Odirile Mekwa

My Cup - vol. 2

Wed, 17 Mar 2010 07:16:04 GMT

I sat on the psychologist’s soft leather couch and he asked us to play a game called ‘association’. I take it most people have seen this game in movies. The ‘shrink’ pulls out a picture and the patient says the first thing that springs to mind. The game we played was with words instead of pictures. The head doctor pulled out a card, looked me in the eye and said “millions”. “Millions?” I asked...

‘Well... In 1994 a giant nation of (300) millions decided that, because it had failed to provide adequate military and other support (i.e. millions of $) to stem anarchy in a loony African state, it would be an unwise PR move for them to waste millions more on a tinier and loonier African state. The giant succeeded in saving their precious millions (of $) and powerful media and political resources. The tiny, loony Africa state succeeded in losing a million (lives). Elsewhere on the Dark Continent the sun shone brightly as millions of people queued up to perform a really simple exercise for which millions risked their lives. Billions of others watched footie on the telly.’

To nobody’s surprise the shrink wrote a generous anti-depressant prescription list after I told him that 1994 was a year of ‘millions’. Millions of Americans watched soccer?! A million Rwandans were killed by fellow countrymen in a few weeks?! Millions of South Africans voted for a black president?! Who would have believed that? And billions of football fans watched USA ’94. No surprises there.

For all the exciting events in the world at the time, this young boy had a few worthy moments as well. I moved to my school’s hostel (boarding) and shared a 2-dorm with my best friend, found out that my family was moving to the ‘burbs and finally, I got to see the sea! I finally cracked the football team for the annual East London trip and nobody could steal my joy. Some of my teammates stole chocolates and Magnum ice cream at a stop during the trip, and monkeys stole their food at the chalets where we stayed.

For all the legendary party that the FIFA World Cup is America took it further. They gave the world the biggest carnival ever experienced. All the freaks and illegal immigrants hit the streets and bars in the Land of the Free. The (Gridiron) football arenas were done up to host the mother of all football spectacles. The cities’ streets were all polished and the cops were out in full force to be seen. The football stars; shining, waning and budding, came out from all corners of the earth and they came to impress. They came by planes, trains and automobiles. Dennis Bergkamp came by boat.

USA ’94 was the last World Cup which had 24 teams, which means it is a smaller tournament than the current format of 32 teams yet it produced more millions in all the right areas. It brought in the highest TV ratings to this day for any televised event, record attendances for a FIFA World Cup and thousands of millions of tourism dollars.

On the field the stars delivered. Bulgaria’s Hristo Stoichkov (current coach of Mamelodi Sundowns) was 1992’s European Footballer of the Year and star at FC Barcelona. He, alongside a smangmang Lechkov, carried this unfancied team to the semi-finals. Unfancied Sweden had a similar story after being carried there by Henrikk Larsson and Tomas Andersson. Italy had Roberto Baggio, Gianfranco Zola, Paulo Maldini and Gialucca Vialli. The quality is this team was phenomenal, and I don’t just mean their kit or gelled-up hair. The Italians made their way after being made to sweat along the way by the likes of Argentina, Greece and a Nigeria team that had a wealth of talent, intimidating looks and smooth goal celebration dance steps.

Nigeria should have at least matched Cameroon’s Italia ’90 feat with the talent they had. Daniel Amokachi, Sunday Oliseh, Jay Jay Okocha, Nkwanko Kanu and the imposing, intimidating Rashidi Yekeni. Wow, now this team was massive and if you don’t believe ask the then 4x4 Bafana Bafana, and the Afcon ’94 contestants who were turned into mince by the Super Eagles mean machine.

The hosts, USA, only managed to get to the second round and were knocked by eventual winners Brazil but despite this their crowds kept filling the stadiums and made the tourney memorable. The sun shone brightly on the match days and the footballing stars when out of their way not to be outdone. Amokachi sowed terror in opposition defences. Baggio was sheer class and proved on the world stage why he was 1993 European Footballer of the year. Romario and Bebeto made every outing look like practice as they rang rings around the opposing backlines. Bergkamp. Klinsmann did his thing. Bulgaria and Romania’s stars represented eastern Europe quiet well. Russia, with flying Andrei Kantshelski, thumped Cameroon 6-1 but did not do much thereafter. Asian, Australasian, North American and African nations gave it all they had but could not match the guile, skill, discipline, technique and experience of the Europeans and South Americans. Look into the quarterfinal fixtures if you believe otherwise.

In the end the final come down to old war horses, Brazil and Italia. Brazil had been pragmatic in defence and midfield, and their performances were livened up by the finishing of Bebeto and 1994 European and World Footballer of the Year Romario. Italy had Baggio. The final as expected drew diverse predictions and invoked a lot of excitement from the fans and media alike. When the teams went out onto the pitch at Pasadena’s Rose Bowl they were also gunning for the title of most World Cups won. The sun shone brightly, the masses packed the arena and after 120 minutes of tiring football we had no goal to show. Much like modern day Soweto derbies but ... In that, USA ’94 became the first and only FIFA World Cup to be decided on a penalty shootout. It was a dramatic end to a thrilling tournament.

