Of New Men, Old Crocs and The Shibobo

What do you get when a throng of tragically out-of-shape, middle-aged men pushing boeppense from years of debauchery take to a football field? Well … guffaws all around; a disqualifiable number of calls for substitutions; a frustrated coach who’s clearly just there on a ceremonious capacity as his instructions fall on hungover ears; and loads of fun with the Kuyasa community coming together for the First Annual Crocks/Masters Tournament. This year’s event, thus far the most vibrant, and although it looked as if it would not happen, a certain Dr Sinovuyo Manzi and his fellas were unequivocal that, rain or shine, the occasion would materialise into the boisterous affair it has been known to be for the last couple of years. 

A somewhat rushed last-minute put-together, in the end it turned out well-organised complete with a sparkling trophy, a few medals, a sound system through which the surprisingly talented commentator “Bhut George” was giving a quick-witted account of things to the assembled crowd. Spectators sat perched on the surrounding koppies. Others looked on from their cars. Some watched cross-legged on their stoeps, whilst a few diehards armed with umbrellas and camping chairs would not miss the action seated, as they were, up-close and personal along the sidelines. 

Man down, as things get heated. Picture: Sinovuyo Manzi

Nothing to be sneezed at, this turnout. Just moments earlier many of them were paying homage at some or other initiation homecoming ceremony. With the lifting of Covid restrictions on the initiation practice, there was something of a rite of passage backlog. As was the case last year, hordes of young boys were eager to fulfill the generations-old cultural birthright into manhood. Hence throughout the townships were ululating women, traditional songs reverberating from every nook and cranny and alcohol was available – as the saying goes – like child’s play. Despite such a custom happening in here own yard, a certain “Sis Nopriska” magnanimously extended an electrical extension cord so that the latest hits could serenade all in sundry through the PA system. And out the men came, having put away the overalls and cultural effects and their singing soon turned to cheering on their favourite teams.

The colourful sights and sounds of umgidi the homecoming bacchanalia. Picture: Supplied

In its earlier years the tournament started out as five-a-side and occasionally local businesses would pledge some support. 

Today, a modest Dr Manzi reluctantly admits that the funding is drawn from his own pocket as six teams of eleven players each are all itching to showcase what an entire (at least in unique cases) year of practice has come down to. Although taking place on 26 December, the Day of Goodwill, evidently the rivalries run way too deep to play it soft. 

The whistle goes. The crowd cheers. Boots clatter on the hard pitch and plumes of dust ascend to high heaven as Cognac and Vultures F.C take up formations, charged to do battle.

It’s street soccer time. The dictionary of football as the rest of the world knows it goes flying out the window. Now we’re talking the “tsamaya,” – body nonchalantly arched back, ball rolled onward by prevaricating feet that look like they ought to be dancing in a club than battling it out on a soccer field. There’s the opponent-turning “Show me your number,” the swirling “360 Degree Turn” that would outlive its highly talented originator, the iconic Scara Ngobese. 

Very few places that one can think of where “the beautiful game” truly lives up to the moniker as it so colourfully does in the township. Or where entire chapters have been added to the sport’s jargon. Even the most mundane moves are peppered in a streetwise flamboyance with a cheeky overbite. Conniving through-passes. Catwalkish ball trappings, disco feet with each player attempting to pull off the most respected gimmick of all – the crowd-pleasing shibobo. 

Known as “the nutmeg” in politer quarters, here to put a ball through a marking opponent’s legs is enough to have him disowned by his mother, dumped by his girlfriend and his children quick to say, that that over there is no father of theirs. Dude, that man is, by popular agreement, inkomo – a cow. A moegoe. Dunderhead who is not worthy of the boots on his feet.

Just part of the impressive turnout. Picture: Sinovuyo Manzi

From the early morning until the sun had had enough and it was too dark to see the final penalty shootout through, the crowd were adequately entertained. A bitter-sweet moment it must’ve been for joint winners Cognac and Cellar Pholei F.C who had been hoping to settle the score once and for all. Or at least until next year. Wadada, Germany, Smouse City, Cellar Cask and Thuthwini – collectively making up the other participating teams – were chuffed if not taken aback by how hordes had gathered to see them in action. In the end, though, Dr Manzi, Dr Lunga Mbuqe – the jovial MC-cum-goalkeeper-extraordinaire – and fellow organisers could take comfort in an undisputed accomplishment: they had achieved what they had set out for themselves. Football was the winner on the day. If but for a few hours, the taverns were emptier, the community united under a common passion just as it had been in those years where soccer Sundays were a big deal. In his desire to revive interest to the game, this is only the tip of the iceberg for the young Dr Manzi. In coming years he hopes local businesses might be less close-fisted and more open to the idea of making the tournament big enough to include all age groups and sexes. A democratic sporting event where all can find a place to showcase their skills. 

King Gcanga, uhm, warming up. Picture: Sinovuyo Manzi

In the meantime, however, although a certain King Gcanga had looked like he would make easy pickings for a reputation-denting shibobo, eParkeni can verifiably report that his mother still keeps a warm dinner for him in the microwave, his girlfriend calls him “sweetheart” and he is still considered Tata amongst his progeny. 

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