HARD TACKLES

A bunch of grown ass men in scrum shorts seemingly roughing each other up on the ground, typically bound to protecting their golden goose. 

Now for a novice, I’ve always marveled at the ordinary man’s chutzpah. Not only is the thought of my body being whomped by a 200lbs barrel chested behemoth completely cuckoo but also nothing I’d particularly enjoy. Don’t get me wrong, I’m an avid lover of sports. Well football is my first and only love so much so that if Manchester United pulled their heads out their asses, we would not have to sheepishly serenade our long-term adversaries in a proverbial forbidden love. Nonetheless, I don’t discriminate. But that’s beside the point.

Here’s the thing, I am seated on the Western wing of the RFUEA grounds in anticipation of this highly publicized game between the Daystar Falcons and Zetech Oaks. It’s a repeat of last year’s finals that produced some exhilarating moments. Where’s Eddy when you publicly dish out props? He literally hauled my ass out of bed. Second time must be a charm. I’m slowly sipping on my tropical mango smoothie made with Greek yogurt as well. Yes! You heard me correctly. Greek yogurt. Comrades must be shaking their heads in dismay. The beaming hafts of sunlight provide a soul swelling experience. Nairobi has since been delightful. Gradually transforming into Siberia. This however, was the perfect aura. As witnessed in most sporting activities across the face of the earth, we’ve become accustomed to feral and hysteria. It’s so intrinsic that morphing into zealots as with ancient Jews is considered corrupt. I’ve born witness to madness, lest we forget Masaku Sevens. Fans start trickling into the stadium donning colorful jerseys while immersed in jubilant songs and dance. They upstage each other with distinctive dance routines and shrill whistle sounds. I might now fancy myself breaking the bias and attending more rugby games. We have Man United to thank for that. I kid you not! 

The ambience is surreal. Fans cram their way into the empty rows of seats, the noise is on full throttle with skimpy dressed lasses chanting away household names and paladins. It’s almost refreshing to watch.

 Away from the frenzy, the teams take to the pitch. The crowd roars into cheer. As they assemble for the national anthem, I take note of the pockets in their shorts uniform. You are as baffled as I am right? Allow me to indulge your curiosity. In my short tenure as Sherlock Holmes investigating this new found passion for this particular game, I’ve uncovered a fair number of reasons for this. Firstly, they could potentially serve as compartments for the players mouth guards when one needs a disguise to sail through the game like the idiots from the film Yankee Zulu. Secondly, how about sharing a thought of having an itch and desperately needing to suppress it without particularly offending anyone including viewers at home? That’s got to be it! Finally, I’d go out on a limb and infer to using them to salvage teeth whenever a fight ensues. Well as it turns out my detective skills suffer dearly and don’t inspire too much confidence. 

Nevertheless, as I contemplate the backlash from my fantastical detective career that has sensationally hit the skids, a shadow looms over me. She gestures to me to make way appearing to spot the empty seat beside me. I’m completely mystified. I block the sun with my hand scrambling to catch a better look at her. She instinctively squeezes past my gangling frame as I turn my head in sync with her movement while squinting like the legendary Ace Ventura: Unapologetically. She is drop dead gorgeous. Heck! Eddy was right. Soccer is overrated. Blood, sweat and tears. I’m staring at her high forehead with porcelain skin. Check out Beyonce. You’ll get what I mean. This mystery lady has raven black hair that she puts on a pony tail. Her coal black eyes are complimented by arching eyebrows with a nubia nose spotting a bit of sweat. 

“Bless you, my lady!” I sigh.

 I can’t help curbing my enthusiasm just glancing at her sexy green tie dye suit completed by a luscious crop top and matching joggers. Oh! The grin on my face. The game kicks off much to my displeasure at this point. True to its billing, the hard-hitting Falcons are already out for blood with some horrific tackles prompting jeers from rival fans. A couple of minutes into the first quarter and tensions start to flare. 

A chap from the Falcons, left prop position, you know the ones with the giant necks? The brawny brutes who revel on the emasculation and subjugation of whatever machismo we the ordinary, less beefy population of guys have left. They need to be stopped. No seriously! 

