My life has witnessed several drastic shifts in how I view God, politics, and the world. Among my conversions is one that takes on quite the global application. I do confess there were numerous days in my ignorant youth that I castigated soccer fans for their insipid excuse for a sport. Much like fine wine and coffee, what I once saw as dreary and monotonous, I know find incredibly sublime and masterfully creative. Thankfully God has lavished his grace on me in this department as mercifully as in the other areas of my heart requiring transformation. All joking aside, I love that I now love football. It truly is the sport of the world. A group of solemn Africans eying me suspiciously joyfully come to life when I mention that Wayne Rooney is a traitor or that Didier Drogba gives Africans a poor name. The English Premier League is truly a global language. As in all sports, money seems to be ruining the game, but there is still a remnant of the genuine love of sport that brings me joy. Ghana is one such place.
I knew nothing about Ghanaian football the first time I came here. It was not until several months afterwards that John reminded me that Ghana beat the U.S. in the World Cup in 2006, in a game that he lamentably attended. I then remembered watching the match with Tyree at the Dark House in Philly during Mission Year. Not exactly the type of relationship building they encourage, sneaking an underaged kid into an English pub, but Tyree could pass for Greg Oden’s brother. Since my first visit to Ghana last year I have educated myself on global football, Ghanaian football and the English Premiere League. Along with being able to eat spicy/dodgy food, knowledge of football ought to be a requirement for my job. It has opened so many doors and built so many friends for me. A group of solemn Africans eying me suspiciously joyfully come to life when I mention that Wayne Rooney is a traitor or that Didier Drogba gives Africans a poor name. Ghana’s son is Michael Essien and he plays alongside Drogba at Chelsea. There are several other West African’s on the team and so they are the obvious choice for any Ghanaian to root for. Manchester United, the New York Yankees of the world, unfortunately have a relatively large following too.
In every part of Africa I have traveled to, you will invariably see black A-frame chalk board signs along the roadside and in the middle of the streets, advertising the week’s football matches. Hotel, TV repair shop, restaurant, pub, hole in the wall, gas station, you name it, they probably will show the games. You’ll often see them watching the games at the roadside customs checkpoints in the middle of nowhere. I wanted to experience a Chelsea match with Ghanaians and so my friend Adams took us to watch at a popular downtown Tamale local. I’ve watched Liverpool games before in little restaurants, but nothing like this. We paid one cedi (65 cents) to enter and the game had already started and there were probably 150 people packed under a makeshift carport in the hotel atrium. There were two mediumsized flatscreen TVs perched atop Coke cartons. One screen was showing the Chelsea match and the other was showing United. There was a side room with a projector and biggerscreen also showing the Chelsea match. The room was overcrowded and quite stuffy, so I stayed outside to watch both matches. Watching two games at the same time was a bit distracting, but it seemed completely normal. I had been hoping one of the channels would be showing Liverpool, but I had to wait every 20 minutes for score updates. The first Liverpool score was 1-1 and with their schedule toughening, they needed to win. As the tiny score scrolled across the bottom of the screen reading 2-1 Liverpool, I clapped my hands and pumped my fist. My enthusiastic reaction was nearly identically mirrored by a man sitting a few rows in front of me. He turned around and I could see his Liverpool scarf and I had my jersey on and we stood up and high fived each other. Football creates a beautiful family and I am proud to be a Kopite, truly you will never walk alone. Later when Liverpool had finished slaughtering my boy Jozy Altidore’s relegation bound Hull City we celebrated with a Coke watching the conclusion of the two matches. Chelsea had no business losing to Wigan, but after Drogba’s poke equalized, Chelsea’s keeper was whistled for a dodgy red card and Wigan pulled ahead for good. The red devil fans were mocking Chelsea fans, singing songs and having a good time at their expense. When they gave up a third goal as full time was approaching, the door to the VIP lounge opened and a mass exodus ensued, Chelsea fans surrendering and fleeing the jaunts of the United fans. Everyone left the courtyard and headed to the driveway which contained an amalgamation of bikes, motos, taxis, trutru busses to make their ways home.
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