I am convinced that soccer is the greatest game on earth. I think this for several reasons: (1) it’s the foundation of at least half of my friendships, (2) it got me free trips to Greece for a while, (3) it provides an athletic outlet for people who are useless from the shoulder to the hand and therefore can't play basketball or volleyball or tennis or golf or baseball or most other popular sports (that's me), and (4) it’s much easier to play soccer with strangers than it is to randomly strike up a conversation (hence my first point). So, when I want to make friends in Africa, I find myself using soccer as a crutch for my feeble social skills.
Everybody here plays – the ship’s crew, the patients, and the locals. On a Sunday evening, every flat surface in the country is host to a game or two, or several.
Even the tiniest village has a flat dust ‘field’ with makeshift ‘goalposts’ at both ends. On the ship, due to the international nature of the crew, if word gets out that there will be a soccer game on the aft deck – an open area about the size of half a basketball court – there will be such a mass of players of all shapes and sizes that one might mistake it for a carnival.
Most of the time I spent with the patients on the ship’s ward was on the aft deck, playing soccer (again, mostly because I want to be friends but I’m too awkward to actually go sit by their bed and start a conversation). It was a sight to behold: Hospital gowns flying like superhero capes, feeding tubes sticking out here and there, sweaty bandages sliding off. Those who couldn’t play would sit on the sideline to cheer and keep score.
One patient in particular, Daniel, won hearts of everyone he met, including me. A spoftspoken 11-year-old from western Ghana, he had come for surgery on his shrivelled hand, a result of an accident with hot oil when he was a baby. He was always up for a game, and would sometimes come out to watch the crew games as well. During one of the crew games last week, he tapped me on the shoulder and told me in his adorable accent that ‘I would like for you to teach me every day how to play soccer, please.’ He could have asked me to swan dive into the filthy toxic waste-filled harbour and I would have, so we started private lessons. He was the best student I’ve ever had; every move I taught him he would somehow practice at night (with a shoe or something, he didn’t have a ball in the ward) and have mastered by the next day. He went home last Friday, and we were sad to see him go...
Playing on the Aft deck is all well and good, but the floor is quite slippery and it’s hard to avoid the big wrought iron anchor and varied heavy machinery, so a few days ago I gathered up some fellow football players and went on a mission to find a field that doesn’t float. There were six of us, perfect for 3 and 3, and we thought that if we were joined by some locals then that would be all the better. A taxi driver took us to a large dirt patch, and as soon as we took out the ball we were swarmed by barefoot little kids. It was like something out of a scary movie (or Field of Dreams - if you can kick it, they will come...).
I appointed the biggest kid as the coach and instructed him to pick out a team of 8 (they’re little) to play against us. He did his best, but as soon as the ball hit the dust, the subs rushed the field and we were playing about 387 men down. It was like an obstacle course – sprinting through a mob of moving children should be added to every agility training regimen. One kid dropped his pants and urinated at half field, adding another obstacle to be avoided (I thought I was cool so I was playing barefoot - bad move).
I couldn’t tell you the score, I actually couldn’t even tell you who was on our team because I think some of their players defected, but it was a good time – and we made a ton of friends :)
Everybody here plays – the ship’s crew, the patients, and the locals. On a Sunday evening, every flat surface in the country is host to a game or two, or several.
Even the tiniest village has a flat dust ‘field’ with makeshift ‘goalposts’ at both ends. On the ship, due to the international nature of the crew, if word gets out that there will be a soccer game on the aft deck – an open area about the size of half a basketball court – there will be such a mass of players of all shapes and sizes that one might mistake it for a carnival.
Most of the time I spent with the patients on the ship’s ward was on the aft deck, playing soccer (again, mostly because I want to be friends but I’m too awkward to actually go sit by their bed and start a conversation). It was a sight to behold: Hospital gowns flying like superhero capes, feeding tubes sticking out here and there, sweaty bandages sliding off. Those who couldn’t play would sit on the sideline to cheer and keep score.
One patient in particular, Daniel, won hearts of everyone he met, including me. A spoftspoken 11-year-old from western Ghana, he had come for surgery on his shrivelled hand, a result of an accident with hot oil when he was a baby. He was always up for a game, and would sometimes come out to watch the crew games as well. During one of the crew games last week, he tapped me on the shoulder and told me in his adorable accent that ‘I would like for you to teach me every day how to play soccer, please.’ He could have asked me to swan dive into the filthy toxic waste-filled harbour and I would have, so we started private lessons. He was the best student I’ve ever had; every move I taught him he would somehow practice at night (with a shoe or something, he didn’t have a ball in the ward) and have mastered by the next day. He went home last Friday, and we were sad to see him go...
Playing on the Aft deck is all well and good, but the floor is quite slippery and it’s hard to avoid the big wrought iron anchor and varied heavy machinery, so a few days ago I gathered up some fellow football players and went on a mission to find a field that doesn’t float. There were six of us, perfect for 3 and 3, and we thought that if we were joined by some locals then that would be all the better. A taxi driver took us to a large dirt patch, and as soon as we took out the ball we were swarmed by barefoot little kids. It was like something out of a scary movie (or Field of Dreams - if you can kick it, they will come...).
I appointed the biggest kid as the coach and instructed him to pick out a team of 8 (they’re little) to play against us. He did his best, but as soon as the ball hit the dust, the subs rushed the field and we were playing about 387 men down. It was like an obstacle course – sprinting through a mob of moving children should be added to every agility training regimen. One kid dropped his pants and urinated at half field, adding another obstacle to be avoided (I thought I was cool so I was playing barefoot - bad move).
I couldn’t tell you the score, I actually couldn’t even tell you who was on our team because I think some of their players defected, but it was a good time – and we made a ton of friends :)
3 comments:
Eleni, you've got me all teared up!
This is Hilary, by the way. In case the initials weren't enough to clue you in.
Miss you!
LNE you make me so happy.
xlucyx
yep i found your blog. i want to come play soccer with you and all these kids. i am so incredibly jealous. the kid peeing during the game was so funny.
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