The first World Cup I remember was Spain ’82. I was eleven and in my fifth year of primary school and living at the Holy Child Teacher Training College, in Ikot Ekpene, in southern Nigeria, where my mother taught home economics. This is about an hour from my village. It was two years since I watched Nigeria’s Green Eagles (as they were called then) defeat Algeria to lift the African Cup of Nations for the first time, in 1980. I remember the three goals against the Desert Foxes, or Les Fennecs, by Segun (Mathematical) Odegbami and Muda Lawal and the celebrations that swept through the land. The image of our captain, Christian (Chairman) Chukwu, lifting the cup after the game was something to behold. The match was the most exciting thing that I had ever seen on TV, other than “Mickey Mouse,” “Scooby Doo,” “The New Masquerade,” and “Hercules.”
Before all of this, my passion for the game lay in actually playing soccer, and my three brothers and I had played soccer all our lives. We played with our bare feet no matter the surface. I say this because in our primary school we played in the fields, but back home we played on the streets or on the pavement in front of our house on Udosen Street. My mother tried to stop us, but eventually, frustrated by our stubbornness and tired of applying iodine to our toes, peeled from playing barefoot on the pavement, she shrugged and showed us how to apply the painful medicine ourselves. The fear of tetanus infection forced everyone to comply.
I had known the joy of victory when I captained my second-year team in primary school, at the age of seven, during which we put the boys in the third year to the sword on a bald patch of field at Methodist Primary School, Ikot Obong Edong, using a lemon as a ball. In those days, my school’s leather balls were meant for the big boys and formal games. But our match was an informal, spontaneous thing, and some of our opponents had bragged too much about winning. We played without a referee, and our triumph led to a rofo-rofo brawl. I cannot forget our lap of honor around the pitch, singing and hoisting up our little improvised trophy, a can of gmelina seeds, our white shirts and green shorts soaked in sweat, or how difficult it was to concentrate on our classes after the break. We were too happy. A few years later, I think in 1981, I had also known the pain of defeat as a member of the St. Anne’s Cathedral Altar Boys’ team that was demolished 4–0 or 5–0 by our rivals from St. Vincent Parish. They had walked across Ikot Ekpene town to our grounds. I remember how relieved I was when Father Ephraim Umoren blew the final whistle that Sunday evening, to put us out of our misery on home ground. Some of our players were crying, and our tormentors had to quickly wrap up their celebrations and leave as some of our home fans were beginning to lose their patience. I was so devastated by the loss I could not partake of the snacks (Treetop orange drink and Cabin biscuits) that were served at the end of the match. The morning after was even worse: we could not look our fellow-players in the eye at school.
In 1982, the unpredictable rains of June often made it impossible for my friends and brothers to play outside, to enjoy our friend Otobong’s new Wembley ball, so I stayed inside and watched the World Cup matches on our black-and-white TV. World Cup fever did not catch me until around 4 P.M. one afternoon, when a fragile-looking Italian called Paolo Rossi scored against Brazil in the second round. He was sporting a No. 20 dark jersey and white shorts. He was completely unstoppable. Back then, there were no names on the shirts, so if a commentator had not called out his name there was no way that I would have known who he was. It seemed to me that Rossi came to that match only to score goals, because I don’t remember any other contribution he made except to hit the back of the net. He made life quite difficult for the stars of Brazil that day. Without even being aware of how big the World Cup was, I had heard that Brazil always had big stars, like Pelé, and had won the World Cup a record three times and were allowed to keep the trophy for good. Moreover, some people in my neighborhood were nicknamed Zico, Sócrates, Cerezo, Junior, etc. And without ever watching the national team play, I knew that Zico wore the No. 10 shirt, Sócrates No. 8, Cerezo No. 5, and Junior No. 6 because of their local namesakes. But I had never heard of anyone in the Italian team before, nor was I aware that Italy had won the World Cup twice in the nineteen-thirties. The three things I knew about Italians was that their capital, Rome, was also the headquarters of my Catholic faith; that their country was full of violent criminals because of the Mafia, which we had seen in “The Godfather”; and that they made great shoes and suits. This last bit we knew because some of our priests who studied or went to do summer supplies in Rome came back with this stuff.
I was rooting for Brazil, because, beyond their World Cup history, the adults gathered in our house said that they had played better football throughout the tournament so far, scoring spectacular goals, while Italy had struggled and drawn their first three matches. And Brazil required only a draw to go through, they said, while Italy needed an outright victory. The Brazilians were dominating the match, playing their samba soccer, as expected. But since the most important thing in soccer is sticking that ball in the back of the net, as every primary school pupil in my country knows, all we could talk about was Rossi. The way he showed up from nowhere to head in the first goal early on in that match and break the Brazilian tempo was magical. And he did not even know how to celebrate, or he celebrated too simply, by just raising up his hands and running away from the goal. Simple man, simple goal.
