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The Magic Kingdom of Football (by Stanley Lover)


We had stopped for petrol. It was hot. The West African sun blazed into the tiny car and I felt uncomfortable from the remains of a fever which had left me weak after a hurried vaccination had gone wrong.
Kurt, my companion, was busy with the attendant discussing quantity and price at the sole, sad looking, pump which must have been the original model designed when petrol was discovered. It looked as I felt -sick. In need of a rest, a coat of paint, elbow grease on parts meant to bright and cheerful but now covered with grime and brick-red dust from the bush road. My mouth was dry, my body beginning to burn from the heat and the fever. This was supposed to be the cool of the morning. Thin cotton shirt, white tropical shorts and open sandals, were all that I wore but I was drenched in perspiration. The worst was yet to come.

We had just started our business journey from the Ghana capital, Accra, to the Volta Dam. Could I last the whole day? Could I now suggest that we postpone our visit? Would Kurt agree to take me back to my bungalow where I had a stock of cold drinks and a large fan which swished lazily and coolly over my bed? I could rest there all day and be fit for the journey tomorrow. But no, it would cause too many complications.

I left the car and walked towards the nearest available shade by the wall of a small building which served as the house, office and storeroom of the petrol station attendant. He was now in lively conversation with Kurt, his wide hat flopping up and down rhythmically with the movement of his head as he made his point.

Approaching the house I became aware of noise and activity on the balcony above the entrance. What I saw attracted my interest. Two small boys, no more than 7 or 8 years old, moved excitedly and happily on an area about three metres by two. They were playing football. Unaware of my presence as I watched, they were in a world of their own. Thin in body, poorly clothed, their faces carried constant broad smiles, displaying gleaming white teeth when their wide mouths broke into laughter.

Apart from their restricted playing field the only accessory was a ball - a tight bundle of rags. No goalposts, corner flags or officials, their imagination transported them into the centre of the most important match in history. They wriggled and jumped, kicked and pushed with wild excitement of free expression. One boy lifted the ball by gripping his toes on a stray end of rag. They burst into great shrieks of laughter and giggles.

In their world they were the great Pele or another idol, bobbing, weaving, beating opponents with a body swerve, a drag-back, swift acceleration and scoring the winning goal in the World Cup Final with a brilliantly judged volley crashing the ball into the back of the net. A joy to behold.
In reality the rag ball came spinning down and landed at my feet in a puff of red dust. Two excited faces looked down silently imploring me to throw the ball back. I did. It had hardly touched the balcony before a new World Cup Final began amid shouts, laughs and chuckles, in complete isolation from the real world. I, too, was transported into another world for what seemed an age and yet it was for just a few minutes. Minutes of joy and elation. My cares were forgotten.

"Are you coming? cried Kurt. I fixed the images in my mind, said a
silent farewell to the boys and returned to the car feeling refreshed after that invigorating journey into the magic kingdom of football where a child with a ball is king.


Yours in sport,
Stanley Lover
©Stanley Lover 1997