Fugee Football

Over 100 Rwandese, Burundian, Somali and Congolese people lined the soccer pitch last weekend to watch a game between JRS and a team comprised of refugee soccer players.  When I was told I would finally get to play some soccer after months of asking I didn’t realize my first match back would be in front of such a crowd and against such a team of organized and conditioned men.  I was a little intimidated, well maybe a lot intimidated, because as soon as we pulled up a mob of people surrounded the car and all eyes were focused on us.  The chaos was escalated when I pulled the extra large team jersey over my head sparking every man in camp to look my direction and ask curiously where I was going and if I was going to play.  “I am going to the football field and YES, I am going to play.”  In addition to being the visiting team on an unfamiliar field, a colleague and I were the only two female players which gave us a sense of duty and need to represent for women everywhere.  My feet were tired and my head rang from late night escapades on the dance floor just hours earlier but that was no excuse so I put my game face on and trotted out onto the field.    

Not even a few touches on the ball for warm-ups and the whistle blew starting the game.  Typical to Malawian style, we kicked off a hour after our scheduled start time but no one seemed to mind.  Most everyone’s fitness level held up through the first half and while some players had better ball control and passing skills than others our team of pasty white expats held their own.  Whenever the ball came into the vicinity of Clotilde or me the masses of people would hoot and holler with excitement, not familiar with seeing women on the football pitch.  By pitch I mean a large area sloping left to right fraught with ditches and uneven terrain, where in place of any green grass lay a rust colored dirt that was exceptionally good at staining our socks and shoes.  When the whistle blew at half time my mouth felt like the Mojave Desert at midday and my eyes had to squint to block the swirling dust from entering but I felt remarkably great.  Our team formed a huddle on the sideline joined by a large contingent of refugees who filled in around us, shaking hands, nodding heads, cheering, supporting and bonding with all of us.  Kids peered up at us and shoved their way through the pack to get a good spot amongst the players and onlookers.  Adults patted our backs, teammates gave pep talks and I was observing all of it.  Living it. Loving it.  The energy of the circle surrounding us was so positive.  The newly found fans were impressed with the play, entertained by the game and pleasantly surprised that Clotilde and I were heading, clearing, passing and defending alongside the men. 

Our spirits were high going into the second half only down one to zero given that we expected the score to be much more lopsided in favor of the home team.  Watching the game from the sideline at the beginning of the second half allowed me to listen to the comments coming from the crowd and shake hands with many of the kids I work with that showed up to watch the spectacle.  The opposition changed up their plan of attack in the second half with the addition of a new striker.  The striker was the same man that owns a restaurant in camp.  The same man that I sit down with on most afternoons to talk life, soccer and coaching.  Seeing Shabani outside of the restaurant and in his element on the field gave me a good feeling.  I cheered his name, clapped loudly and gawked at the size of his soccer hardened calves.

At about the 70^th minute a ball played in off of a corner kick squirted across the mouth of the goal and one of my teammates managed to put a knee on it sending it past the goalkeeper, who just so happens to be the interpreter I use every week.  Elation from the crowd, hugs, high fives, celebrations and a tie score.  With a few minutes left in the game I was playing left striker and a ball came across the middle and I had my opportunity.  It was as if I could hear the crowd holding their breath waiting for my next move.  I cocked back and struck the ball with solid force.  For a second the ball hung up in the air and was headed toward the left upright of the goal.  Slow motion anticipation. More screams. Even more wide-eyes. Another deflection.  The final whistle.

Ending the friendly match in a tie seemed the perfect way to close the game.  We had worked hard.  Sweat caused the dust to cake on our foreheads, our uniforms were dirty and everyone had a smile on their face.  We met in the center circle to shake hands and congratulate the other team.  Everyone showed great sportsmanship and I noticed a newly found respect in the eyes of many of the opposition, not to mention my coworkers who had been apprehensive about letting me play.  Small children came running up to hug us and get in on the action.  Adults shook our hands and I felt like part of a wonderful and supportive community of people sharing a moment of comradery and oneness.  It made me imagine the pride and unity a player must experience when they are part of a World Cup team uniting countries from all over the world through sport. 

A young girl I estimated to be about nine or ten approached me afterward hiding her eyes from mine.  She smiled timidly and reached out to shake my hand.  She had been watching the match and saw me walk off of the pitch.  Pride swelled up in my chest.  If I came to the field that day for no other reason I would have come for that handshake from that young girl that seemed to say, “Girls can play too.”  We challenged a lot of stereotypes and gender roles that day and had a good time doing it.  I believe that playing in the ‘fugee football’ game made us all part of a team much larger than the 22 that walked out onto the pitch.

Later in the evening I got to watch team USA dominate a sloppy looking Columbia team in the first round of the women’s World Cup soccer tournament in Germany.  I’m feeling that sports fever rushing through my veins again and it brings back glorious memories of teams past.  A few sore muscles and numerous dirty boogers the next day were oddly pleasant reminders from the game.