Soccer rocks

Yesterday we played a soccer game between Mgahinga Primary School teachers, students and assorted Americans, vs another school who had green jerseys with the name of a Norwegian or possibly Danish company.  One of their students had cleats with no laces. Two of ours shared a pair of cleats and a pair of skateboard shoes—i.e, each wore one cleat. Some went barefoot, others preferred to remove one shoe to kick out of the goalie box or from the corner. One teacher wore loafers.

The field was similar to any soccer pitch, in that it had some grass. It had no lines, what counted as sidelines was largely a matter of individual judgment, and the goals were two pairs of stones, convenient because the goalie can sit on one while waiting.

There were a number of large rocks strewn throughout the field, and clearly many more just below the surface. The field undulated like a living room where the carpet was put down last, on top of the tables and chairs. Sometimes you’d kick, and miss completely. Sometimes the ball would ricochet wildly, maybe right back in your face. Like bumper pool. I found it prudent to keep one eye on the ball, and one on the ground where my foot was going to land. Many patches of cow manure added a textural element.  While quite dry on top, I later found that they were nevertheless somewhat fresh. Small round balls of goat feces lay in meandering lines, tracing the movements of their creators.   The field also varied in elevation about five feet.

Our opponent’s goal was at the verge of a field that was more uneven, and covered with boulders. There were rocks of about two feet across every four feet or so, in all directions.  So when you made a shot, the ball went flying into the stone field, and bounced this way and that for a while.

Our goal was near the path/road, and always full of 3 to 5 year old children, sitting with their backs to the field. There were often small babies sitting alone in the middle of the field, thoughtfully fondling sticks or pebbles.  On one occasion, the green team scored a beautiful goal, with the added bonus of seeing the ball hit the back of a toddler’s bald head so squarely, that she went crashing forward, head-butting another toddler. Two small children fell casualty in this way, and several others took one to the body or legs.

Then there were the sheep and goats. A teenager with a stick had directed his goats and sheep to the spot to graze, so they foraged freely, sometimes jumping out of the way of a ball. I fantasized about hurtling over one, driving to the goal. Another teenage boy showed up with some cows, and seemed annoyed that people were using this soccer field, which he wished to use as his cows’ dinner/toilet, for actual soccer.

There was a sort of dirt path that traversed the field diagonally, which I did not really notice till a Boda Boda (motorcycle taxi) with a woman in a spangled head-cloth on back, raced along it in the middle of a vigorous offensive by the green team, the ball narrowly missing the passenger’s head. The Boda is ubiquitous. It is not at all unusual to see them in the National Parks, buzzing past elephants on the way to deliver someone to work.

It was fun to play soccer, at which I do not excel. Until, that is, I tried to kick the ball and fell short, my toe digging into the uneven turf, my knee feeling like a hot poker was driven into it. I fell to the ground, hugging my knee. For a moment or two I wondered if I had finally torn the last bit of something important. The game continued, and the thought of the merciless pounding my skull would take from a ball at any moment got me moving.  I stood up shakily and limped to join the crowd of behind the goal.  “Ni meza” I said. “I’m OK”.