The Man at the Soccer Game

 

Credit: pageresource.com

Credit: pageresource.com

(This story starts here...)

Gertruida says men can be so childish. Diksarel and Jason had this stupid little altercation to prove to each other that they’re proud of their past – despite the many shortcomings. After all, how much responsibility can you take for the mistakes of previous generations? Yet, despite the stupidity of it all, they both needed a gesture, a symbol, of the anger they have felt about what had transpired so many years ago. Shame has no sell-by-date, neither has guilt. No matter how we try to camouflage those feelings, they remain there – lurking – in the subconscious.

Now, each with a beer in the hand, they smile sheepishly at each other. Jason knows that Diksarel is as responsible for his family’s plight, as he is to their’s.

“You’ll have to do something about that Katie Leggings – Kneehigh, as you call her – to get out of this mess.” Mama Sarah says again. “Once the Revenue Service is looking for you, they won’t stop.”

Diksarel nods. It was that woman who started it all with the invoice she added to the pile of documents Diksarel received from RD+P…by mistake. After that came the cover-up and the promise of a holiday in the Maldives…and then the real chaos started. Sure, he was glad to learn the truth behind his father’s actions and saddened to realise how much the old man must have suffered – but his current situation begged some sort of solution. He can’t hide for the rest of his life, like his father did.

“My friend, the economist!” Mirriam sits up abruptly. “He’ll know what to do.” She looks up at Mama Sarah, who nods approvingly. “I’ll phone him.”

***

When you play stone-scissors-paper, you may find that the stone is always superior. It blunts the scissors every time. Mostly, when you want to see a minister, you can’t cut through the red tape. If, however, you added loyalty to the game, you’ll end up winning every time. It is better than stones, scissors or any paper you’d like to mention.

Miriam’s friend turns out to be the minister of finance, an old friend of the Plaatjies family. When her father left Upington in disgrace, he was the only person who supported the shamed family. More than most, he understood the nefarious ways of the Bureau of State Security. He hated the agency after they sent him a letter-bomb to his address in London. it was opened by his nephew…

“That Labuschagne’s son? The one you mentioned in that book you wanted to publish? Really?” Diksarel hears the incredulous note in the man’s voice after Miriam switched on the speaker-phone. “Sure. Come on over. I’m watching the soccer. You at Mama Sarah’s? I’ll send my driver.”

Diksarel shakes his head. Can this day become even more bizarre? Two beers later, still amazed, he watches as the new BMW stops in the potholed street.

“Come,” Miriam orders, “we’ll all go.”

***

The mansion in Bishop’s Court is unlike anything Diksarel has ever seen. The imposing gate. The rolling green lawns. The manicured rose garden. The heavy oak front door. Even a butler who shooed away the security guard…

“Doctor is waiting for you,” the giant in a tux tells them, “in the media room.”

Doctor Andrew Vilakazi barely glances at them when they enter the cinema-like room with the massive big-screen television dominating the decor. Plush seats and curtained walls create the impression of a modern-day theatre, while the commentary on the game emits from state-of-the-art speakers.

“We’ll talk later. The second half has only started. Can you believe the score? 5 – 0! It’s unheard of.” Vilakazi doesn’t get up to greet them. He’s absorbed in the game. Last night’s meetings prevented him from watching the game live and he couldn’t believe the headlines this morning. This is one game he simply has to see for himself. Diksarel notices how a tear streaks down the doctor’s cheek to fall on his yellow Brazil T-shirt. “Damn!, I don’t believe it.”

Soccer, Gertruida says, is like that stone-paper-scissors game. If you can outguess your opponent you’re home free. But, she adds, luck and skill often are more important than guessing what the opponents will do. And then, according to Gertruida, one must understand that psychology plays a major role. Once the mountain becomes to steep to climb, the spirit starts staggering around because there isn’t enough oxygen. When she says these things, the patrons in Boggel’s Place nod sagely simply because they have no idea what she’s talking about.

They sit quietly through the second half, watching Brazil being demolished in the most clinical fashion. The goal at the end brings out a wintery smile on Vilakazi’s face. At last the final whistle puts a stop to the carnage and the doctor switches the set off with a sigh.

“Damn!” Vilakazi is obviously upset.Then, composing himself quickly, he turns to his guests. “I have to be at my office – told them I had a family crisis to watch this game.” His smile broadens, lighting up his face. “Now, what is it all about. Keep it short, please.”

Somehow, Diksarel finds it easy to talk to this man. At about sixty, his eyes are alert and he nods from time to time to indicate he understands. Vilakazi, he realises, is one of those rare men who doesn’t have to open his mouth to seem clever. And he is an excellent listener, concentrating on every word.

Only when Diksarel gets to the end of his tale of woe, Vilakazi allows his eyes to wander over to Miriam and Mama Sarah.

“This is true?”

The two women nod in unison.

“And we restored honour to our families,” Jason adds proudly.

“Well, it’s a mess.” Vilakazi doesn’t waste words in his response. “I’m not sure what I can do, but I have to leave now. Make yourselves comfortable, I’ll get back to you.”

It is strange – and unfair – that people have this idea that African politicians never suffer from insomnia during meetings. Or, that they aspire to positions where they don’t have to do anything. Doctor Vilakazi is a case in point. He might be a fan of the greatest team to suffer such humiliation – ever – but, like the rest of us, he loves sport because it brings out the best in us. Win or lose, the result is something that should encourage us to rise above our disappointments and victories. Reality, in the end, teaches us about humility…and ambition.

That’s why Vilakazi leaves the room in deep thought. Life, he thinks, is a soccer game. You enjoy the spectacular moments of victory, but then – sometimes – you have to swallow the bitterness of defeat. Miriam’s family had to accept a shameful scoreline for so long, as had the Labuschagnes. To help them win their game would be difficult – if not impossible, But like that brave young man, Oscar, never gave up and scored Brazil’s only goal late in the game (knowing even this effort won’t make a difference), so too, Life expects us to keep on playing until the final whistle blows.

He barks an address at his driver.

“But, sir, the meeting? Your office called…”

“Later. This is important.”

Inside the mansion, the four settle down in the easy chairs, wondering what their host is planning; while on the pitch, the players line up after the penalty kick is awarded. One last chance. Just one…

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