He gets flagged with a try denied in the process after he’s adjudged for jumping into a tackle from the opposite player. The Gaffer, I should really cut ties with football, especially with the belle seated next to me. Loathe it as far as I’m concerned, isn’t too amused by the call and takes up his pugnacious attitude with the official. It all appears harmless at the time until it escalates to chaos with players getting involved, squaring up to each other. Fans clamor as a brawl threatens to end the contest quickly. 

“Kick his face in! “She bellows. 

I gingerly shift focus towards her, visibly tickled by her sentiments. She’s itching for some action. Leaning back and forth like a crazed gorilla while rubbing her bare supple thighs. 

“Yeah! Don’t be a weasel! “I blurt out in a brash cheeky manner.

 Her gaze shifts faintly in my direction this time. She tilts her head with a duchenne smile. Like Clark Kent I seize the opportunity to appear cool, offering a handshake. She obliges. 

“Mike! Yeah Mike! “I quip nervously.

” Gwen!... Nice to meet you! “. she remarks. She goes further “So which one is yours?” joshing to the preposterous idea I’d sire such giants and allow them to play ball. “Sign them up for combat is what I’d do.”  We share a laugh. 

Her calm in this situation was off the wall. A joy to watch. Coupled by a decidedly quirky sense of humor there’s always a dubious feeling you get. It’s too good to be true. It’s like when Donald duck is trying to have a quiet peaceful day. Let’s not kid ourselves here. As more players are embroiled in the melee, security teams try to restore calm. It takes them 20 long minutes to do so. The rather rattled referee calls for a brief stoppage. 

“Do you play?” she exclaims.

God, these women are cold. She smells Blood.

“How do you figure?” I probe with a cringe voice. 

My stalky frame only poised to gas light her sadistic intentions. I rub my neck and hunch my shoulders in discomfort. 

“I don’t know really. You don’t come across as too athletic. But there are always options. “She adds.

 I scoff at her idea completely confounded by the direction of this particular conversation.

“My boyfriend started off the same way. Slightly leaner than you of course.” She reiterates.

 Remember when I mentioned that I had this uncanny feeling I could not put a finger on? Like a bad prognosis during an oncology appointment? Well, I still have it but hey I’m glad you are still with me! 

I lean in closer to get some insight considering I’ve fumbled at a lot of things thus far. “Can you keep a secret?” she mumbles. 

Touching her ears while gazing straight into my eyes. I lean back and cross my arms in a seemingly self hug fashion. 

“Sure! “I acknowledge. 

She proceeds to inform me how she plans to play inspector gadget in order to substantiate the rumors surrounding her boyfriend’s alleged infidelity. Her boyfriend Edwin, star player for the Falcons has apparently been acting aloof and indifferent towards her for the past 3 months. She has even eavesdropped on one of his friends imitating this “bird” who has been overly friendly to him and buying him gifts lately. I sit there like priest during confession offering the occasional head nod.

 “Can you help me do that? I’ll point him out to you!” she pleads. 

Play resumes diverting our focus to the game. She plays with her earring soaking up the action as I scratch my nose weighing up another fire conversation starter. There’s a sudden jamming awkward silence that overshadows what has rather been a captivating conversation. It almost felt like a cliche’ reincarnation of those high school teen TV shows where the “nerd” has a hankering for this apathetic classmate. Stuck in cuckoo land, riding unicorns and holding out for a first kiss on the dusty treehouse in their grandparent’s backyard. Someone needs to smack some sense into those kids. Damn! Now I sound like a grouchy old man low on testosterone.

 I have a light bulb moment and turn towards her. Without warning, the ball is kicked out of play and into my direction. Now most of you have seen countless hilarious videos and vines, where innocent people get whacked in the face and forever live with nightmares of UFOs and oversized frisbees. Don’t hold your breath! I take a blow to the face with my neck jerking back much to the disbelief of onlookers. The angle doesn’t help either as I am completely wiped out. Gwen’s reaction is priceless. The player is quick to raise his hand gesticulating at an apology that I don’t take particularly well. The stadium announcer can’t help but downplay and find humor in it as video replays embarrass me on the giant screen. I sheepishly smile trying to save face. As I shake the cobwebs from the impact, the announcer proceeds

“Ladies and Gentlemen our very own Edwin Owino!.. Pole sana bro!”. I can only stare at Gwen in incredulity. My love for football had been reignited once again.