BY SPECIAL MATARIRANO

I could have been a good volleyballer had the sport been popular in the 1980s. Moreover, it was going to be exceedingly difficult for me to find family support for a sport that was as alien and elitist as its name. Worst still, how would I have escaped the glamour accompanying football in rural Gokwe where great talented footballers were revered, respected, worshipped, and deified? I grew up in Gokwe, in Copper Queen. I grew up on football stories from my father whose nickname in soccer circles during his time was ‘Sipo’ meaning soap. Father was nicknamed ‘Sipo’ after showing a speedy, fast, slippery prowess past defenders. He would smile before going into his retrospective and nostalgic heydays.‘I was a fast, speedy, and very slippery striker.

My conversion rate was seven out of ten chances,’ he would brag.I played plastic balls in Nyaurungwe’s Muchakata Village in Copper Queen with other small boys while herding cattle. Such plastic balls would usually lead to less care of the cattle, and subsequently, the cattle straying into people’s gardens and maize fields. By the time we wake up from the slumber of football concentration, cattle would have been put in the field owner’s kraal, waiting for us to claim them and receive our occasional bashing. No matter how painful the bashing we received because of playing plastic footballs and leaving cattle unattended to roam the fields, we never stopped. There was no conviction to stop, there was no division on the urge to continue, and there was consensus of feelings. Football was our bliss, a way of life, a method of growth, and an unparalleled happiness granter.By the time I went for grade 1 in 1982 at Nyaurungwe Primary School, I had developed an insatiable desire for football. I made it into the junior team when I was in grade 3 but it was not until grade 4 that I was selected to play in matches against other schools. At that time, I was tiny and bony, and my feet could not drive the ball far for a score or pass. I did not have power behind the ball. I learned then that football required power behind it.

I would then grow aware that for any player to prosper, power behind the ball was key. The first time I kicked a skin and tube ball, I got a swollen leg and went home limping. My father looked at me and said, ‘You’re too weak and small for the ball.’It would take me a lot of practice for my leg to put custom to the weight of the ball. Practicing made me to be considered for the school junior team as an unplaying substitute and I was the youngest player in the Nyaurungwe School 1985 junior team. Our soccer trainer was Teacher Maworise. He taught us to pass the ball and never hold it too much. The basics of football. To open and call for the ball, to talk and warn each other of a man on. The language of football. He taught us to encourage mates on good attempts through clapping hands, to celebrate goals at corner flags and embrace each other, and to listen to instructions from the bench. There were, however, periods when the teacher would make us come early for school and train first before going to classes.

This was particularly painful in winter when it was so cold. I would wake up at 4 am and evade bathing, only wiping my number plate (face) and my legs before putting a layer of Vaseline to break the cold. It would take my small legs one and a half hours to walk 7 km to school. I will then join those who would be already there to do rounds on the pitch as part of a warm-up. Later comers would receive some mupfuti-tree strokes. One day I came late and received such a beating. It was very cold, and I felt numb from my feet to my head. The mupfuti-tree strokes danced with my buttocks, and I felt a blistering pain that bolted to my heart. I sat down and contemplated leaving the school soccer team. I cried into a conviction afterward. I vouched to myself that I would never be late again. I have never been late for soccer training sessions in my whole life since then.It was in grade 4 that I earnestly started playing football in the juniors at Nyaurungwe School in Gokwe, Nembudziya. Of course, I had shown and espoused detailed skills in my earlier classes, but my physical frame prevented me from being considered for a place in the juniors. I was a bit frail, and thin, and appeared light to afford the necessary ball drives. I had continued to watch those with better frames play ahead of me, but this had a lasting hurting feeling in my mind.

