"Football is the beautiful game" ---Pele.
Methinks he was wrong. I mean, if you've ever been with a group of otherwise rational people, and talked with them, you'd probably love them. When you meet those same people on the back of their football team, you begin to wonder what went wrong with them. You would be forced to ask how is it that for ninety minutes they could become so irrational and uncivilised. So many vices are common when people throw off the toga of civility and wear the toga of the football fan. Industrial language becomes a given. Xenophobia is an accepted part of being a fan. I mean, how can such a game be called beautiful? I've told my girl before, and I will reiterate it here: I have failed exams because of my love for football, and our kids will not be allowed near a football pitch as long as I can help it.
I will tell you two true life stories which happened within days of one another...
On the morning of February 7, 2000, a much younger (and less cynical) me got up to go to work. At that point in time I was on industrial attachment at Flour Mills in Apapa, Lagos. That day I got to work, signed in that I had arrived, and promptly took off to the closest branch of the now defunct All States Trust Bank. My mission there was to buy a ticket for a football match that was taking place at Sports City, Surulere that evening. The match: African Nations Cup quarter-final game between Nigeria and Senegal. Mission accomplished, and tickets in hand (or do I say pocket?), I went back to work. My supervisor seeing my countenance warned me against leaving the office early. He was talking to himself. At the first opportunity, I left the office and headed straight to Yaba. My friend A stays there and unlike me had not gotten a placement for his Industrial Training. We spent the next 90 minutes watching that dramatic match between Egypt and Tunisia, then headed to Sports City.
Now, if you have ever been to a game in Lagos involving the then Super Eagles, you would understand the meaning of the word bedlam. The drama that accompanies trying to get into that stadium redefines the words confusion, anarchy, disorder, and (insert word here). I mean, why can't we learn to queue? We imported all the British vices during the colonial era, but their one main strength, the queue culture, we dropped like hot iron...
On that day, as in the three previous games none of which I had missed, the men of the NPF MOPOL unit were out in force and as is usual with them, had abandoned all known humane methods of crowd control. They were tear gassing us, whipping us and beating us. To make matters worse, we were beating each other too. The usual area boys were out in full making life a misery for normal football lovers like me who just wanted to watch the match, when the unthinkable happened. My ticket was snatched from my hand. Alarm. What to do? I mean, at the time, I felt that if I didn't enter the stadium to watch the match that I would die. Quick thinking meant that I mounted the nearest bike straight to my uncle's house in Surulere, and toasted him for N400 to buy another ticket (note that the N400 was black market rate, recommenced retail price was N200). He gave me the money, and I bought a ticket from some tout back at the stadium. The new ticket I bought was for B section.
Now, one thing I had always been careful about ever since I started going to Sports City was to always get a ticket to either of E, F or G sections in the popular stands since they offer the best view of the pitch. B section is just behind one of the goals, and any football fan would tell you that that isn't exactly the best view...
Back to my story, I rejoined the mob which was trying to get into the ground, and you wouldn't believe that lightning attempted to strike in the same place twice. Someone tried to snatch my ticket again. This time I was having none of it, and ended up in a fisticuffs with a genuine area boy. To be truthful, I was at the receiving end of a beating from the area boy, but the most important thing was that he failed to make me surrender the ticket. The guy kept pummelling away until a Mobile Policeman came and pummelled him in turn. That probably saved my life because as far as I was concerned at the time, the area boy would only take that ticket from my cold dead hands, and it looked like the guy was willing to do it. The policeman who chased my assailant away took me to the stadium clinic where my wounds were dressed and I was given a pain killer, then made to sleep. Kick off for the match was at 7pm, and that nice policeman came back to the clinic to wake me up. He came in and woke me at around 5 minutes to kick off. His name was B Okpabio, and I owe him a debt of gratitude.
By the time I got out of the bed and left the clinic, the game had already kicked off. In my weakened state I ran from the clinic to the turnstiles, got through and the very first action I saw of the match was Ike Shorunmu diving in one direction, and Khalilou Fadiga placing the ball in the other direction. Senegal had taken the lead. I fainted.
