Morning Routine:
I don’t know who it is who first awakes after such a restful night, but minutes before our 5am alarm sounds the weary and heavy heads shake themselves up and so the morning routine commences. Under the slowly rising tropical sun, humid less air pushes through the small cracks in the window and door frames, squeaking across the floor with the silence of a falling leaf.
The coach has already outlined the our routine, and it starts with “a morning stroll”. I assume of course this means were going jogging, and so I prepare myself for my least favourite workout; and no I’m not talking about jogging, I’m talking about any workout in the wee hours of the morn.
As we descend the windy, grey stained asphalt road that connects the school grounds to the main street I impress the guys with my knowledge of the numbers 1 – 5 in Hindi. “One more one more!” they chant hilariously as I recite the first and only five numbers I know, “Ek, Doh, Teen, Char, Punch”.
“Again Brian, you say one more time”. And just to keep them entertained I go through it backwards with a certain rhyming elegance that is rarely seen even in the greatest of Canadian poetry. I turn and give them a prize fighters winning smile as we reach the bottom of the hill.
The shoulders of the road here are of gravel, and instead of walking across it we trek along the street itself. Every now and than a car passes by honking its horn while it barely steers out of the way. I stop here to note that there is no jogging. In fact the players walk so slow that I constantly have to stop myself from getting ahead of the pack. I guess this is early morning sports training in Fiji.
Upon returning we all steer off course to a small pitch where I get my first taste of Rugby. Again I question the method of training for a big soccer tournament, but the smiles on the guys faces makes it impossible to hold a grudge on them for this one.
In what might go down in sports history as my greatest athletic achievement I catch the ball passed off by my team mate Reji and run a nimble zig zag to the end zone. As I hear the wind brush past body after body my feet cut in and out of danger like the road runner swiftly dodging the Wiley coyote.
And as all hands fail to put an end to my super bowl touchdown, all I can hear in the back round is the halting of foot steps along with the shouting of “offside”. I bounce the soccer ball off the ground in a grand victory dance before composing myself in preparation for the gold medal ceremony. Tired and spilling over with laughter we gather around for a prayer before we head back to school for showers and breakfast.
Tired and sweaty I start to consider that we’re at a day school for kids no older than 12. My sticky white t-shirt clings to my body as I peel it off. I feel a moment of fear and anxiety as I wonder what the conditions for showering are going to be. I stand for a moment with my towel and clean clothes at hand looking around the room.
As I look at the mat I shared with a player named Achari, and all the other mats huddled together like the arms of patrons on a rush hour Mexico City subway I realise that it was a very good thing that Dale didn’t come along for this trip. Though the story for the paper would have been good, the sleeping conditions simply weren’t for him, and I doubt that he would have liked to face the same shower situation that I am about to confront.
Outside the sun is bright and unobstructed. The school yard is slowly filling up with happy kids, running as wild as their spirits, who unknowingly stitch personality into the monogamous school uniforms their little bodies fill. Beside the supposed showers at the back end of the yard, behind a 20 foot water tank, is a concrete trench at the side of the bathroom building. It has several faucets for water coming out of the wall.
Inside the trench is a player bathing himself in his undies. I mean the tighty whities, and I swallow hard as I think in which manner I am to clean myself. He smiles and points to the back of the building which is an alley way. On one side is the back wall of the bathroom and on the other is a chain linked fence looking out into the back yard of someone’s house some 40 feet off.
In the back yard a mother and her teenage daughter work around the house. They peek in and out of view as they manage their morning chores. Attached to the chain linked fence is a hose with water weakly flowing out onto the ground. I take my pants off and set them to the side. I than look around nervously as I strip naked and stand under the tinkling flow of water.
The experience is different, and I sum it up as a part of traveling. I soap as quickly as possible, dry up and get dressed. As I rub the towel in my hair I look up and notice what I perceive to be a grin from the young teenage girl who is currently hanging up clothes to dry.
Before I have a chance to think anything a door opposite my shower hose is flung open, and a man drying his hair walks out. As the door swings shut I notice a shower head in the back and instantly wonder to myself, ‘Was that where I was pointed to go?’ I turn back to the girl who is still watching and give her a big wave before heading back to home base for some pre-breakfast prayer. ‘I’m getting by’ is all I can think to myself, I’m getting by.
New jerseys are handed out after every one has eaten followed by the pre game speeches. I get handed a couple of t-shirts and last years jersey. Everyone fills in the new gear nicely. “Think of the sacrifice for getting these new kits” says the manager, “because they were not cheap and someone certainly paid for them”.
The words drone out of his mouth as we all listen respectfully. “Some people are missing work, others exams to be here”. We sit around him in a half circle as he kneels before us like our high school coach. “People are sending message all day of support, and I am sure more will come.” It’s a dry speech which reiterates many times over the fact that it’s important for the team to win.
My ears perk up suddenly when I hear the manger say that there is great hope for the team “because we went to the finals last year”. This is the first success story I’ve heard so far, and I start to think that
I’m amongst greater talent than I previously thought. After the manager, Neel, says his piece I’m asked to say something. Again I wonder to what cause, but I none the less give it my best shot.I’m proud to be amongst you guys”, followed by thoughtful silence. “You’ve all worked hard to get here”; Silence. I feel like there is nothing to say but get the hell onto that field and run your ass off. Don’t think, don’t breath, don’t tire, and don’t stop. Don’t do anything except play your heart out as if it mattered half as much as Neel made it out to.
