Football-- American Style!
It is July 26th, Liberian Independence Day. I am in the IRC compound in Voinjama, a town about 10 hours away from Monrovia, give or take a thousand potholes. It rained half the night, so now at 7:00, the morning air is cool. Liberian earth is fertile, absorbing all things placed on or in it. The light sandy red rectangular field of dirt from the compound gate to the main office is already parched in places-- a modern painter’s chessboard with rivulets. The papaya, coconut and mango trees against the late purple-blue dawn are a scene for lovers at the beach. There’s a black goat and her literal Kidd munching at a rim of grass.
I got up early because the President is coming to one of our hospitals and I am supposed to be around to welcome her. I have beaten my colleagues to the bucket shower because a deranged rooster began cockle-doodle-doing an hour before sunrise and though I tried, I was unable return to my air-conditioned dreams. It’s just as well. Like an imperialist I brought a football on the trip. The grip is virgin white lace. The skin is Pleather and blown up to official size. The oblong ends fit just right in the crook of my hand and for days has just been begging to be tossed.
Mousa, quarterback
“Go for a pass!” I yell to Mousa the driver. Mousa has just finished washing his new white Toyota Land Cruiser like the history of men before him—carefully, pensively, the suds important, but the polish more so.
“What?” Mousa says as wipes his hands against the front of his pant legs as we walks towards me, “What did you say?”
“Go for a pass!” I yell and with this imperative I loft the football high into the air. Mousa looks scared almost hurt, as if I have just lobbed at him a projectile weapon. He ducks for cover running in the direction of the trees. The ball arcs gently into the ground with a thump then bounces away.
“Mousa, catch that,” I say, “where are your hands?”
Mousa now back onto the driveway moves cautiously towards the ball. He looks down at it first with his chin, then bends down to pick it up with two hands as if it is fragile. “Doc, I don’t know what this is,” Mousa says, “I have not played this game before.”
“It’s a football,” I say, “throw it back.”
“Ok,” Mousa says. The ball comes out of his hand like a dead featherless chicken —going simultaneously one direction but also every which way too.
“Mousa!” I say, “Where’s your arm?!”
“On my body,” Mousa says, “My arms on my body, Doc.”
By this time, Toni the other driver and the guard Joseph who controls the IRC gate have come by to see what all the commotion is about. I tell them that this being Independence Day, I am going to teach them how to play American football. I show them first how to throw the ball like my friend Ben taught me a few weeks back while I was on R&R in the States after he accused me of throwing like a salsa dancer. Fifth and fourth fingers on the back lace. Ball cocked back to the right ear. Downward north- to-south missile flick at the chest of the receiver. “Got it?” I ask. Toni, Mousa and Joseph look at me with serious blank expressions.
I run to the other end of the driveway with the ball. “All right, Toni, you first,” I shout.
I throw ball about 20 yards at a 50 degree angle. Toni positions himself nimbly beneath the downward trajectory of the ball and catches it easily with his finger tips just before it hits the dirt. With a heave, the ball comes back to me. This time not like a dead chicken but a large live toad—heavy, compact, but not quite right either. I make the catch. “Not bad indeed,” I shout. Toni smiles and shrugs, tipping down the rim of his fish hat.
The ball I throw to Joseph I immediately think is going to hurt him. He looks as if he has never caught a ball before because as the football descends, his eyes close and his arms extend too straight and too high. The ball hits Joseph in the chest and bounces through the ring he makes with his arms, ricocheting off one of his feet toward the goats who don’t appear to think much of today’s sport as they continue chewing.
“Ouch” I mutter. Mousa and Toni laugh, their heads thrown back. They point at Joseph who uninjured, looks nervous but determined, his feet broadly planted, his arms hanging awkwardly to his sides.
With every toss and toss back though, there is improvement. Joseph soon has a 50% chance of making the catch and has stopped clutching his head before or after the misses. Mousa who is 4 foot 11 inches tall has developed a shot put like method of throwing which includes spinning in a circle as the follow through to his passes—whatever it takes. Toni really does have talent—the softest mitts in Lofa County I say. Toni doesn’t know what the heck I am talking about when I say this, but by his strut I know he gets the drift.
Wide-receiver
After about 10 minutes of passing and catching, I gather the group at mid-field. “You are doing well. It’s time to play a game,” I say, “Mousa, you play soccer?”
“Doc, I play soccer,” Mousa says as a matter of fact.
“Toni, you play soccer?” I ask.
“I am Liberian. Of course I play soccer,” Toni says.
“Excuse me,” I say, “Joseph, you play soccer?”
Joseph nods but too slow to be convincing. Mousa answers for Joseph, “Doc, Joseph for sure does not play soccer.”
“Thank you Joseph,” I say to Mousa.