I came to about five minutes later, a crowd around me fanning me and being as misguidedly helpful as only Nigerians can be. I shifted so I could get a glimpse of the score board (B section is where the scoreboard is at in Sports City), and there it was, in bright colours: Nigeria 0-1 Senegal. I was about to pass out again when someone poured pure water on me, and people began fanning me again. I recall distinctly hearing a guy shout, 'make una no let am faint again o. If e faint e go pass there die.' Forward to the 80th minute of the game. Unlike the rubbish that the team had played against Congo about a week before when I happily joined the crowd to stone them, they had played well against the Senegalese, but the goals simply were not coming. By this time the entire stadium had turned into a great big church, and all of us in the stands were holding hands together and irrespective of ethnic or religious inclination we were singing two songs: Only Jesus Can Save and Kpo ya Chukwu na o ga za. In the 85th minute, Julius Aghahowa equalised.
I will probably never again see the palpable relief I saw that day when that goal came. Full grown men stripped themselves naked with joy, and girls (who would otherwise be forming) rushed forward to hug those men. No one cared. We were all so happy. Up until now I can swear that the shout of sheer ecstasy was heard as far away as Shagamu. When Aghahowa got the second, I will for the rest of my life never know what came into me, but I saw myself on the pitch, with maybe a million other people behind me. We had only one thing in our minds: to kiss Aghahowa. When Okocha was sent off late in the game, no one cared. We had won, we had shown those milk drinking, charcoal black Senegalese who was boss, and that was all that mattered...
The second story occurred a few days later, February 13. The venue was the same, Sports City (some people call it National Stadium), Surulere. We had beaten the noisy creatures from down south in the semi final, and it had set up a mouth watering final with the plantain eaters just east of us. This is one story I don't like remembering, so I will try and keep it brief: they won.
I remember trekking around the entire Surulere after the match that evening, in a daze. Later that evening, when I entered a bus, the bus was full of men/boys like me, all red eyed. Then the conductor had the nerve to ask, 'owo da?' There is no need to explain what happened to him. I couldn't go to work the next day as I was still so depressed about the events of the night before. In the process, I had forgotten that it was St. Valentine's day, and my girlfriend at the time came to visit me and reminded me. I remember looking at her like she was some creature from outer space, and I remember asking her if she hadn't heard of the national tragedy that occurred the day before. She looked me in the eye and uttered those sacrilegious words, 'It's only a game!' No babe, football is more than that. Bill Shankly would tell you. Needless to say, the relationship didn't survive that fight...
Yesterday we saw a 'miracle' that reminded me of one act of selfless prayer made by a friend of mine two years ago. If you want to know, the guy is married (to the same girl) now, and I wish them all the best. May they have a hundred sons. Amen. I can't even begin to imagine the number of prayers offered by Nigerians to the Most High yesterday, and the number of promises made on the spur of the moment. Well, He granted our prayers. But why is it that we always let the Green Eagles do this to us?
The 'miracle' in Ghana yesterday again brought out the worst in me as I was flipping through channels agonising about the outcome of the game. So the question then becomes, how can a game which makes an otherwise very cool and rational person (at least that is what I like to think of myself) so hopelessly irrational (not to talk of xenophobic!), be called beautiful?
Speaking of the game on Sunday, I hope those midgets are preparing for the trashing that we will hand to them that day. There is no breda in this one o. They made too much mouth after beating us 4-1 in a friendly, and laughing at us as we struggled to qualify, all the while conveniently forgetting the small fact that they have not beaten us in a competitive fixture now for 16 years and counting. I still don't like Berti, and I doubt that anything (except if he wins the World Cup) can make me like him, but at the end of the day, the ballers are wearing the holy Green-White-Green, and support them we must. They must out the name Super back in the Green Eagles. I would love it if we rape the midgets in their own backyard using engine oil as the only lubricant. Something tells me that we will. Something tells me that we will rape the Ghananese, then go on to play either Angola or the plantain boys in the semis. As per the plantain boys, well, they've never beaten us in an AFCON match outside of the final match, so I have no fears. As for the Angolans (there is no derogatory term for them yet), we still have scores to settle going back to one bright, sunny day in Kano...