Than in my silence I’m struck with a great idea. I clear my throat and re-gather the attention of the crowd. “Your game is a house. Each of you is in charge of building that house. You are all experts, you all have great ideas, and the only limits are the ones you set on yourselves”, I start.
“Your coach is the home builder; the man who subcontracts each expert to a certain job. One guy has a great idea for the chimney, and he makes it. Another builds the fire place and it looks fantastic. Another builds the frame and its magnificent while another yet constructs the roof which looks unlike any ever built before.” I continue talking to attention filled ears as I pace across the gazing crowd.
“Each piece is made so marvellous that people can hardly wait to see how the house will look. People expect it will be the nicest the city of Tailevu has ever seen. Throughout the whole process the home builder was never listened to. The experts ignored his directions and built the parts for this amazing house themselves.”
“When the day of construction came everyone was around to watch. But what was meant to be an amazing day turned out to be a disaster. Yelling and screaming was heard throughout the day as the construction crew were throwing tools and storming off site. The chimney doesn’t fit the roof, the roof doesn’t fit the frame, and the fire place doesn’t fit the chimney. And in the end all these beautifully crafted parts were useless.”
“Without the instruction of the home builder the skill of each expert is irrelevant. No matter how well you can build a roof it won’t matter if it doesn’t fit on the frame of the house. The same goes for the game. If what your doing doesn’t fit with the game plan and the rest of the team, regardless of the level of your talent, nothing will get built; no goals will get scored.
“Everyone here has tremendous talent, but the game is the house. If it’s gonna be built right you have to place your faith in your coach” the way you place your faith in God I think to myself. In awe and deep thought the team takes in the story as an eerie silence falls over them like when the drunken man makes a distasteful joke amongst a civilized crowd.
At the field now, under the blazing sun the team plays while me and the manager Neel watch from the bleachers. In the shade we talk about the team’s performance and in what areas they could stand to improve. Nearing the end a tsunami warning is sounded and the game stops twenty minutes short of finishing. Damn, I think, I wish I had a ham sandwich.
Losing 2 – 0 nothing Tailevu trudges heavy footed back to base to wait out the nearing threat. From the radio of a car, as school kids run around full of glee in the face of an early dismissal, we hear that the wave is no longer a danger. We turn around and head back to finish the game, but only to concede another goal before once again returning to the school.
The worst part is that between the entire 60 minutes of play, with the exception of one beautiful bicycle kick that sent the ball screaming wide, the team never actually had a decent chance to even score. With less shots on net than the other team had goals we head back defeated. It just wasn’t their time to win. But luckily it was time for lunch!
Already its almost time for the tournament’s opening ceremonies. The tournament itself will run from Wednesday until the final match on Sunday. Last years teams gather in rows across the fields to listen to boring speeches. Management decided it would be fun to dress me up in full goalie gear and send me out onto the field as well.
Though at first I love the idea, I start to get nervous since I don’t have a player card (obviously), and I don’t even have a ticket for the bleachers. I just bought the cheapest one which is only good for the outer grass hill area. Last in line I get to sweat the longest as I watch team mate after team mate make it into the illusive inner area.
The player ahead of me is under a similar stress as he is using someone else’s picture, though I’m certain he’ll get by no problem seeing how all Fijians look alike. Wrong. The door man stops him and investigates his card more thoroughly. Without hesitation I walk right by the security check and eventually onto the field. Upon looking back the poor guy never made it out to the ceremony. I will never forget his sacrifice.
In front of us are bleachers half filled with people eager to see the start of this great Fijian soccer tournament. All of the most important people are comfortably seated in the middle section of the bleachers.
I’m second to the front of the line of my team, dressed in green goalie gear with matching green cleats; one of two white people on the field. I sit cross legged while listening to boring speeches, sometimes even ones in Hindi, about how great the soccer here is, how great Fiji is, and how great Nadi is.
My legs are numb and sore from sitting so long and the speeches seem to just go on forever. The experience is priceless and will not be forgotten. I breath in what I experience to be deep breaths of fresh air as I watch the cameras capture it all, and wonder if I might be so lucky as to appear on tv.
The day is reserved for the lesser league games; at night is when the real excitement begins. The field is surrounded half by bleachers and half by hills. In the blaring flood lights people can be seen in every seat, and every plot of grass. No space goes unfilled, and no patron unpleased.
They have match after match, and I’m blown away at the skill level of the players. I mean, I’ve been to a handful of TFC games and none of them came close to the level of excitement experienced on this field in Nadi. Simply put the games are incredible.
Surging with excitement from the matches me and a team mate head out for a few drinks to cool down. The city life is non existent as I’m sure everyone is already at the field. Every store front is closed, and except for the food vendors across the street from the stadium and the bar we end up finding down a long deserted street, every where is lifeless. In the bar we start talking about the “gush”. Surprisingly he’s down like china town, stir fry with rice brown, and it happens as sure as crying girls in wedding gowns.
Everything except for Tailevu north’s poor performance is perfect that day. The weather, the sport, the mischief and the companionship; if only you all could have been there, but alas you had a Canadian winter to attend.
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