Veteran footballer Raju Shakya said in a recent interview with an authenticity that football is a poor men's game. This is why it's so popular around the globe. In a world where 85 richest people own more wealth than poorest 3 billion, football and poverty will certainly have a deep and passionate relationship. Who can be more authentic than Mr. Shakya to say football is popular among the poors? He is a veteran footballer of one of the poorest countries in the world and has seen many a top class player ending up with being a bottom class pauper in his country.
(Cricket is called a gentlemen's game. And golf rich men's game. A gulf player enjoys the service of a personal secretary in the field (that is called the golf course). I find it amusing to think what would go in the mind of the man with a heavy bag of golf clubs. Maybe he would be saying to his boss, 'Master, master, which club thou preferest ?' Or, 'Master, master, thy ball, alas, hath gone to the ditch.' Rich people are always funny, especially, when they are seen through the eyes of the poors.)
Probably the greatest tragedy of football history appeared in Brazil just before the world cup 2014 was begun. A large group of poor people for the first time in the history rose against football. In a country where Pele, Garrincha, Didi, Romario, Ronaldo and many poor people rose (and rising) from football, the angry fists risen against football(FIFA and world cup) was really a gruesome paradox. President Dilma Rousseff had a deadly answer to the protesters with a deadly question Copa Pra Quem? (world cup for who?) And that was- 'Crush 'em.'
Renowned political analyst Rajendra Maharjan wrote in Shukrabar Saptahik, 'Madam Rousseff is spending at least 150 million pounds for the construction of a stadium and promising the nation a future souvenir of prosperity. But, the women compelled to sell their own babies in 15 pounds aren't so hopeful of future's opulence. They are yelling- 'World cup for who?''
Mr. Maharjan has a critical mind. And he can see things critically and can say things critically. I don't have that kind of sharpness and brilliance required to figure out this mess; football and politics and capitalism and money and WAGs. But I do have a history of football. A childhood and a teenage associated with football. And football associated with poverty (and poverty associated with football).
Pomelo Granny
Only people don't make history. Sometimes pomelos too make history. We used pomelo as a football. We would kick and dribble and pass a fresh and green pomelo. We had no real football to play but a wonderful pretension that we were the greatest footballers history had ever produced.
There was a big garden of Pudke Baje(Short Grandpa). There were lots of Orange, persimmon, guava, lemon and pomelo trees. Pudki Bajai (Short Granny) was the care taker and guard of the garden. She was a tall woman, big hearted with a blue tattoo on her calf. Despite her good height the village called her Pudki Bajai. Why? Because she was the wife of Pudke Baje. And it would be completely illogical, irrational and unscientific to call her by any other names than Pudki Bajai.
She was a wonderful Newar woman, a generous supplier of pomelos to little boys. She was particularly fond of me. She liked the way I speak, gentle and sweet, 'not like those rubbish sons of Damais and Kamis (the untouchable ones) who had mouths like litter boxes.'
To run a game of an hour or so, we needed at least four or five pomelos. I had to manage them because Pudki Bajai would only listen to me. A pomelo, kicked by more than two dozen bare feet, would show its white pulp and we had to have pity on it. So I had to go to her and ask humbly for another pomelo. She would never deny me.
'You're spoiling yourself,' she would preach me. 'Those devils' company will destroy you. Look at them. They don't go to school. Their fathers booze day and night.'
I would laugh and scratch my head and be back to the ground with fresh pomelo. We had named her Bhogate Bajai( Pomelo Granny). That was completely logical, rational and scientific.
And there came a black day in our football history.
One day, I was in a usual trip to Pudke Baje's garden. Pomelo Granny was not there. Nobody was there. So I climbed the tree, plucked three pomelos and throw them to the ground. As I was collecting them, Pudke Baje was there out of nowhere. Extracting a whole world of obscene words (all centered and pointing to mothers) through his mouth that generally would wear a silly and simple smile, he was punching me, now on head, now on shoulder, now on temple and now on back. He was holding my hair mercilessly. Luckily Sanbhai, my best friend came there to pull me from the monster's grip. Sanbhai freed me and was a savior. We ran away.
Our team declared, ' This is the ending of a pomelo era and the beginning of a real football era.'
I was dumbfounded. My face was swollen. I had escaped from a killer. But what about the domestic killers? My father would kill me. My mother would kill me. Even if they missed and I survived, my brother, a control freak, would unmistakably kill me twice and even thrice. Oh, I had to die in many installments.
That day I waited for the darkness sitting on the ground. I had never longed for an evening to fall so desperately.
'Why your face is swollen?' My mother caught me.
'I fell.' I lied. 'I was an inch away from being hit by a motorcycle. I jumped off the road to the field.'
She was terrified. And cursing the motorcyclist and thanking God for saving her darling son.
The beating I had received didn't go in vain. That actually prompted a great leap forward. We had denied being 'pomeloers' any more. We were going to have a real football. We were determined to become real footballers.
That day was not that black.
How are you Mr. Yod ?
