I don’t answer her. I’ve come for what I buried here a long time ago, when I had nowhere to go and my life was slipping out from underneath me: my billion-dollar soccer ball and Innocent’s Bix-box. I pull the ball out of the sand and dust it off.
When I first came to the city, I quickly learned that having something that others didn’t wasn’t wise. I had to be like the others and own nothing. For a while I was in danger of losing the most precious thing to me. I wasn’t ready for the responsibility of looking after Innocent’s Bix-box, so I buried it under the highway.
“Okay, let’s go,” I say, slipping my old cowhide pouch and Innocent’s Bix-box into my backpack.
We jog back toward the YMCA. As we turn the corner, I slow down to walk the last three hundred feet.
“Did that belong to your brother?” asks Keelan.
“The box did. He called it his Bix-box.”
We go into the deserted dining room and sit down at one of the tables. I pull out my old soccer ball.
“This is mine. It was my first soccer ball. My grandfather made it out of old cowhides, and I used to stuff it with plastic.”
Keelan touches the hide, tries to puff the leather out. “I’ve played with balls a lot worse than this,” she says.
I put the Bix-box on the table. I thought it would be difficult to open, but it’s not. I open the lid and take out the contents, laying the items one by one on the table: a pocketknife, a whistle, two batteries, a photograph, a piece of soap, a condom, a two-for-the-price-of-one voucher for underarm deodorant, earplugs, and a pocket-size Bible.
“This is the whistle he used to chase away the hyena,” I say, lifting up the whistle and remembering my brother running through the bush blowing as loudly as he could.
I touch the pocketknife. “And we used this to cut Patson’s crutch off the bamboo when we crossed the Limpopo River.”
“Perhaps your brother knew more about sex than you think,” says Keelan, picking up the condom.
“Innocent didn’t like girls much. He saw safe-sex ads everywhere, and he thought that condoms would keep him safe from girls,” I say.
Keelan laughs. “Very sensible,” she says, flicking through the pages of the small Bible. “Who’s Samuel?”
Her question surprises me.
She reads: “‘To Innocent and Deo, This is not a book of laws but a book of love. It will always be your salvation. Love, Samuel.’”
“Let me look at that.” I take the Bible from her and read the message on the front page. To Innocent and Deo. It’s my name.
“What is it, Deo?”
“It’s from my father. He wrote something to me. I’ve never seen this before.”
My father is real. I stare down at my name, written by his hand. He knew I existed. I look at the stuff that was so important to Innocent and realize that other than the Bible, most of it is junk. It may have meant something to my brother, but it means nothing to me.
“What?” asks Keelan.
“My old life doesn’t exist anymore,” I say. “Everything in this box was Innocent’s whole life. He couldn’t live without his Bix-box.” I gather all of Innocent’s belongings together. “It was his life. Not mine.” I put his treasures back into his Bix-box and close the lid.
“But this is yours,” Keelan says, pushing my old leather pouch toward me. “This is what brought you here.”
26
MATCH WEEK
We take to the streets of Cape Town, and for one sunny, blue-sky morning, the city belongs to soccer players. Hundreds of people line the streets and cheer as we walk past, waving our flags and making as much noise as we can. I walk down the middle of Adderley Street waving at strangers, laughing at their smiles, loving the noise and excitement. All around me people are singing songs I have never heard before.
“For God and for country! For God and for country! Philippines score! Score! Score!” chants the team behind us as we march on toward the parking lot in front of the newly built Green Point Stadium.
“USA! USA! USA!” chant the players from America.
“Olé, olé, olé, olé, olé,” sing the Spaniards.
The team from Ivory Coast beats out a rhythm on their drums. The players from England wave clackers in the air that make an awful racket. The Koreans clap their hands and shake bells. The Austrians blow horns.
The parade finally arrives at Green Point. The soccer stadium towers above the parking lot, where scaffolding stands have been erected around three soccer courts. We gather in front of a stage, where a man waves, greeting the thousands of people in front of him.
