THE FOOTBALL COACH

When Mathias  Nkomo, the coach of Nkulumane Pirates Football Club died under unclear circumstances one cold winter night, the team had been making their final arrangements for the trip to the Division Three Premier League Championships, which was just three weeks away from being held. The death shook everyone in the township, and everybody who wanted to know how the coach had died was only told that Coach Mathias had been fighting a long illness and had finally succumbed to it. There was a spreading rumour that his death could have been a case of witchcraft, since Coach Mathias had just bought himself a brand new car, and that some members of the committee were not enthused by the idea and some wanted to make profit out of the team. Some committee members of the team wanted to know about the team’s funds, since it had been the coach who had been keeping the team’s bankbook. There was also a sudden debate on who the new coach was going to be. As for the burial, it was going to take place on the coming Friday, they were simply told. The Pirates, the name the team was better known as, were devastated beyond belief, but they held their hopes high. Coach Mathias was one person they had learned to trust through the years. They knew that the new coach had probably been handpicked by Coach Mathias himself before his death. But the episode of the death was hard on the people, and when news of the unfortunate passing had finally reached the ears of all of the township people, they all gathered in the huge yard of his house and began singing the eclogues. That Friday afternoon, a sad blanket of grief hung over their shoulders as they slinked away into their homes after the burial had taken place. The day had been a cold one, but almost every man and woman of right age braved the sheeting, biting July winds. They all listened as the epitaph was delivered by Pastor Nkomo. It was a hard one, but very true. Then man spoke highly of Mathias. How had seen the seed of hope in the delinquent children who had decided to spend most of their hours wasting away at beer-halls, smoking or robbing the township people of their hard-earned money. That hope had been in finding a hobby for them, finding something that would keep their minds from being idle. And Coach Mathias had not guessed at his decision. He had known that soccer was going to be the only way out for them.

  “For in the idle mind dwells the Devil. And so the team was Coach Mathias’ dream, since soccer was the only hope he saw in them.” The Pastor said. He was himself Mathias’ cousin and could not hide the tears that rolled freely from his swollen face.

  “Our dear brother has done his part… we all loved him…and he is now at the hands of our loving Lord.” He said, amid the sound of the wailing woman, who was apparently Mathias’s widow. The woman, who was not well liked in the township for her constant bragging had been Mathias’s second wife, and had brought with her a young girl child from her former marriage. Mathias’s initial wife had died whilst giving birth to his son. The Pastor then picked up some loose clay, and sprinkled some of it into the grave.

  “Friends of the dearly departed,” He began, “let us not despair at Mathias’ passing. But instead, let’s let him live in our hearts and minds by forever remembering all the good deeds he did for this community, especially in the development of community football. We shall forever miss him, but however, it is utterly important that we must continue to pursue his dream.”

Minutes later, the polished mahogany coffin was slowly lowered into the grave, and after Mathias’s family had given their last respects, Pastor Nkomo signaled at the men with the shovels. “Men, start filling the sand in, and give anyone who wants to fill the grave a chance to do so.”

In the following week, the team did not train because of the fact that the coach had just passed away and most of the people were still grieving. And the small children who usually watched them train in the township’s football pitch were surprised to find the pitch empty. They went back to their homes, got their plastic balls and played in the pitch. For the Pirates, it had become a tradition that every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, they would be seen at the pitch, with Coach Mathias sitting on the bench, hurling orders at them.

The following week, on Monday, the Pirates team manager called all the twenty-one players for a meeting at the pitch. He said that some important news had come to his attention. There was a probability that the new coach had been found and he would meet with them later during the training session. But however, as was always the case, the news soon reached everyone’s ears. The people could not hold back their excitement. The new coach was coming. At last!

That Monday evening, after the team had had some light training, the people began trickling in.  Very soon, the pitch was crowded, and the Pirates had to stop training. Like a fire fueled by wind, the news of the new coach had reached every corner of the township. There was everyone in the pitch. Old men wearing the team’s scarves, women donning their replicas of the team’s home playing kit, and children with whistles and footballs, all happy to touch some of the players they adored so much. 

The Pirates manager, who had been elected by the community, was a burly man with a hoarse voice. He had earned a lot of respect from the township because he had been the first one who had gone from house to house telling the young men that Mathias had formed a football team and that training trials were to be held in the pitch on the following day. He had also braved himself and asked for donations for the new team. That had been barely five years ago. Now he stood up from the chair he had been sitting on and coughed for some attention. The people before him all became quiet.