I wanted to play and exhibit what my intelligent legs and body could do with the ball. At least that was what my very young mind thought about my ability.At school, soccer practice time was the most exciting. With bare feet, we dribbled each other and scored goals, defended our goalposts as if life depended on it, and tussled in the middle of the stone-infested football pitch with no exhibition of sore feet. It was a lifestyle, a way of life, and an exhilarating football period for us.During my 4th grade, our soccer trainer Teacher Maworise had to take me through very serious paces. I was tiny but skillful. I was stubborn behind the ball and his emphasis was for me to release the ball early, run into space, receive, and cross or score. I was a speedy left-footer, and the coach reiterated the need for me to always play wide, dribbling and funneling in during our team excursions in the opponent box.After gaining some teacher-driven confidence, I was prepared to have a real match against our sister schools.

At that time, our cluster included such schools as Kasonde to the south, Ronga to the west, Mutivura to the east, and Mutukanyi to the north. It was also at this time that we were preparing for the popular qualifications for the week-long annual sports shows for our zone. Our first game was against Mutivura School, an away match for us. It became an unforgettable match for me.The school had no vehicle or any transport to take us the 15 km to Mutivura so I and others woke up on a Saturday morning, packed our mangayi, and filled our bottles with water for the long journey to my first game for my school. Gokwe is hot, and we drenched ourselves with sweat as we nervously, secretly fearing defeat, laughed our way to Mutivura.

There was happiness in all of us striving to reach the venue, and there was bliss in our anticipation of victory.By the moment we arrived, our soccer teacher was already there. He had used his bicycle. The beauty of being a teacher at that time. We quickly gathered under a tree as we started to change into our soccer uniforms. The teacher was giving his last instructions as we geared up.“Special, remember what I have been telling you throughout the week,” he said as I nodded. “Receive the ball, quickly pass it, move into space………” I could only hear his voice trailing in the wilderness of a marathon of other internal voices. It was my first game for my school. I was young, stubbornly skillful but frail from an observer’s point of view or what they call ‘on paper’ these days.In our team, there were the likes of Kizito Manyeruke, whose father was the SDC chairman, Lucas Machokoto, whose father was a teacher at our school, Kudakwashe Mutambisi, whose father was the headmaster of our school, Patson Maradze, whose brother was the captain of the senior team, Watson Maworise, whose father was our soccer teacher. These were a crop of family-induced confident mates.

The environment they came from could incite confidence. My father was just a subsistence farmer.The game started at a blistering pace with the home team trying to capitalize on home support and advantage. Our defence, marshaled by Kizito and Lucas, held on. Our midfield, inspired by the incisive runs from Patson Mharadze and Watson Maworise, stood its ground. And our front, with myself coming from the left, Kudakwashe as the central striker, and Francis Makombe from the right, gave our opponents a torrid time to remember for years.Despite our incursions into the opponent’s box, we could not find a goal in the first half. My heart had a torrid time settling in the first minutes of the game. I had to breathe in and out very often in the first minutes of the first half. A lesson from my father, Sipo. But as we went for the break, I had gained a bit of composure and stability. This would prove decisive in the second half.The second half came, and we took off from where we had left in the first half, a lot of pressure upon the opponent. The soccer teacher was always calling out to me to stay as wide as possible.

At one point I got carried away and dribbled excessively before his voice wailed across the field……” Iweeeeeeee, unovhuniwa………dzoka kuline.” I quickly passed the ball and ran back to the line. I learned something from the time. I guess those who played soccer know it.The game was almost ending. Goalless. There was a long ball from the center back into midfield, Patson controlled it and sent a long one again in front, with an inclination to the left. I outpaced my maker, the ball bounced once and before its second bounce outside the 18 area, I let out what can be referred to as a volley now, into the center of the goalposts. The ball viciously went past the goalkeeper. There were no nets during this period in Zimbabwe schools.Visions wrapped around my eyes. I saw a wild celebratory crowd sprinting onto the pitch. Momentarily I was floating in mid-air, suspended by ladders of celebratory hands. The air was song-filled. Mist and dust rose. I could hear the ‘Mutivura Yavenemimba’ song. Someone was giving me a drink, another a fat cook, and someone sweets, fingers competing to have a grab on me. I could not believe I had scored a goal for my school, my team, and my generation. It was like a dream, a mirage, a vision, and something far far away. It shaped my entire life as a footballer.

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