“Is that Nelson Mandela?” I ask T-Jay, pointing at the small man with glasses on the stage.
He laughs. “No, that’s Bishop Desmond Tutu.”
Desmond Tutu raises his hands in the air, and the crowd goes quiet. “There are one billion homeless people in our world today,” he says. “And today in South Africa, on this glorious morning, you represent them all. The Street Soccer World Cup exists to end this problem, so that you can all have a home. All year round you are excluded from society, but now is your chance to take center stage. I congratulate you on your gift that has brought you to this World Cup. I thank God for your talent, for your perseverance, and for your courage. This tournament uses soccer to inspire and empower people to change their own lives. You have done that by being here!”
The crowd roars back at him. The sound of horns, clackers, bells, and drums is deafening.
“You are all winners! God bless you all!” shouts Desmond Tutu. “Let the games begin!”
There are three minutes left to play in our first match. We are one goal down. The crowd is on its feet. They have not stopped screaming, waving flags, and singing the entire match. The electronic clock is ticking down. Each wasted second brings us closer to our first loss in the tournament. The Danish goalkeeper shouts at his teammates, bouncing the ball in front of him. I have no idea what he is saying; it sounds like he’s ordering oodles of noodles!
Two minutes and thirty seconds to go.
The referee blows his whistle, signaling a free kick. “Time wasting!”
Jacko runs up and grabs the ball.
“Quick, Jacko!” I shout. “Over here!”
The seating around the main court is packed with more than five thousand spectators. I try to keep them out of my vision. None of us can get used to the noise or to the intensity of a fast-paced, fourteen-minute game against a team of men all over twenty years old. If not for the frying-pan hands of Godfast, we could be as many as six goals down.
Two minutes to the end.
Jacko flicks the ball against the sidewall. The ball lands neatly at my feet. Ernesto is running down my right side, waiting for the pass. In another second, the Danish defender will be swooping down on me. I keep my head down, feint a pass to Ernesto, and slip past the defender. I run down the center of the court, Jacko screaming on my left, Ernesto screaming on my right. I glance up at the goalkeeper. He crouches low, his arms spread out. There is time for only one more shot at the goal.
I swing my right leg back and drive through the shot, sending the ball to the top right-hand corner. The goalkeeper springs to his right to block my shot. He makes a great save. We will lose our first game.
But he doesn’t catch the ball cleanly; it falls to the ground. He has dropped it!
I pounce on the loose ball and toe it between his legs into the net.
Goal!
The crowd goes wild. Jacko, Ernesto, and Godfast jump all over me. The referee blows his whistle. The electronic clock shows that there are still thirty seconds left to play.
“Not yet!” I scream, pushing Jacko off me. “We can still lose.”
I see Salie and Tom yelling for us to get back into position. Salie is not as excited as everyone else. The other players on the bench are all on their feet, yelling for us to play on. Salie knows the danger of celebrating too soon. In this game, a lot can happen in thirty seconds.
The Danish players ar
e shouting at the referee for a time-wasting penalty, but we quickly run back to our positions before he can blow us up.
The game restarts. The Danish players come at us like a pack of wild dogs. I tackle, defend, and block every pass or shot that is made at the goal. It is the longest thirty seconds in my life, and then the horn blows and the game is over.
Our first game is a draw.
Salie comes running onto the court. “Okay, we’ve got one minute to get ready for the penalty shoot-out. There are five shots at goal. Deo, you take the first and the last.”
I had forgotten. In street-soccer rules, there can be no draw. There has to be a winner.
“Good luck, Godfast,” says Salie as the court is cleared.
The penalty shoot-out begins. I take the first shot. It’s not a good strike, and the goalie saves it easily. But Godfast saves the Danish shot. Jacko lines up, kicks, and scores, but then the Danish player gets one past Godfast.
1-1.
Ernesto’s turn. He shoots and scores. Godfast saves his next shot, and we go 2-1, one goal up!
Godfast comes forward to take his shot. He powers one straight into the hands of the goalie, who grins at him and trots up to the penalty spot to take his shot at Godfast. Godfast saves it easily and grins back at the Danish goalie.
Now it’s my turn again. I must score. I place the ball on the spot, take two steps back, feint left, and power the ball into the right corner. I am able to trick the goalie into moving the wrong way.
It’s a goal!
The whole team pours onto the court and piles on top of me. It’s our first win!
On the first day of the tournament, we play five matches in the pool stages against teams from Denmark, Spain, Canada, Australia, and Egypt. We lose two and win three. Salie is not happy.
“It looked like you guys were overwhelmed. I’ve never seen you so sluggish. Keelan, you were running around like you had cement blocks for feet. T-Jay, what happened to your sharp passing? Alfabeto, have you forgotten the patterns we’ve been working out for the last three weeks? People, you’ve got to forget the crowd, the noise, the hype—focus on one another and block out everything else.”
We sit in the conference room on the morning of the second day. Now I know why stretch exercises are so important. We were up at six this morning, warming up and stretching. I feel like a truck has rolled over me. Tom bandages Ernesto’s knee and shakes his head.
“I’m not sure if this is going to heal by tomorrow,” he says to Salie. “You may have to rest him for a day.”
Salie scowls at him. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,” Tom says. “I wasn’t the one who threw him at the Egyptian!”
“People, you have to learn to pace yourselves. Ernesto, you played well and showed real courage, but now you’re injured and useless to your team. I need every one of you fit and healthy for the whole week,” he says. “Remember, there are forty-eight teams with one goal: to go home with one of the six trophies. If we are going to be one of those teams, we need to do a lot better today.”
So we do.
By the end of the day, we have won four out of our five matches, beating teams from Belgium, Argentina, Malawi, and Greece. But in our last match of the day, Brazil beats us bad: 5-1.
In our debriefing session the next morning, Salie takes a different approach.
“Losing to world champions is not a disgrace. They had a few lucky goals,” he says as we all groan. “No, I mean it. We can beat them, and you’re going to get another chance at playing them if we make it through to the group stage. Now, let’s sort out our combinations for the rest of the day.”
On the third day, T-Jay and I are interviewed by a television station called CNN. The reporter tells us that we are the two highest goal-scorers in the tournament so far. I’m a little nervous as the assistant feeds a cable through the inside of my shirt and clips a small microphone to my collar.
“Look straight at me,” says the reporter. “And don’t worry about the camera.”
I nod and wait for him to finish his introduction. I can’t be sure, but I think he’s wearing a wig!
“This is so cool,” whispers T-Jay as he rubs his finger across his teeth to polish them. “How do I look?”
“Shut up, T-Jay, you look fine,” I whisper back as the cameraman looks up and frowns at us. I can’t stop staring at the reporter’s hair. It’s too blond to be real.
“Quiet, please,” the cameraman says as he films the reporter.
“This year’s Street Soccer World Cup final is taking place in the shadow of the brand-new Green Point Stadium in Cape Town, South Africa. You could call this tournament a mini–dress rehearsal for the FIFA World Cup that kicks off in South Africa in just over three weeks. A lot has been said about how other African teams feel about playing in South Africa, particularly after the xenophobic attacks of just a few years ago. Well, they could learn a lot from the players in this tournament. This unique event draws the homeless off the streets from around the world and brings them together for a week of action-packed soccer.
“People who have been spat at the week before are cheered by thousands. But the South African team has made a bold statement with its unusual inclusion policy.
“In the South African team of twelve players, five are refugees,” he says, and the camera moves away from the reporter to focus on T-Jay and me.
“Their coach, Solomon Davids, has instructed each player not born in South Africa to wear a red armband with the flag of the country of the player’s birth. This inclusion of refugees in a national team is a remarkable statement and one that has received both praise and criticism. But no one is complaining about the fact that the South African team has just beaten one of the tournament favorites, Germany, four to two. They stand a very good chance of winning the Street Soccer World Cup trophy for the first time.
“With me now are Deo Nyandoro from Zimbabwe and Thomas Jansen from South Africa. They each scored two goals against Germany and effectively shut out a highly organized and disciplined German team.
“Thomas, if I could start with you? How do the other South Africans on the team feel about playing with refugees from other—”
“They’re not refugees. They’re people,” says T-Jay, cutting off the journalist. “I’m sick of all these stupid labels—refugees, asylum seekers, homeless, black, white, colored, pink! Let’s get one thing straight: On our team we don’t care about labels, we care about good soccer players.”
“Um, thank you, Mr. Jansen…”
“The people who come from other African countries to South Africa have been chased out of the townships. Many of them are living on our streets. This is a Street Soccer World Cup. Why shouldn’t they play on our team? They are our brothers and sisters, and our country is made stronger because of them.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jansen…”
“Call me T-Jay.”
“Thank you, Mr. T-Jay. And Deo, how do you feel about playing for South Africa, especially in the light of the xenophobic attacks in Khayelitsha against Somalis and Zimbabweans?”
“I’m here to play soccer. I’m on the team because my coach believes that we can win this tournament. I’ve been given a chance to show what I can do, and I’m grateful for that,” I say, looking straight into the reporter’s eyes and trying not to look at his hair or pay any attention to the black lens of the camera.
“And how do you see your future in this country, Deo?”
“In five years’ time, I want to be playing in the World Cup final.”
“As a South African?”
“As who ever wants me.”
The tournament passes in a blur. During the course of the day there is no time to think. Only at night, when everyone is asleep, do I have a chance to think about everything.
I lie in bed, the pocket Bible on my chest, staring up into the darkness, trying to organize my thoughts. I feel a change in me. I see it in the eyes of the rest of the team too. I feel I belong here, not because I’ve scored
goals but because my father wrote my name. It’s difficult to explain, but all I know is that the Deo on the run, the Deo of the camps, and the Deo of the streets is gone forever.
On the way back from Green Point this evening, I noticed a big truck with the sign REMOVALS along its side. I watched it as it turned off toward Goodwood, and I thought about asking Salie if we could follow it. I checked its number plate, but it wasn’t the same number that Innocent taught me. I have stopped thinking about trying to find my father. I’ll give him a chance to try to find me instead.
Keelan amazed me today too. She scored her third goal and headed straight to me. I was sitting on the bench when she threw her arms around me and kissed me on the cheek. It felt good—that she could do that so easily. For the rest of the game I couldn’t think of anything else. And I’m still thinking about it now.
There are two more days left of the tournament, and then it will be over. That thought leaves a hole in my stomach. What will I do next week? We have to move out of the YMCA on Sunday night and into a halfway house that the sponsors have organized. There is talk of getting a tutor to prepare us to go back to school. I heard Salie and Tom talking about finding work for some of the older players.
We play four matches tomorrow, and the toughest one will be against the Russians. They have stormed through the group stages, winning most of their games, becoming Cup favorites. Salie believes we stand a good chance of making the finals, but the Russians stand in our path.
After five minutes, we are down 2-0 to the Russians. Nothing has gone according to plan. They are too powerful for us and knock us down like flies.
“What do they put in the water in Russia?” says T-Jay, panting. “Vodka?”
If they score again, we can kiss the final good-bye. We can never come back from three down. The mood in the crowd has changed; they see that we are beaten. Even Godfast has stopped yelling at us from the goal area. We are never able to get the ball, and without possession, we can’t score.
Ernesto loses the ball again, and the Russian striker powers down the center of the court and takes aim at the goal. He shoots, and miraculously, Godfast throws himself in the air and manages to get his fingers to the ball, which soars over the boards into the crowd. Godfast lands hard. Salie calls a time-out as Godfast struggles to get back to his feet. Tom and Salie race onto the court, and we gather around Godfast.
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