The Brazilians did not lie down, though. A short time later, maybe within ten minutes, just when their style was becoming predictable and the Italians had massed their defense, Sócrates retrieved the ball in the Brazilian half, and passed it to Zico in right midfield in the Azzurri’s half. The way the maestro received the ball and turned did not only change the direction of play toward the center but took out his two markers, causing panic in the entire Italian defense and cheers in the stadium and in our living room. As the Azzurri scrambled to contend with Zico, he speedily released the ball back to Sócrates, who had continued his run into the right side of the penalty box. That single pass wrong-footed three Italian defenders, leaving them in Sócrates’s wake. Bearing down toward the byline, I thought Sócrates was going to center the ball for a simple tap-in, but he beat Dino Zoff at the near post. I have watched that goal again and again, thanks to YouTube. The exchanges between Sócrates and Zico created a zigzag that confused six Italian players, if you count the goalie. You could hear the screams around our neighborhood, as if we were living right next to the match venue in Barcelona. 1–1, game on.
The Brazilians were in control again. But shortly before halftime, there was a mix-up in the Brazilian defense; Cerezo, of all people, made a bad cross-field pass, exposing his defenders. And, Rossi, the poacher-in-chief, came to life once more. He grabbed the ball and gazelled toward the goal, his speed belying his fragility. Before the Seleção’s defense could recover, he had driven the ball into the net from the top of the penalty area. There was silence in our house, though you could hear the few Italian supporters in the neighborhood doing their thing.
However, I believed the South Americans would overcome this minor obstacle. For the first time in my life, I sat down and listened to halftime analysis. Of course, the analysts were saying that Brazil would come back. Some in our living room were saying that this Brazilian team was the best thing that had ever happened to football since the days of Pelé, but they bemoaned their inability to score against Italy. Someone said that Brazil had humiliated Italy 4–1 in Mexico, in ’70, a year before I was born, while Italy had defeated them 2–1 in Italy, in ’34. I was hopeful, believed that the afang soup and garri that our mother was preparing in the kitchen would be victory food. And, who knew, maybe she would even allow us some cake and Coke. I wondered when we’d get to see Nigeria play. Remembering how we defeated Algeria in the African Cup of Nations, I was so sure that we could win a World Cup game. I could imagine how the whole neighborhood would explode if Mathematical Odegbami dribbled past everyone and unleashed a thunderous shot into the net. Maybe our mother would not just allow us some cake and Coke. Maybe she would allow us ice cream. And maybe we may even be allowed a little sip of whiskey, which our Annang culture allowed for children during celebrations.
Before the break ended, I asked the adults whether our Green Eagles were part of the World Cup. I wanted to know when the world would be treated to our national anthem, “Arise, O Compatriots.” But I was told that we had not qualified.
“But, how could we not qualify?” I said, my heart sinking. “We won the African Cup of Nations two years ago. I want to see Segun (Mathematical) Odegbami, Adokiye Amiesimaka, Charles Bassey…”
“This is the World Cup, Uwem!” someone said. “It’s a different competition, with a different qualification system.”
“We are not quite good enough yet,” another said. “The thing is for serious countries. And if you are defeated, the whole country is defeated, including your ancestors!””
“So who’s representing Africa in Spain?”
“Cameroon and Algeria, two spots … Europe has thirteen!”
“Algeria? But we thrashed Algeria 3–0 in Lagos to be champions of Africa,” I pressed on. “Who gave us only two spots?”
“FIFA.”
“And who is FIFA?”
“The organizers of world football. We used to have just one spot. This is the first time we are having two. Unfortunately, Algeria defeated us to qualify for the World Cup.”
“Algeria?” I said angrily. “So we are just local champions!”
“Anyway, Cameroon drew all three of their opening games, like Italy,” someone else said. “But they are eliminated because of goal difference. Algeria caused an upset by beating West Germany 2–1! The Germans had boasted before the game that they would score so many goals they would dedicate some to their wives and pets. Though the Algerians also beat Chile, they’ve been eliminated because of goal difference. When the Germans played their last group match against Austria, you could see the Germans had decided not to score more than one goal so as to get rid of Algeria and advance with Austria. They fixed the match against Africa. The Germans are racists … they killed six million Jews!”
Racists? I had no idea what that meant, and I had never heard of six million people being killed before. Why would someone kill that many people? The Germans must be very horrible people. Why should FIFA allow them a spot at the World Cup? The whole thing was confusing to me. But, first of all, it was difficult to believe that we had only two spots. From our geography class, I knew that Europe had fewer countries than Africa. Without understanding the politics or the history of the competition, I could see immediately that there was a lot of pride associated with this World Cup business. It was really amazing to me that people remembered scores from the nineteen-thirties and the names of players who had scored certain goals and could tell you how the whole game went. Suddenly, I caught myself feeling happy that Algeria had taught the Germans a lesson. I was angry with the Germans for yabbing an African team. I never liked people who boasted about what they would do on the pitch, like our Primary Three opponents, or maybe I should say that I had never felt such conflicting emotions before. Later on, I would come to understand that it was this Germany-Austria njakri that led FIFA to decree that all last group matches must be played simultaneously henceforth.
