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My dad loves football. He always has, hell, there's this legendary tale of him setting the alarm clock to 2/3 a.m. to get up and watch the 1990 world cup, on working days. (Don't even get him started on Diego Maradona) This is not exactly the norm in this great cricket mad nation of ours.
So, when your dad is that football crazy, you have two options. In or Out. And I chose the smart one.In the early days, when I first started following football, I used to follow a certain club named Manchester United. What was not to like about them? They were champions, they were always contenders for all the major trophies, and they played absolutely brilliant football.
When Giggs scored that astounding solo goal against Arsenal ('98 FA Cup semi), something tugged at my heart. By then I already used to proclaim loudly to anyone within earshot that I was a United fan and that they were the best team in the land. Then, one day, my dad said something that had me jumping up and down all day long. We were going to watch the 1999 UEFA Champions League final at SlipWay (this is in Dar-es-Salaam, Tanzania). There was this big screen there and well, what more could a football mad young kid ask for?
Now, the beauty of Africa is that it's as football mad as me and my dad were and at SlipWay there were supporters for both clubs. They too were equally represented, equally vocal. I might as well have been at the Camp Nou.
Just six minutes in, Mario Basler swept in what has always felt like a lucky free kick. 1-0 Bayern; they were playing rather well and with the great Oliver Kahn in the form of his life, it wasn't looking pretty. 90 minutes up, the score was still 1-0. A German, standing in front of me, beer in one hand, turned around to smirk at me and say "we won" (I'd told him I'd be supporting United).
It was then that something, strange, happened. I said "wait, we still have some time left" or something to that effect. It was the first time I'd used 'we' to describe Manchester United.I'd stopped being a supporter, I'd become something more. Teddy Sheringham was on by then, and so was (one of my all-time favourites) Ole Gunnar Solskjaer. And what followed was sheer footballing magic. This was the kind of stuff that not even movie screenwriter could ever reproduce. The kind of stuff dreams are made of.
91st minute, Sheringham scored and in the 92nd minute, it was Ole (it had to be him). The Cup was ours. Fans at the Camp Nou and at Slip Way went delirious, I remember one Tanzanian running all the way to the parking lot to jump up and down on his car. Crackers were bursting everywhere. Horns were being honked off their cars. No one could contain their excitement.
But I was just too spellbound to move. Afraid that one twitch would spoil the moment. Time had stopped. I poked at the towering German in front of me, and when he turned, I said we won. With a broad smile.
I knew, then and there, that for better or for worse, I was going to be with the Red Devils. Win or lose, there would only be one team in my life.
That night, I sold my soul to the Devil. And I haven't regretted it one bit.
