my friends on the sidewalk. She announced her presence by grabbing my hat off my absent-minded head. I spun to the challenge, half expecting to have to chase a street kid down the middle of the road, only to come face to face with her laughing visage.
"Anita"
"I saved your seat and you didn't show," she said pulling my hat on her head. I always fancied it to be a hat for the artistic types; and it blended nicely with her soft feminine features, but it clashed irreparably with her formal skirt-suit. She'd been working all day. I felt like a relative bum, especially considering what time I woke up.
Meanwhile, I also felt naked, my unkempt hair being on display in the middle of town for all the world to see. My fingers were itching to grab the hat off her head but she was smiling and holding my stare while she awaited my excuses with a cynical smile.
"I went to church somewhere else." My ear drums rang with internal echo. Dehydration. Talking was too much work. I wasn't even sure I didn't smell sweaty and soccer-socksy. RT if you know the smell. "Can I have my hat back?"
"No!" she giggled, shaking her head. "I bet you didn't go to church at all."
"I'd gone to Nairobi. My hat? Before someone I know sees me." Spasms of soreness glowed like coals embedded into my skeletal frame. My lower back felt like something was broken in there.
"It's mine now." Her smile crept wider. Her eyes said she was serious. My heart sank.
A steady stream of pedestrians walked past us, around us, back and forth. Touts called out destinations from matatus passing on the nearby road. I could grab the hat and run...
A fortuitous breeze cooled my head. I breathed the fresh air. "Can we sit down somewhere and discuss it?"
"Good idea! I'm starving."
Minutes later, as she was having fries and I was draining my third bottle of water, the flow of conversation ceased abruptly. A muscle pull erupted deep in the core of my right hamstring.
Spontaneous hard words escaped my lips.
Monday, July 2, 2012
Post-Soccer Stress Disorder
After soccer practice, I always shudder at the prospect of meeting someone I know .
At that time I am sweaty, tired, thirsty and focused on the middle distance straight ahead, single-mindedly looking for home to float into view. Worse if the match was frustrating and my teammates were difficult and we lost; then I am also cranky, bubbling lividly beneath the surface. Talking to anyone at this time is the last thing on my mind.
Recently, on the homeward journey from the soccer pitch, I chanced to run into a close friend of mine who I’m always happy to see. It had been a while.
“You have never told us what exactly you went to do in Western,” she mentioned.
“I got wives,” I said, matter-of-factly.
“Wives!”
“Yeah, wives. They got needs.”
I tried to look serious, and I was pulling a straight face well enough, but her sustained searching of my eyes did me in. I burst out laughing at my own weird joke.
(I can’t act to save my life. Perhaps I could, with training; but why would I train while sorely lacking movie star looks? But that’s not even the point right now.)
At that time I am sweaty, tired, thirsty and focused on the middle distance straight ahead, single-mindedly looking for home to float into view. Worse if the match was frustrating and my teammates were difficult and we lost; then I am also cranky, bubbling lividly beneath the surface. Talking to anyone at this time is the last thing on my mind.
Recently, on the homeward journey from the soccer pitch, I chanced to run into a close friend of mine who I’m always happy to see. It had been a while.
“You have never told us what exactly you went to do in Western,” she mentioned.
“I got wives,” I said, matter-of-factly.
“Wives!”
“Yeah, wives. They got needs.”
I tried to look serious, and I was pulling a straight face well enough, but her sustained searching of my eyes did me in. I burst out laughing at my own weird joke.
(I can’t act to save my life. Perhaps I could, with training; but why would I train while sorely lacking movie star looks? But that’s not even the point right now.)
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Slow Motion Agony
Just at the instant when a soccer tackle turns painful, a “slow motion” effect occurs on the victim’s perceptions of real-time events, which effect starts from the demobilizing tackles’ contact and through an awkward fall to the ground. No wonder injuries are replayed in slow motion.
Our opponent was a powerful gang of Moi University (Yala Campus) youths, who approach soccer like University of Nairobi would approach anti-riot police. And they run like maniacs. And they tackle hard. Inspired/instructed to ”miss the ball, but don’t miss the player,” they earned two red cards but this was not enough to quench their fire. They beat us six goals to two.
(Look, we were freaked out to near madness. All the violence and speed disoriented us. We play touch football, we aspire to Spain’s tiki-taka style; not England’s rugby style of soccer. )
A soccer tackle gone bad is a horrible moment of sharp and heightened clarity. The tackle already hurts but I can feel in advance what that upcoming contact with the ground will feel like when it happens. There’s not enough time or space in mid air to do anything much about it, besides to recognize and appreciate the fact for all it’s worth. I may try to dilute certain doom with a roll or may just slam me down on the grass and lie still quick. It is a too-vivid agony of hyper-alertness, for which everything else seems to be on hold for all that is at stake: safety, whole limbs, consciousness and sometimes, life itself. Unfortunately, this world has some people in it who tackle like that.
Happily, most times following these accidents, I rise to my feet, emerge with some bruises and dirt, check for sprains. The game continues; I am less inclined to try to dribble past such maniacs at the next opening. A simple pass to a nearby teammate will have to suffice. If such an opponent gets to close too fast, blast the ball far away. It is always a safe time to play safe.
