ANALYSING THE GAME OF SOCCER For some reason, memories of long dead relatives have been cropping up in my head today, so I may as well burden you with my baggage. But don’t worry, ultimately, this story is about soccer. My mother’s Uncle Mai was by all accounts a jolly old man. He was a Scot who had married a Malay lass and settled in Durban. Uncle Mai was 97-years-old when I met him for the first time.

On holiday in Cape Town, Mai and his wife stayed with us for a week.
They had been married for 74 years at the time.

At 97, Mai had about three hairs left standing upright on top of his pure white, and pointed skull.
Years earlier he had a stroke that caused one side of his body to permanently drop about two centimetres, including his face.
Most of the time his tongue protruded from the lower corner of his perennially open mouth.
When he walked, his whole body shook as he took small steps, placing one foot about 10cm ahead of the other at a time.
Mai had the body shape of a battered and lopsided rugby ball.

 

The first thing I remember Mai ever saying to me was ‘When I first came to Cape Town, Table Mountain was still small.’
He had a twinkle in his eye.

One day, I found Mai sitting on a rocking chair in the lounge watching a soccer match on TV.
‘Enjoying the game Uncle Mai?’ I enquired.

Startled, Mai turned his head to look at me skewly, with wide eyes, his tongue protruding even further.
‘Heh?’ he said.

‘Are you enjoying the game?’ I repeated.

‘I don’t understand’ said Mai, his eyes twinkling crazily.
‘Twenty-two grown men, all running after one ball. Why don’t they just give each one a ball, then they can all play nicely.’

Turning back to the TV, he said ‘Heh?’

Kader Khan
Editor
info@yummie.co.za