The historical declaration of ours was great. But the greatness doesn't come easily. You have to pay for it. The shift of age, from pomelo to football, demanded some economic effort and thrust from our part. Like pomelos, footballs wouldn't grow on trees.
From a solid reliable source, we came to know that a football, No. 5, cost one hundred rupees. And that was a pretty big amount. We were 13 members in our team. A collection of Rs. 10 per head was enough. Simple mathematics! But, wait, till I tell. My parents used to give me one rupee, often a coin, for my tiffin. That can buy a donut big enough to satisfy the one half of the hunger of a ten years boy. The other half would maintain itself. The year was 1989 and the country was yet to see the face of democracy, which, some smart people were talking in the village, was a very good system that would keep nobody hungry, half or full whatever the hunger be.
We managed one hundred rupees somehow.
I, Sano Bhai and Kush came to Kalimati, ten kilometers far from our village, on a mission, with a vision of a new era. The sports shop had a variety of footballs, black, white, red and even green like pomelo. We wouldn't like green. It would remind us the humiliation of pomelo era. Hadn't we suffered enough?
The name of the football was Mr. Yod. O boy, what a name. We felt the smoothness, the warmness and all those 'ness'es related to beauty, grace and wonder.
'How are you, Mr. Yod?' We greeted him.
Our solid reliable source was nothing more than a lying scoundrel. The shopkeeper says it would cost hundred and twenty rupees. We requested him, coaxed him to lower the price. But he was a rigid businessman.
'Not a penny less.' He was unbreakable. 'Go and play marbles. That's what you fools are fit to.'
The bundle of ten notes of rupees ten (isn't bundle a funny and inappropriate word here?) was soaked in the sweat of my hand.
Go and play marbles. The shopkeeper had hit me on the head with a hammer. Go and play marbles. Certainly poverty minimizes and reduces everything; hope, dream, faith and the football.
And a miracle happened. Sanbhai produced a twenty rupees note. Again a redeemer!
Mr. Yod was ours.
Later, he told us that he had stolen that marvelous twenty rupees note from his father's pocket. And we cheered him. That was a history making theft.
A Clash of Civilizations
I was the captain of my village team. I was a good player. I held a good knowledge of football. My teammates would brag about Pele. But they horribly lack the supreme knowledge that his real name was Edison Arantes do Nascimento. And I was equipped with powerful information of facts and figures. My school newly had a library. The thick volumes of general knowledge (Samanya Gyan Darpan) were flying to my home without the slight notice of the librarian.
My football lover friends were school dropouts. That was the big headache of my mother. My brother would tell that I was going to the dogs. At that time football was a bad game in itself. A game of hooligans and bad boys. On top of it, most of my teammates were from the lower caste. Football had connected me to them and their weak social status. I would feel vibrant, lively and energetic with them on the field. They were my best pals. My brother would lecture me that he who doesn't have a future is a scoundrel and he who accompanies them is a stupid scoundrel. He would say, 'It's a tragedy to be both stupid and scoundrel.'
Our team was winning bets. We didn't have a club but had our own jerseys. Red vests with handwritten numbers on them. But we didn't have football boots. We used to play with any kinds of shoes. Even leather shoes. Some boys would prefer to play barefooted.
We had challenged the hostel boys of Laboratory High School. The match was going to be in their school's ground. Bet money was the biggest of our football history, one thousand rupees.
We were on time at the match day. They were with their school jerseys, with their names on it. They were with proper football boots that look flashy and expensive. I, as a captain, looked at my side. We had only vests and shoes miscellaneous. And some barefooted.
It was a clash of classes. Our fathers were peasants, soldiers, tailors, ironsmiths and masons. Theirs were (it was easy to assume by their show of attitude) doctors, engineers, lawyers and professors.
It was a clash of cultures. We were the kanthes, the suburbans. With no knowledge of how to speak, how to eat, how to wear and how to behave. We were raw. We were low. And there they were. Refined and sophisticated.
It was a clash of civilizations. It really was.
They first refused to play to us. Because we hadn't proper jerseys and proper football boots. The captain said, 'Go and play marbles.'
But we challenged them. Boots or no boots, jerseys or no jerseys, when a match is fixed, you must play. If you won't, you're the losers.
They at last agreed to play. A referee was elected from the spectators. A middle aged man, possibly unemployed. There were always such people available for referring around the football grounds. Bet money of both teams was handled to him. He made regulations, 'One hour play. Thirty minutes each half. Five minutes break. If both teams don't score, penalty shootout would take place. And no fouls.'
We played wonderfully. With no proper football boots, with no proper jerseys, we beat them scoring 3 goals against 2. It was their nightmare. They had everything. We had one thing that they didn't have. Passion, which had been strengthened by an epoch of pomelo playing.
Mr. Shakya was absolutely right. Football is a game of the poors.
(Binod Bikram KC is with Annapurna Sampurna Saptahik.)
Published in setopati.com July 6, 2014
https://web.archive.org/web/20140710003822/http://setopati.net/blog/2190/Football-and-Poverty:-My-Memory/
July 6, 2014
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