That evening, people were talking about distant countries as if they really knew the places. I felt as if I was excluded from a very important knowledge about my world, something that you could not learn in class or read in books. It baffled me that I never paid attention to all of this stuff, and I even felt a bit of shame that only the day before I had been playing outside while a World Cup game was going on. Now these foreign countries I had heard about in our geography class were more than empty spaces on the map. I wanted to know more about them. Who were these people? What did they do when they were not playing in the World Cup? But as I tried to form my questions, someone moved the conversation back to what Brazil needed to do in the second half to knock Italy off.
As expected, Brazil equalized when play resumed. Over the years, I have watched this goal many times. Junior picked up the ball on the left flank. Just like that, he changed the tempo, cut inside, and embarked on a driving run toward the penalty box. The Italian defense stood its ground, closing ranks. But Junior opened up play by releasing Falcão, who was running in from the right wing, with a cross. This stretched the defense, and, in a seamless move, the combination of a decoy run by Serginho and a dummy by Falcão left the defense in sixes and sevens. Falcão then got the space to wallop in an unstoppable shot. It was all so devastatingly beautiful. The calmness. The tiki-taka. The change of pace. The shredding of the defense. And bang! 2–2.
But before we knew it, Italy had scored again, and who else but Paolo Rossi. 3–2. The goal came via a corner kick. The samba boys had cleared their lines, knocking the ball out, but only just outside the box. Marco Tardelli kicked the ball back into the crowded penalty area. Rossi, once more at the right place at the right time, swivelled in the six-yard from the goal line and hammered home. The Brazilians could not recover, and Zoff made a great save in the final minutes of the match. That was the end of Brazil in Spain, and that was when I learned that when you were eliminated from the World Cup you had to leave the country within twenty-four hours. It was all so sad.
Needless to say, the evening was sombre in our house, and our mother scolded me for not eating well, to show appreciation for the effort that she had put into cooking while we were watching the game. There was neither cake nor Coke. That night, I would dream of Brazil beating Italy, but with Rossi playing for Brazil.
By the time I got to school the following day, a Tuesday, everyone was talking about Paolo Rossi. The legend of the man from Prato, Italy, was born in our neighborhood, as I am sure it was the world over. It was that day that I discovered that the Italian jersey was blue. It was when one of our classmates, whose parents had a color TV, boasted non-stop about the beauty of seeing Rossi score a hat trick in real colors. The fat bastard wanted to be called Paolo Rossi. He wanted to be known as Azzurri No. 20, yet he could not play soccer. Everyone had something to say about Rossi. And as it is often with celebrities, a lot of it was exaggerated. Rossi, I later learned, had never been imprisoned, but many in our neighborhood said that he had served two years for match-fixing before the World Cup finals and had been pardoned and released for the sole purpose of helping the fatherland in Spain. He used to be a bulky player, they said, but had become lean and fragile because of the horrible nature of Italian prisons. According to one story that went around, he was tortured by the Mafia in jail. We started to learn the names of other Italian players, and many in the neighborhood adopted new nicknames. The fascination with the Italian team reached new heights when someone reported that the players went to the Vatican for papal blessings before every World Cup so that God would not hold the Mafia curse against them.
Although I had been saddened by Brazil’s elimination, I did not stop watching the World Cup. The whole atmosphere around the stadiums, with the raucous singing and the billowing flags and the face painting, was like a carnival. I did not miss any match going forward, and my mother did not worry so much as long as I did my homework and home chores. And, yes, I stopped complaining when she woke me up for morning Mass. I did not want to give her any reason to deny me what was coming in the evening. It was never possible again for me to think of going out to play while a World Cup game was going on. Even when my friend Inimfon invited me repeatedly to go pick fruits, I told her that she didn’t understand the World Cup. So I watched Italy eliminate Poland, with our man scoring a brace. In the final, between Italy and West Germany, he added one more in a 3–1 victory. He won the Golden Boot for scoring the most goals and the Golden Ball for being the best player. And then some people started the rumor that Italian shoe and clothing companies had promised to dress Rossi and his descendants forever.
I came to understand that when it comes to soccer, countries and peoples had elephantine memories. Rossi himself told a story recently of a trip he took to Brazil, almost thirty years after that evening in Barcelona, describing how a taxi driver threw him out of his cab on recognizing him. Looking back at my childhood, I can say that soccer was one of the things that introduced me to joy and pain and everything in between.
Uwem Akpan is the author of the story collection “Say You’re One of Them” and a New Yorker contributor. He lives in Atlanta, Georgia.
Photograph by Moises Saman/Magnum.
