More up than down in Warrior land
Funny how the fortunes of a man’s favourite sports team could impact his mood and even his long term behaviour.
I have, many moons ago, extolled the virtues of the local support of some English football teams. No need to therefore further piss on the parade of the Manchester United glory-hunter brigade, laugh at the folly of the “in Wenger we trust” deluders and last year’s Chelsea fans who are now Man City fans. The less said about them the better.
Let’s look at the impact another Brave Warriors loss have on their followers. A complete and utter disgrace it was. Another one I might add. Another chance to be a contender on the big stage missed, another home defeat, another qualification round buggered up and another bunch of fans who will vow to never return to that graveyard, the Independence Stadium.
What was thought to be a tough but ultimately winnable match against what mighty Malawi could muster, turned out to be another mushy mess for our boys and us.
To add to the inevitable public hullabaloo after the (oh so regular) defeat of our senior national football team and the inevitable departure of yet another failed coach, I would only like to say these words in consolation: Jeeeeeees, we are rubbish!
The guys compiling the misery index should consider the (miss)fortunes of a country’s most popular senior national sports team to inform their index. I think we stand to be considered in a category of our own.
When we watch the game our emotions go on an epic roller-coaster ride. We experience the highs of a well placed pass or cross, die a little with hopeless indignation as the opposing winger steams down on our goal with only the keeper to beat and we are lifted into the stratosphere with joy and relief when our defender makes a recovering run and a perfect last-ditch tackle.
We grow with hope as our boys take control of the game and launch attack after attack. Soon... we tell ourselves. We chant with our fellow deluded supporters “we want more,” when our team manages to score even one goal. Hell, nowadays we sing that song even if the tricky midfielder dishes out a few cookies to the opposition when it seem as if we are on top.
We tell the stranger next to us how good our centre forward is playing today. If only he could score that goal. The stranger tells us he will score a hat trick if he only comes a little deeper and we happily agree.
We plunge to below the dirt under our toenails when the opposition takes or extends their lead. And then we start to swear. We might even hurl our beer or Fanta towards the bench and tell the coach how kak he is. We instruct him, in the most colourful language who to take off and who to put on.
The stranger next to us tells us that the centre forward has done nothing the whole game because he plays too deep.
He wants to know why that poephol is still on the pitch. We sit down and only jump up again when we hear the women’s collective shrill scream. Nothing! We sit again and are frustrated because the people in front of us won’t sit down. We stand on the chair to get a piece of the action and get pulled down aggressively by the short fat bloke sitting behind us.
We ride this roller-coaster without knowing what it does to our emotional well-being.
Imagine I don’t have enough money to drown my frustrations and heartbreak sufficiently and my advances at a woman are rejected right after this game.
Namibian men are not known for our sophistication. We have yet to learn to treat rejection as encouragement to improve yourself and your pitch and try again at another opportunity.
Needless to say that we have a penchant for overindulging in booze. Those virtues make of us a volatile, highly combustible bunch with an oversupply of matches and petrol.
How many women were violated just because Namibia failed to score as some bloke fell over his feet just as he was about to score, or took a dive when he could have just rolled the ball into the net or made a 65 metre back pass when he could have scored a Bimbo Tjihero.
Yes, with big pay cheques and fame come great responsibility.
The fortunes of our most beloved team can either kill us or send us into unbridled delirium. So much so that we would buy beer for every single patron at the shebeen where we chose to celebrate a win or pick a fight with anyone looking too happy after a defeat. We should make our football stars and coaches aware of their power over us. Maybe they’ll try harder next time.
Brave Warriors my ass!
Leave your comments on my Facebook page: The Rambler. – rambler@namibian.com.na