UP EAGLES!!!
Methinks he was wrong. I mean, if you've ever been with a group of otherwise rational people, and talked with them, you'd probably love them. When you meet those same people on the back of their football team, you begin to wonder what went wrong with them. You would be forced to ask how is it that for ninety minutes they could become so irrational and uncivilised. So many vices are common when people throw off the toga of civility and wear the toga of the football fan. Industrial language becomes a given. Xenophobia is an accepted part of being a fan. I mean, how can such a game be called beautiful? I've told my girl before, and I will reiterate it here: I have failed exams because of my love for football, and our kids will not be allowed near a football pitch as long as I can help it.
I will tell you two true life stories which happened within days of one another...
On the morning of February 7, 2000, a much younger (and less cynical) me got up to go to work. At that point in time I was on industrial attachment at Flour Mills in Apapa, Lagos. That day I got to work, signed in that I had arrived, and promptly took off to the closest branch of the now defunct All States Trust Bank. My mission there was to buy a ticket for a football match that was taking place at Sports City, Surulere that evening. The match: African Nations Cup quarter-final game between Nigeria and Senegal. Mission accomplished, and tickets in hand (or do I say pocket?), I went back to work. My supervisor seeing my countenance warned me against leaving the office early. He was talking to himself. At the first opportunity, I left the office and headed straight to Yaba. My friend A stays there and unlike me had not gotten a placement for his Industrial Training. We spent the next 90 minutes watching that dramatic match between Egypt and Tunisia, then headed to Sports City.
Now, if you have ever been to a game in Lagos involving the then Super Eagles, you would understand the meaning of the word bedlam. The drama that accompanies trying to get into that stadium redefines the words confusion, anarchy, disorder, and (insert word here). I mean, why can't we learn to queue? We imported all the British vices during the colonial era, but their one main strength, the queue culture, we dropped like hot iron...
On that day, as in the three previous games none of which I had missed, the men of the NPF MOPOL unit were out in force and as is usual with them, had abandoned all known humane methods of crowd control. They were tear gassing us, whipping us and beating us. To make matters worse, we were beating each other too. The usual area boys were out in full making life a misery for normal football lovers like me who just wanted to watch the match, when the unthinkable happened. My ticket was snatched from my hand. Alarm. What to do? I mean, at the time, I felt that if I didn't enter the stadium to watch the match that I would die. Quick thinking meant that I mounted the nearest bike straight to my uncle's house in Surulere, and toasted him for N400 to buy another ticket (note that the N400 was black market rate, recommenced retail price was N200). He gave me the money, and I bought a ticket from some tout back at the stadium. The new ticket I bought was for B section.
Now, one thing I had always been careful about ever since I started going to Sports City was to always get a ticket to either of E, F or G sections in the popular stands since they offer the best view of the pitch. B section is just behind one of the goals, and any football fan would tell you that that isn't exactly the best view...
Back to my story, I rejoined the mob which was trying to get into the ground, and you wouldn't believe that lightning attempted to strike in the same place twice. Someone tried to snatch my ticket again. This time I was having none of it, and ended up in a fisticuffs with a genuine area boy. To be truthful, I was at the receiving end of a beating from the area boy, but the most important thing was that he failed to make me surrender the ticket. The guy kept pummelling away until a Mobile Policeman came and pummelled him in turn. That probably saved my life because as far as I was concerned at the time, the area boy would only take that ticket from my cold dead hands, and it looked like the guy was willing to do it. The policeman who chased my assailant away took me to the stadium clinic where my wounds were dressed and I was given a pain killer, then made to sleep. Kick off for the match was at 7pm, and that nice policeman came back to the clinic to wake me up. He came in and woke me at around 5 minutes to kick off. His name was B Okpabio, and I owe him a debt of gratitude.
By the time I got out of the bed and left the clinic, the game had already kicked off. In my weakened state I ran from the clinic to the turnstiles, got through and the very first action I saw of the match was Ike Shorunmu diving in one direction, and Khalilou Fadiga placing the ball in the other direction. Senegal had taken the lead. I fainted.
