I had always suspected there was something wrong with my head. Last night, I found out at the barber’s. After about 30 minutes under the guy’s pincher, which he claimed was a clipper, I peered at the mirror and got a shock. It was either he pinched out all my black hair or I was looking at Professor Wole Soyinka’s head. Everything was as white as General Olusegun Obasanjo’s funny-looking turban at a Sokoto Caliphate celebration. It took an elderly man to convince me that the wrinkle on my face wasn’t all about ugliness. I must be getting old, he insisted. Right there, I said goodbye to my football dreams. I planned to be a pro!

I was on my way to football greatness until last night’s discovery. Before then, I was a star. I played my heart out at the pitch – right in front of my office TV. Or in my sitting room. But the real scoring has always been delivered “behind closed doors.”  In fact, even before Chairman Christian Chukwu became a coach, I had won gold medals and cups. All in beautiful, resplendent colour. Never mind that they were plastics! 

I once thought only 22 “insane” people could run after a round leather – at a particular match. But somebody soon lectured me that a referee and his assistants should be counted in. And if you take the coaches, the football associations on each side, then the players could be in thousands. Add the fanatical spectators. And the all-knowing commentators. Then, football players, at a particular time, run into millions. A picture of a well-attended political rally. 

Well, when I was rich enough to afford a pair of boots and hand gloves, one funny fellow called me a goalkeeper. As short as I am. It was a laugh, but I never disappointed. I caught all the balls outside the post. And I was always ever in form to retrieve all the ones that got stuck in the net. The only time I made the mistake of “catching” a ball inside the field, the match was over. But I became popular. Everyone called me Skott. The girls shouted the loudest. Then, I was young and not so ugly. I had the balls to play ball. 

My club was called the “Young Stars of Idung Iniang.” Local stuff. But there was seriousness. Dedication. Patriotism. Discipline. No “bad belle” over match bonuses. No hanky-panky claim of injury. In appreciation, the small market in my area closed when we had a game. There was no self-serving, sleepy NFA. We made our rules. No coach, yet we did our stuff. Did all the exercises – like jogging to the nearby “palmy” joints and our beds. We even stretched in the mornings without reporting injury like today’s players. Imagine! Last Saturday, when Nigeria succumbed to Angola 0-1 in the struggle to qualify for the World Cup, almost every major player had excuse. Some were either allegedly injured – like Obafemi Martins and Ogbeche or “abandoned” by NFA – like JJ Okocha. The rest were just too tired to bother with the ball. Don’t even mention scoring. Yet, they are never injured or lethargic on the way to their banks. 

Anyway, in our amateur league, football was contact sports. Even experts, which mean Nigerian football commentators, have confirmed that. You could make motion without movement but you just can’t avoid contact. Apart from contacting the money or your bank, you contact the ground. Contact the courts for downward age declaration. Well, once in a while contact the ball.

Well, in our days, football lovers merely made “suggestions.”  Now, every Nigerian is not just a critic, he’s a coach. He knows what a player should have done a split second ago. But even if the player did the now expected, he still gets the blame unless the team wins. No coach – local or foreign – is good after he loses a match. Before he’s employed, our all-knowing commentators praise him to high heavens. He’s the best thing in modern football as long as his side wins. But he’s a devil qualified for hell, even if he plays five against 11 and loses. 

Why do we eternally debate on whether or not we need a foreign coach? With all our adult and adolescent population – running into about 100 million – turning football specialists, who needs a white coach? Aren’t we all coaches? What really is in coaching? What do coaches do, anyway, other than to tell a player to kick the ball into a goal post? The real task is in “kicking” the ball. It takes gut and balls. Once in the field, kick the thing. If somebody disturbs you from kicking into the goal at the far end, try the near side. Goal is goal, abi? And you’d forever be famous for it, amen.

Our local all-knowing football commentators carry on as if football is as easy as wearing tracksuits. Give them the coaching job or a slot in a team and they won’t even know where the centre is anymore. A critic once featured in a match I played years back. Must have been pre-1920 Olympics. Anyway, the guy was fond of “yabbing” us, the stars. But this day, he had it coming. Ten minutes into the game, our man lifted his pony fingers. “Please, replace me, coach!” The coach was either deaf or traveled. Oh! We had none. So the guy was forced to play “overtime” – a record fifteen minutes. Out of breath, he eventually staggered out of the pitch himself. He didn’t leave his room for days and we never had trouble from him. Ever!

Football is a game of wit, brain, schemes and balls. But intrigues and politics are killing the entertainment.  It’s now run by a mafia, instead of an FA. A clique decides who the coach and players should be – for a fee. Now, football starts in the boardroom. While the administrators are busy fighting over contracts, the game suffers cerebral-malaria, typhoid and polio. Not even a coach from Heaven can do magic with a team assembled overnight.  Coaches do not play, players do. Forget that “we played to instruction” excuse. No sane coach would instruct his players to lose a match. And players aren’t zombies. If one system isn’t working change it “on the ball.” And if players claim they sustained injury while “yawning,” the fault may be in the system. They might be feigning it because they’re unhappy. Perhaps, there’s no proper security for their bones highly insured by some foreign clubs.

When a coach claims he won a match, what he means is that he had well-motivated players with the right heads on perfect shoulders. Plus, the backing of an administrative structure that allows things work. In such a setting, no one asks if the coach is black, brown or white. And you certainly won’t have everyone turning all knowing commentators-cum-coaches.  

For me, grey and age may forestall my dream of becoming a “dollarised footballer,” but I’m still in the game. And I score a lot of “goals.”  Only in the bedroom!  No coach; no referee. No spectators/commentators. And certainly, no messy NFA!

FROM MY MAILBOX

Enough of lies

Thanks  for that piece on Akwa Ibom. The government has not done enough for her people. It’s annoying that those outside the state do not know the true position of things, hence they praise Attah. We need more of such articles to tell people the ‘reality’ about our great state. Enough of lies!

“Paul Ukpong” <pjukpong@yahoo.com>  

I reeled  in laughter

I could not help reeling in laughter as I read your “soup pot emergency.” Only God knows where you get your inspiration from. Anyway, keep the words flowing and may your tap never run dry.                  

“olisa charly” <olynzo@yahoo.com>  

If God were a Nigerian leader…

Your piece on God being on voicemail was very funny. If God were  really a Nigerian leader, only prayers by Baba’s supporters would be answered. All other prayers would be termed by Baba as prayers from ‘idiots, total idiots’. Who wants to disturb Heaven(Aso Rock)?

“kelvvin isikaku” <ck_infiniti@yahoo.com>  

Tinted government

This government is like a car with tinted glasses. The more you look, the less you see. With the tinting of the system, you can never know what is going on in the government.   The hope of the masses is in your (The Sun  newspaper) hands. 

“hilary osolase” <lordhilzo@yahoo.co.uk>  

• First published in Saturday Sun of  June 26, 2004