  “Good evening. Most of you know me, because I’ve been the manager for the Pirates for a long time now. Those who don’t know me will ask the others.”

The people laughed quietly amongst themselves. If there was anyone who did not know the manager, then they did not belong to the gathered crowd. The manager coughed again, “As I can tell, the news of the new coach has probably reached your ears. I’m glad you have the interest of the team at heart. So did the late coach. The team was closest to him more than anything else.”

The men and women listened intently as he digressed on how the team had been formed, on how Coach Mathias had sourced the first kit and footballs money from his own bank account, and finally, how important it had been for them to qualify for the championships barely five years after their humble beginning. It had been coach Mathias’s vision for the team to go where most teams only went in their dreams. Then he spoke of the sad passing away, “Coach Mathias called for me during his last day, to tell me important news. I think he knew that his end was near.”

The people nodded their heads comprehensively. “Did he tell you who the new coach was going to be?” an old stuttering voice asked from behind the voices. It belonged to Old John Mabizela, the oldest man in the township who had also been the coach closet friend. He was a senior committee member of the football team and had been holding that position ever since the team’s inception. Everyone said that his face always had a frown on it because wherever he went, or wherever he was, he would always be thinking of something to say to someone. There was another rumour that he had once been a spy for Coach Mathias and had made sure that two other senior committee members became expelled in the process.

The manager looked at him for while, before he shook his head slowly and replied with the corner of his eyes. “No he did not. But the new coach must be carefully selected, however.” He added carefully, turning to the gathered people.

  “And the funds for the team?” Old John Mabizela asked, approaching the middle of the circumscribing crowd. “Are they in order? When are the boys going for the tournament?”

The manager hushed him with his hand. “Everything is in order, Mabizela.” He assured. “I’m here because of what Mathias told me about the new football coach. It was the only thing that was closest to his heart. Initially, the meeting I had called for was for the team playing members only, but I will not hide the intentions of the coach.”

Old John Mabizela asked again. “Are the funds really there?” The people in the meeting knew he had a bad spate of memory loss, and so they listened to the manager as he went to elaborate on how the selection of the new football coach would go about, and ignored the old man, who turned and left the meeting grumbling bitterly. Within a few seconds he had returned to where he had been standing. The people looked at him, and some women giggled amongst themselves. According to his plans, the manager went on, Mathias had left a number of names in a book. These were names of men that he had thought would take the team to even greater heights.

 “And I have the names of those men, five of them to be precise. But the committee will hold a meeting first. Please remember that the team was the closest thing to Coach Mathias’s heart.” Went on the manager.

 Old John Mabizela raised his hand again. “Are we going to be told how Coach Mathias died?” A murmur ran on many of the men’s mouths. The old man had asked a valid question. All their eyes turned on to the manger. “We have put so much of our time and money into the development of the team, and I think we all deserve to be told how the coach died.” Old John Mabizela continued.

The manager looked at the eyes of the people. “It was a bad spell of a long illness.” He only said.

The next week, on a Thursday, another meeting was called. The manager announced that the new coach was coming on Saturday morning, and would leave with the team later the same day for the Championships. All the bus fares had been paid, the manager told the committee, but he however would leave a day earlier so he would make sure the team was expected and make other arrangements. The coach was from a Division Two League team and had been Coach Mathias’s first choice.

 “He has the best experience.” They were told. And so the preparations for the team’s departure were to move forward without fail, he further said. That Friday evening, the Pirates were ready. But the manager was nowhere to be seen and Old John Mabizela could sense that something was not right. He called for an extraordinary meeting at once. There they found the football players, milling about at the pitch, waiting for the bus. When they were asked why it had still not come, when the Championship was the following day, most of the players could not answer. The manager was the organiser, they said. He was there to make sure that such things went in a smooth manner. The bus company wanted $50million dollars before they could take the players for the trip. And the hotel would also need another $200million dollars for the team’s two-day stay during the Championships. And the manager had disappeared completely.

Old John Mabizela looked at the players. He had had the feeling for a long time ago, and now he knew that Coach Mathias’s dream was being shattered. There was a small-framed man sitting at one end of the pitch. Mabizela approached him, and asked what he was doing in the pitch. The man looked up and smiled wryly.

  “I’m just the new football coach.” He said, releasing an embarrassed smile.

 

***

- END -

(2008)

Mbonisi P. Ncube©