Our opponent was a powerful gang of Moi University (Yala Campus) youths, who approach soccer like University of Nairobi would approach anti-riot police. And they run like maniacs. And they tackle hard. Inspired/instructed to ”miss the ball, but don’t miss the player,” they earned two red cards but this was not enough to quench their fire. They beat us six goals to two.
(Look, we were freaked out to near madness. All the violence and speed disoriented us. We play touch football, we aspire to Spain’s tiki-taka style; not England’s rugby style of soccer. )
A soccer tackle gone bad is a horrible moment of sharp and heightened clarity. The tackle already hurts but I can feel in advance what that upcoming contact with the ground will feel like when it happens. There’s not enough time or space in mid air to do anything much about it, besides to recognize and appreciate the fact for all it’s worth. I may try to dilute certain doom with a roll or may just slam me down on the grass and lie still quick. It is a too-vivid agony of hyper-alertness, for which everything else seems to be on hold for all that is at stake: safety, whole limbs, consciousness and sometimes, life itself. Unfortunately, this world has some people in it who tackle like that.
Happily, most times following these accidents, I rise to my feet, emerge with some bruises and dirt, check for sprains. The game continues; I am less inclined to try to dribble past such maniacs at the next opening. A simple pass to a nearby teammate will have to suffice. If such an opponent gets to close too fast, blast the ball far away. It is always a safe time to play safe.
Some brawlers disguised in soccer wear are not decent enough to care what preservation rights your ankle joint is entitled to. Occasionally, a zealous opponent will corner you, flat out sweep you off your feet with a powerful sweep of his own foot, a take-no-hostages sweep, ruthlessly and spectacularly executed, comprehensively covering the entire span of his STRIKE zone. TRIP! Then it’s slow motion again for you the victim as, first footing, then balance, are lost, but alas! Momentum endures still. Pain, horror, surprise and fear, divided in time between the impact that’s just happened and the crash that’s just about to happen, frozen within a tangibly fluid fragment of aerial suspension not long to last, whose end is pain, and who knows what else?
Through it all, a calm and aloof awareness persists, cool and final: “I may be falling but I’m not dead YET.” This reassuring instinctual certainty makes us think fast, try to control the fall.
Through it all, a calm and aloof awareness persists, cool and final: “I may be falling but I’m not dead YET.” This reassuring instinctual certainty makes us think fast, try to control the fall.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Comfort Zone
Confession: I play soccer obsessively.
My best friend (or is it former best friend) recently helped me to accept this. I bragged to her about travelling all the way from Bungoma to Kisumu just to play a soccer match, and she responded with "You're nursing an addiction."
Big deal.
The other week, between trips to Western Province, which I will blog about soon, I discovered a new soccer team right in the heart of Kisumu City. My joy at being permitted to train with them can not be adequately conveyed. You should have seen my smile. It was a breath of fresh air as I had outgrown my former soccer mates (I had always been older than the majority of them but my few agemates got jobs and ladies so...) I shifted teams.
Indeed I may be nursing a self-destructive addiction to soccer but this subjective phraseology won't bother me much. I have realised that I'm happiest when I'm playing soccer; not even as happy when I'm watching professionals playing it. Five to six o'clock pm has become the highlight of my day and my focus from waking moment onwards.
The danger is that this fascination could blind me to other aspects of my life I should be pursuing. Like the job search thing. Of late I have resigned myself to the idea that anyone who gets a job is either lucky, well-linked or legendary. After this thought I shrug and pull on my boots. Any twinges of guilt about taking life for granted will be dealt with as I dribble nimbly and flit-footedly between the bodies of worthy opponents.
Afterwards I'm so tired I do not think too much about my social, professional or even economic life (or death).
Now that's what I call a comfort zone.
*whistle blows*
My best friend (or is it former best friend) recently helped me to accept this. I bragged to her about travelling all the way from Bungoma to Kisumu just to play a soccer match, and she responded with "You're nursing an addiction."
Big deal.
The other week, between trips to Western Province, which I will blog about soon, I discovered a new soccer team right in the heart of Kisumu City. My joy at being permitted to train with them can not be adequately conveyed. You should have seen my smile. It was a breath of fresh air as I had outgrown my former soccer mates (I had always been older than the majority of them but my few agemates got jobs and ladies so...) I shifted teams.
Indeed I may be nursing a self-destructive addiction to soccer but this subjective phraseology won't bother me much. I have realised that I'm happiest when I'm playing soccer; not even as happy when I'm watching professionals playing it. Five to six o'clock pm has become the highlight of my day and my focus from waking moment onwards.
The danger is that this fascination could blind me to other aspects of my life I should be pursuing. Like the job search thing. Of late I have resigned myself to the idea that anyone who gets a job is either lucky, well-linked or legendary. After this thought I shrug and pull on my boots. Any twinges of guilt about taking life for granted will be dealt with as I dribble nimbly and flit-footedly between the bodies of worthy opponents.
Afterwards I'm so tired I do not think too much about my social, professional or even economic life (or death).
Now that's what I call a comfort zone.
*whistle blows*
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