World Cup
I probably don’t know what to make of it now but I don’t think I would find myself anchored to a tree branch eight metres off the ground late in the night all in the hope of pruning wayward branches. It wasn’t a hobby, if anything; the timing would have been awful. It’s the Fifa World Cup final in USA, 1994. Brazil is taking on Italy and the match is well underway. This time around, thanks to my hard working dad, we have a TV. A brand new 14 inch black & white “Great Wall.” Together with the set came a battery and a solar panel. One sunny day’s charge was enough to power the set for two hours; no less. Our evenings were now partly bathed in grayish ‘ambilight’ glow. It was a true delight that extended to the neighbourhood folks as well. This world cup, they did not have to trek for miles in the dark kenyan village nights.
I had settled on the floor as all seats had been taken. My mother was watching this one too. It had to be big. She had prepared plenty of boiled maize to go with. We were all Brazil, something to do with our ancestors having been brothers. My dad was conscious of the battery power. It wasn’t very sunny today so the TV was off until kick off. He had estimated it to go for an hour or so and suggested that we switch off during prolonged periods of inactivity, during half time or when a player got injured. After some coaxing, he finally glanced at his watch and turned the magical knob. We were on. The match was getting underway, or was it? we could sure spot the players running around but the screen was too foggy to spot the ball.
It’s one of these neighbours, a quiet but eccentric old man known as “AinStain”... no relation… who suggested that the tree branches around the aerial were obstructing its reception of the signals and should be cut. He pointed out to static formations that occasionally interrupted the picture as “leaves of the trees.” “Well, I think he means like now”…my dad did not need to say things. His eyes did. So, with the guidance of a flashlight, I had set up camp atop one tree, swaying with breeze. Quietly and halfheartedly, I am slashing away all branches within reach. No one was going to inspect my labour anyway, and just like them, I am not missing out on the game, foggy screen or not. True to my suspicions, it is all in vain and it is the constant twisting and turning of the aerial, guided by the shouts of “hapo!” (there) from within the house that finally do the trick.
I’m back to a crisp view of events and we are soon all lost in the game. As we near the end of the first half, a player is fouled and someone utters a word that upsets my mum. After some brief resistance, he is shoved out of the house bringing to a dramatic end the first half, and the beginning of the implementation of the power conservation measures. The second half is more dramatic, but this time, on the pitch. The teams draw at the end of regular time and by the end of extra time, it seems apparent that it will be a penalty shootout. By this time, the battery is barely holding out and constant waves cross the screen which sputters and comes back to life every so often. We have to switch off, shake the battery vigorously and clamp the poles again, a trick that works, but needs to be repeated every five minutes. Somehow, it takes us through the extra time. At the beginning of the penalty shootouts, the screen suddenly blinks and dies out. None of the shaking and jump starts work. We all sit there, stunned for a long time. I try the radio but its playing some blues. I go to bed.
Early next morning, I wake up to inspect my pruning activities and besides the tree’s fallen branches, my dad is seated with a newspaper. The sports page is turned to me, a picture of a player, arms to his head. Above is the heading “Baggio blasts ball beyond Brazilian bar.”
I had settled on the floor as all seats had been taken. My mother was watching this one too. It had to be big. She had prepared plenty of boiled maize to go with. We were all Brazil, something to do with our ancestors having been brothers. My dad was conscious of the battery power. It wasn’t very sunny today so the TV was off until kick off. He had estimated it to go for an hour or so and suggested that we switch off during prolonged periods of inactivity, during half time or when a player got injured. After some coaxing, he finally glanced at his watch and turned the magical knob. We were on. The match was getting underway, or was it? we could sure spot the players running around but the screen was too foggy to spot the ball.
It’s one of these neighbours, a quiet but eccentric old man known as “AinStain”... no relation… who suggested that the tree branches around the aerial were obstructing its reception of the signals and should be cut. He pointed out to static formations that occasionally interrupted the picture as “leaves of the trees.” “Well, I think he means like now”…my dad did not need to say things. His eyes did. So, with the guidance of a flashlight, I had set up camp atop one tree, swaying with breeze. Quietly and halfheartedly, I am slashing away all branches within reach. No one was going to inspect my labour anyway, and just like them, I am not missing out on the game, foggy screen or not. True to my suspicions, it is all in vain and it is the constant twisting and turning of the aerial, guided by the shouts of “hapo!” (there) from within the house that finally do the trick.
I’m back to a crisp view of events and we are soon all lost in the game. As we near the end of the first half, a player is fouled and someone utters a word that upsets my mum. After some brief resistance, he is shoved out of the house bringing to a dramatic end the first half, and the beginning of the implementation of the power conservation measures. The second half is more dramatic, but this time, on the pitch. The teams draw at the end of regular time and by the end of extra time, it seems apparent that it will be a penalty shootout. By this time, the battery is barely holding out and constant waves cross the screen which sputters and comes back to life every so often. We have to switch off, shake the battery vigorously and clamp the poles again, a trick that works, but needs to be repeated every five minutes. Somehow, it takes us through the extra time. At the beginning of the penalty shootouts, the screen suddenly blinks and dies out. None of the shaking and jump starts work. We all sit there, stunned for a long time. I try the radio but its playing some blues. I go to bed.
Early next morning, I wake up to inspect my pruning activities and besides the tree’s fallen branches, my dad is seated with a newspaper. The sports page is turned to me, a picture of a player, arms to his head. Above is the heading “Baggio blasts ball beyond Brazilian bar.”
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interesting posts
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