Ryabiringye Primary School v Nyakasiru Primary School

10-7

With no less than five organized practices under our skinny, tightly fastened belts, my squad of footballers played their first match of the year against cross-village rivals Nyakasiru. It marked my debut as football coach, and my last game as coach of Ryabiringye. The match fell on the penultimate day of TeachInn duties. With Dave, the mostly out-of-town GM, heeding requests to ref the match, the pride of the school fell squarely on my shoulders. Seriously. Numerous grown men cared deeply about the outcome. They stated it as a must-win beforehand and proved such sentiment authentic by rooting with a heavily partisan vigor during the affair.
Following a netball match between the two school in which the gals in Rya yellow trounced the visiting Nya teal 3-1, the match began. Like netball, it was held on Rya home pitch (this pre-digital computer apparently lacks an apostrophe key) and watched by two entire student bodies. Nyakasiru has no pitch. Nor did any of Nya s players have shoes, prompting the few Rya players with kicks to remove theirs in a gesture of fairness. Nyakasiru also lacked visibly distinguishable substitutes. Lacking the resources to obtain a ball of their own, Nya had to borrow one from the volunteers to practice with in the days leading up to the clash. A neutral observer who fancies underdogs would have sided with Nyakisiru. Part of me, the opposing coach, secretly pined for a spoiler, having taught a few classes down the road to Bukinda myself. But the greater bulk of me knew a Rya victory would do wonders to demonstrate the value of teaching kids to pass the ball, thereby spurring an overall improvement in local football. I also wanted to capture the glory of being part of an winning African football team.
The schools, and their respective alumni, crowded the sidelines screaming chants at each other during the opening volleys. Rya, instructed to pass, controlled the ball from the outset. But weak, motionless play from our undersized strikers denied us any more than a handful of clean looks at the goal. Cute, sloppy play from our keeper Agaba nearly coast us a couple scores as a wonderkid from Rya managed to singlehandedly maneuver around our exceptionally cautious defense. The unusual expressions of timidity from many of our players certainly were not alleviated by the antics of a dozen or so men crowded around or sideline. These faculty, distant Rya alum, and other inexplicably present old men did their best to micromanage every touch of any Rya player within earshot of their hyperpitched Bakiga jabber. Likely giving contrary orders to mine, the men attempted to make their own substitutions and position changes independent of the coach. Ref Dave at one point overheard the sideshow and threw his whistle on the ground, cursed the disruptive supporters, and demanded they back off or else operate the match, and the football programs, themselves. -you men are behaving like boys-, he memorably said. True, but our boys were also behaving like boys. Scared to run to the ball once they failed to find quick success against a team that they were repeatedly assured by adults they should beat, they left the first half at nil-nil.
At half, I mostly spared the volumes of criticism festering within me and instead tried to fire up the spirits of the team with playful punches and sing-song voice inflections. Any amusement on their part remained hidden. Yet I had a feeling a few key adjustments could eventually exert our rightful dominance of the game. I took the captain Johnson aside and told him I needed him back on defense. Usually, a defensive assignment amounts to an insult in the minds of most of my players. But I reached an understanding with Johnson that we needed some coolheadedness to quell the spirited solo runs of Nya s chief attacker. Johnson smiled dutifully and with a businesslike -yes- took the the field. I shifted a defender, Edgar, to center-midfield. Edgar wore stiff shoes and overly long jean shorts at practice, never demanding the ball or a striker assignment like the other heavies. He let the game come to him. With an actual competition underway, Edgar stripped down to short skivvies, lost the shoes, and owned the pitch. A man among boys.
The second half saw Nya chase the ball with an added sense of frenzy. Rya responded with dopey-eyed caution. The forwards continued to stand motionless, as excellent through balls from Edgar were squandered with stork-legged swipes to nobody. I pulled both starting strikers and shuffled another burly defender forward while inserting Ian, a shunned substitute, in at striker as well. Having never been awarded the striker position under my direction before, Ian played with hungry tenacity, chasing down loose balls and staring down opposing defenders. But Nya outran us on our half of the field. After 25 minutes elapsed on a 35 minute second half, Nya s star player pounded a dominating goal into us. Those in teal stormed the field. Cartwheels and backflips erupted. I clapped twice, then encouraged my boys to play hard and nothing more. They looked dejected but also more focused. As Nyakasiru fans sang and danced unopposed, reveling in a late-game lead, we willed a decent pass across the center that fortuitously bounced over enough Nya defender header attempts to give Ian an open dash to the goal with the ball. His power stroke flew over the keeper s head, prompting the yellow to take their turn in celebrations. Adults hugged each other. 8 minutes or so ticked away, packed with intense, cluster-the-ball deliberations from both sides. AS regulation expired, the Nya coach and I agreed to two 10 minute extra time sessions. My players knelt at center field as I barked instructions, only to be cut off by Dave, who said the Nya headmaster, the respected John Allen Cabanza, wanted the game called off as a draw. Dave and I passed out sought after juice boxes to the competitors, attempting to rationalize the anti-climatic justice of a tie. Then, Cabanza suggested two five minute sessions of OT. We scrambled to pick up the discarded refreshments off the pitch and resume play before the sun set. With four minutes to go, Amoni, the best individual playmaker on Rya, corralled a loose ball inside the box and rocketed it into the goal at an angle. Utter hysteria ensued. Three minutes later, time expired and my boys had rallied from behind to win. Edgar was named Man of the Match. Overcoming the burden of coaching, they eked out a dramatic victory and, in no exaggerated terms, filled Rya alum, faculty, and headmaster with pride and honer.