USA ’94 was a tournament that had everything for everybody. For football lovers there was great football. For statisticians there were record set per day. For the business minded, windfall profits were made, and for the celebrity and gossip obsessed there was Argentina’s Diego Maradona and Columbia’s Emerlio Escobar. Only a few years earlier Maradona was the biggest name ever in football and broke transfer records when moving between Italian and Spanish clubs. He had led Argentina to World Cup glory in 1978 and in 1986. He had ‘The hand of God’ and made the world forget about Pele for a minute. Maradona was sent packing from the tournament after his blood tested positive for cocaine use. Escobar also got to go home but that was after his team were knocked out because of his own goal. His welcome home gift was a bullet to the chest...

Again Mzansi watched the Cup from home but this time there was hope. Our players were getting used to international competition and the nation started growing expectations. It was only a matter of time.

Striker was the mascot's name.

My ou lady bought me USA '94 pyjamas and tights for my first trip to the sea.

My Cup runneth over

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 11:12:49 GMT

My Cup runneth over

When I was eight my late father took myself and a cousin of mine out for our first live professional football match. I got to see the legendary Ernest ‘Wire’ Chirwali (later Mtawali) in action against my then hero Doctor Khumalo. The match was nothing but unforgettable. The day was also unforgettable, but for another reason. Because of the chaotic seating arrangements on that day (no reserved seats and no partitioning of seating areas) I got lost in the crowds when my hand slipped out of my dad’s. So here I was, on one the best days of my young life, on one hand scared that I was lost and would be in trouble and yet on the other hand thrilled at finally seeing the mighty Amakhosi live in action. At the end of it all Chiefs beat Celtic by a goal to nil[1]. Being a young, impressionable and foolish molakaletsi/ molaks (i.e. haters in old Bloem slang) I was mostly happy with the result although a small part of me was saddened to see my neighbour, Ntate Molemela’s[2], pride and joy being once more embarrassed at home.

As an eight year old life was pretty simple; I was easily impressed and not as knowledgeable on anything really. My family had just moved from a ‘4 rooms’ matchbox house to a ‘bond’ house with 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms and a sizeable garden. We also got an M-Net decoder. Mandela had come out of jail and according to my dad, we could finally be proud to be an African nation. Sho tymer, if you say so.

You could say as an eight year old my life was blissful. I was blissfully ignorant. Ignorant of what it took for my parents to obtain that loan for the house, and of the social status that living there gave us. I knew that there was fierce, bloody violence in Gauteng and Natal but could not comprehend what a human death meant. I would compare the death tolls from the various massacres like I compare footballers’ match and goal statistics. Hell, I had not even noticed anything funny with the fact that black and white people lived in different towns and spoke different languages. In hindsight it is then not surprising that in my eyes, seeing Chiefs and Celtic play shoddy football on a bumpy pitch whilst getting grilled by the sun in an overcrowded stadium was one heck of a fabulous time.

How a few months can make a lifetime of a difference. In the winter of 1990 Italia ’90 rocked up on my TV screen and my perception of football changed forever. I followed the action religiously and could not get enough. I remember so many names, so many of the scenes of the Italian cities, streets, pubs. The stadiums and football pitches were just phenomenal. The English hooligans and the team they travelled to support both did well in their respective fields of participation. I would see Roberto Baggio, Roger Milla and Gazza Gascoigne fascinate the world in a way I could never had imagined.

Out of all that Italia ’90 presented I would say what was most memorable were unfancied Cameroon’s Roger Milla’s goal and celebration against the then world champions Argentina, as well as Rudi Voeller and Frank Rijkaard’s show down which ended in red cards for both players after they spat at each other. The Argentina/ West Germany final was not the best match of the tournament but by then all who viewed can easily testify that they had been satisfied well beyond their expectations. And that is the story of each and every FIFA World Cup Finals.

Did you notice that South Africa was not represented at Italia ’90? I didn’t even know that we didn’t have a national squad. After a while I did notice and started asking myself how our best would perform out there. I could only imagine; Ace Khuse, Wire Chirwali, Doctor Khumalo, Fani Madida, Tebogo Moloi. Could you imagine? We could only wonder if our best could make it to the biggest stage, and for a few long years all we could do was wonder. Now we don’t have to wonder anymore. In June of this year, 2010nder, South Africa will be taking part in their third World Cup and will be featuring as hosts of this great event. We can only imagine how this event will unfold, but hey, we don’t have that much longer to wait

What I am wishing for is that with this fantastic opportunity that this tournament presents, South Africa will unashamedly exhibit to itself and the world what a lively and lovely country it is. I wish for the excitement of Italia ’90, the razzle dazzle of USA ’94, the class of France ’98, the exhilarating passion of Korea/Japan 2006 and the efficiency of Germany 2006. Well, here is to South Africa 2010!

[1] I remember that the score was 1 – nil but I can’t remember who won. Who cares though?

[2] Founder of Bloemfontein Celtic. Only studied up to Std 4 (Grade 6) but went onto become a self-made millionaire way before the law allowed Blacks to be rich (pre BEE, political connects). My first business hero.