“My name is not Joseph,” Mousa says.
“I know, Mousa” I say
“Joseph, Toni and Mousa, football is kind of like soccer,” I say, “Like in soccer, we will have two teams each trying to get to the other end of the driveway. But instead of kicking the ball to the ends or end zones, you have to be with the ball, either by catching it or by running with it. Meanwhile, the other team tries to stop you by not letting you catch the ball or if you have the ball, by touching you with two hands below the waist. Then you have to stop. Each team gets four tries. If you can’t make it, the ball goes to the other team and then they get a chance to score. Mousa and I will be on one team. Joseph, you and soft hands on the other.”
I run to each end of the compound to mark the end zones: a line connecting a broken down JEEP and fuel tank on one end of the compound, a line connecting a welcome to IRC sign and a spare tire on the other. “These are the end-zones,” I yell.
Back at mid-field the group everyone stands exactly where I left them. “Toni you want to be here,” I say. I make a mark in the dirt with the tip of my boot, “this is the line of scrimmage. You count to three Mississippi: One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. At three Mississippi you cross the line and try to touch me below the waist. Mousa, I am going to try to throw you the ball before Toni gets to me. Joseph, try to prevent Mousa from catching the ball by batting it away.”
“All right,” I say, placing the ball on the line and putting Mousa’s right hand on it. I move three feet behind him, “On my count. Ready huh, huh, huh, huh, 25, 35, huh, huh, hike, 45, hike, hike, HIKE!!!”
Mousa looks at me strangely as if I have just suffered a serious seizure, but somehow knows to toss the ball back at me at the last “HIKE”. He stand still until I yell, “Run Mousa to get the pass! Toni, start counting Mississippi! Joseph, don’t let Mousa catch the ball!” And then all hell breaks loose.
Mousa runs forward but doesn’t look back. Joseph proceeds to grab Mousa to which Mousa responds by grabbing Joseph. Toni counts Mississippi’s to himself in such concentration that he forgets to rush. It occurs to me that Liberians do not normally count in Mississippi’s.
“Toni,” I yell, “Rush at me! Joseph, stop grabbing Mousa!! Mousa get free!!!”
Toni comes at me. Mousa darts right with Joseph hanging on this let hip. I let loose a pass much like an athletic salsa dancer and the ball hits Mousa on the knee. Mousa yelps.
“Sorry, Mousa,” I say, “Joseph, that’s a warning for roughing the passer. Toni not bad, but too slow. It’s second down brothers.”
Mousa and I huddle before the next play. My back to the line of scrimmage, one palm as a chalkboard, I sketch out the play with the forefinger of my other hand. Out of curiosity, Toni comes over to watch and listen but I send him back to the line, “Members only,” I say.
Excited crowd
“Mousa,” I say after Toni is behind us, “after you hike the ball to me, run back to me and I am going to hand you the ball. Then get behind me and I will block for you as you try to get to the end zone.”
Mousa smiles at the plan. “Sounds good, Doc,” Mousa shouts, “hand the ball to me.”
“Not so loud,” I say.
“Sorry, doc,” Mousa whispers, fingers to his lips.
“Make your mama proud,” I say
“24, 54, IRC 1, hut, hut, hut, IRC 4, HIKE!”
The ball comes back and then like the sketched play, Mousa. Joseph follows but not before the ball is in Mousa’s hand and I am in front of Mousa. Joseph is a small man and without ill-will, I easily push him to the side and he stumbles. Toni is next. He is in crouched stance and has a surprised expression but he has a good sense for the ball, which means Mousa. I move forward with Mousa closing in behind me. Toni tries to grab him as our bodies collide, but Mousa uses my waist as a barrier, darting left than right, right then left. I feel his fingertips tracking along my belt.
Toni who does one-hundred push-us every morning has had enough. After ten or so yards, he pushes me to the side with his right arm, while going to his left. I am out of the play and now it is only Toni facing Mousa. Mousa is fast but so is Toni. Right before the pounce, Mousa is suddenly backtracking, then turning, then running the opposite direction with Toni giving chase.
“Wrong way, Mousa,” I yell but it is too late. They are off, then off the driveway onto the grass, near the goats, then into the papaya grove, around the trees. Joseph now recovered also gives chase.
“Touch back, out of bounds, ineligible rusher!” I yell, running towards the chaos to join the scrum. We are all laughing now for different reasons in a kind of unexpected collective joy.
Mousa sees me coming to the rescue and yells, “Doc!” and with a pirouette and all his might throws the ball my way in a tight beautiful spiral. Joseph and Toni stop in their tracks watching the football rise up in the air towards me. I have to pivot and start running so as to catch it in stride. I almost trip as I lose the ball temporarily in the sky right before suspension of the rules and the score.