I came to about five minutes later, a crowd around me fanning me and being as misguidedly helpful as only Nigerians can be. I shifted so I could get a glimpse of the score board (B section is where the scoreboard is at in Sports City), and there it was, in bright colours: Nigeria 0-1 Senegal. I was about to pass out again when someone poured pure water on me, and people began fanning me again. I recall distinctly hearing a guy shout, 'make una no let am faint again o. If e faint e go pass there die.' Forward to the 80th minute of the game. Unlike the rubbish that the team had played against Congo about a week before when I happily joined the crowd to stone them, they had played well against the Senegalese, but the goals simply were not coming. By this time the entire stadium had turned into a great big church, and all of us in the stands were holding hands together and irrespective of ethnic or religious inclination we were singing two songs: Only Jesus Can Save and Kpo ya Chukwu na o ga za. In the 85th minute, Julius Aghahowa equalised.
I will probably never again see the palpable relief I saw that day when that goal came. Full grown men stripped themselves naked with joy, and girls (who would otherwise be forming) rushed forward to hug those men. No one cared. We were all so happy. Up until now I can swear that the shout of sheer ecstasy was heard as far away as Shagamu. When Aghahowa got the second, I will for the rest of my life never know what came into me, but I saw myself on the pitch, with maybe a million other people behind me. We had only one thing in our minds: to kiss Aghahowa. When Okocha was sent off late in the game, no one cared. We had won, we had shown those milk drinking, charcoal black Senegalese who was boss, and that was all that mattered...
The second story occurred a few days later, February 13. The venue was the same, Sports City (some people call it National Stadium), Surulere. We had beaten the noisy creatures from down south in the semi final, and it had set up a mouth watering final with the plantain eaters just east of us. This is one story I don't like remembering, so I will try and keep it brief: they won.
I remember trekking around the entire Surulere after the match that evening, in a daze. Later that evening, when I entered a bus, the bus was full of men/boys like me, all red eyed. Then the conductor had the nerve to ask, 'owo da?' There is no need to explain what happened to him. I couldn't go to work the next day as I was still so depressed about the events of the night before. In the process, I had forgotten that it was St. Valentine's day, and my girlfriend at the time came to visit me and reminded me. I remember looking at her like she was some creature from outer space, and I remember asking her if she hadn't heard of the national tragedy that occurred the day before. She looked me in the eye and uttered those sacrilegious words, 'It's only a game!' No babe, football is more than that. Bill Shankly would tell you. Needless to say, the relationship didn't survive that fight...
Yesterday we saw a 'miracle' that reminded me of one act of selfless prayer made by a friend of mine two years ago. If you want to know, the guy is married (to the same girl) now, and I wish them all the best. May they have a hundred sons. Amen. I can't even begin to imagine the number of prayers offered by Nigerians to the Most High yesterday, and the number of promises made on the spur of the moment. Well, He granted our prayers. But why is it that we always let the Green Eagles do this to us?
The 'miracle' in Ghana yesterday again brought out the worst in me as I was flipping through channels agonising about the outcome of the game. So the question then becomes, how can a game which makes an otherwise very cool and rational person (at least that is what I like to think of myself) so hopelessly irrational (not to talk of xenophobic!), be called beautiful?
Speaking of the game on Sunday, I hope those midgets are preparing for the trashing that we will hand to them that day. There is no breda in this one o. They made too much mouth after beating us 4-1 in a friendly, and laughing at us as we struggled to qualify, all the while conveniently forgetting the small fact that they have not beaten us in a competitive fixture now for 16 years and counting. I still don't like Berti, and I doubt that anything (except if he wins the World Cup) can make me like him, but at the end of the day, the ballers are wearing the holy Green-White-Green, and support them we must. They must out the name Super back in the Green Eagles. I would love it if we rape the midgets in their own backyard using engine oil as the only lubricant. Something tells me that we will. Something tells me that we will rape the Ghananese, then go on to play either Angola or the plantain boys in the semis. As per the plantain boys, well, they've never beaten us in an AFCON match outside of the final match, so I have no fears. As for the Angolans (there is no derogatory term for them yet), we still have scores to settle going back to one bright, sunny day in Kano...
UP EAGLES!!!
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:vinny:
