TUNIS, 20 jan – I am not much of a football player. I never was, actually. I did play the game though, in goal, I must confess, since I had limited skills upfield. Loving football seems to have come naturally and has stuck ever since I was in my early teens. Now, much older and I hope much wiser, I can point to a number of events that explain this infatuation that occasionally flares up.
I must go back to the dirt roads of Nkongmondo, Douala, in the mid-sixties, when I was a ten-year old. I have to admit that being in Douala at that age was a blessing. I was there when I believe football started to blossom somehow in Cameroon, when the national championship had bona fide established stars and the new generation, that was going to shake the world 20 years later, was just getting to be noticed.
The conditions were of course dreadful. We did not know any better, though. But the skill level, the commitment of players and team owners as well as the enthusiasm of the fans were phenomenal. I still believe that this was the golden age of football. Anywhere Period.
I have memories of dramatic games at the Stade Akwa, but most particularly during Inter-quartiers season in Douala. As the star of Mbappé Leppé, Atangana, Mbengalack and others was fading, a gifted bunch of kids led by the likes of Milla, Nkono, and a little later Mfédé, Mbida and Abega, was establishing itself as a powerhouse-to-be. They eventually became great.
I must acknowledge another blessing. England. Going to university in the early 70s in England proved to be climax, crown and seal. Here I was, in northern England, reading literature five days a week and spending the other two at the terraces of Elland Road, Stamford Bridge or Molyneux. For the first time, I got to see a real football pitch with green grass, white nets, real and comfortable terraces… And then the stars. You name them, I saw them. Bobby Charlton, Bobby Moore, George Best, Gunther Netzer, Billy Bremner, Gordon Banks.
I was in cloud nine. It was an unbelievable feeling to take the Bone Shaker to Charing Cross, in London, rush to Percy Street, just off Tottenham Court Road, for Turkish coffee with Vera, the ginger-haired Irish bombshell from Guildford I dated briefly, and then run to Highbury for an afternoon of football.
A couple of years later, barely over 20, I was in Canada. Football, I reckoned, was out of my blood and out of the way. Around Trois-Rivières, Québec, there was not a single football-dedicated facility, no organized league, no visible interest in the game. I ended up coaching… floor hockey.
The 80s came and after the 1982 World Cup, things started looking up. I was now settled in Ottawa, and we were treated to regular football games on TV during weekends. The 1990 World Cup in Italy, when the legend of the Lions Indomptables was actually born, rekindled my interest for the game and brought football to the fore in Canada. Roger Milla became overnight a household name, even in Ottawa, which still was about the sleepiest capital in the western world. Every black person of African stock somehow benefited from Milla’s fame. I certainly did.
The 1994 World Cup in neighbouring USA turned out to be one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life. As a special correspondent for LeDroit, an Ottawa daily, I attended the games as an accredited journalist, with full access to all the venues and the stars. There I was, a middle-aged man, awe-struck, speechless and elated in front of younger stars like Maradona, Redondo, Nadal, Baggio, Romario, etc. I attended practice sessions and games, mingled with the stars, got mocked by Javier Clemente, the much-loathed Spanish coach of the day, danced the night away in a San Francisco night club with the Selecao. I still have goose bumps remembering those moments…
Now settled for some time in Tunis, where I never was supposed to be, I cannot believe my luck : great football is coming my way! I know I am in for a treat. I am of course looking forward to all those fantastic games, but at the same time I worry about the way you might perceive my papers. Shouldn’t it be nicer if I just talked about the greatness of the game and its stars? Or should I be a little more critical, play the journalist, if you will?
You will decide, of course. One thing, though : we cannot refrain from reflecting on the condition of football at home. The sorry state of the game in Cameroon and the extraordinary fame of our beloved Lions are a contradiction that has reached comical pathos. We are great and pathetic at the same time. We are feared and the we are the butt of cruel jokes at the same time. Great Cameroon, one of the top 15 football nations in the world, without even a good “terrain vague” to play on. You have heard that one, haven’t you?
Yes, it tears me up, when I get home and see first hand the plight of the game. It is all the more frustrating and embarrassing when you realize that nobody who should seems to care. Something must be done, though, and quick. I do not believe that our Lions will remain at this great level unless some structural changes are made. Signs of doom are apparent. Picture this : Eto’o is the only natural striker we have had in more than 15 years. After Foé and without Etamé, our midfield, though competent, does not have the skills of the Abegas and Mbidas. But should we be worried about the outcome of this CAN 2004? I think not.
L. Ndogkoti, from Tunisia
