One of them.
Soccer is big here. We may not know the latest news but we will know whether Man-U or Chealsea won. The local league is equally big and Hartmut is welcomed as if he were a Champions League player. He got claimed by Chinooku, one of the local teams. A team with lots of talent and passion but without a ball so they can only play and practise when another team, with ball, wants to play against them. Last weekend was a big match, a derby against the other team from our village. An important march where Hartmut cannot be missed. Nobody is quite sure when it will start and we get mixed messages: any time between 2.30 and 4. We decide to come somewhere in the middle. Early enough for the second half if the game starts at 2:30 indeed but late enough to not waste hours if the game starts late. The pitch is on top of the hill and it is quite a walk. The mid afternoon sun is still hot. The rocks and sand have been basking in its warmth for long enough to soak up the heat too and the absence of a breeze makes walking to the soccer pitch a warm affair.
The village is quiet, only those who are too old or too young to make it to the top have remained behind. At the top is a buzzing energy. Drums, choirs, flags and hand drawn posters with the names of the players reveal an unexpected fanaticism. The match has not started yet but Hartmut gets shirt number 2. The shirt of shame, they tell us, the shirt for the latecomer. Then the players dissappear and the field gets quiet until a drum marks the start of the match. The players appear from behind some trees, run in a neat line to the middle of the pitch while the drum beats the rhythm and the choirs of wives, girlfriends and fans sing in encouragement. Team pictures are made, some more muscles are stretched and the game begins.
Nobody is quite sure where the lines are, the field is definitely not a straight rectangle, and neither is it flat. The penalty line and the goal differ at least 2 meters in height. Many don't wear shoes, some wear socks but both teams wear pride, passion and sponsored soccer shirts.
The drums never stop, the singing only gets louder. The army of voices marches around the field, waving flags, singing for their heroes. Sophie and Doris sit close to me, clinging to my legs as if they want to crawl under my skin to a place they know, to noises they are familiar with.
We support Hartmut, scream his name, clap for his team. Their grip gets less tight over time, they shuffle forward to sit with the other kids. Two blondies in a sea of short shaved dark heads. They feel like they belong, think that all the kids get offered sweets and bananas all the time. They do not yet realise how they stand out.
Sophie crawls on my lap. We watch the game. Dust blows up in the setting sun where the ball or feet hit the sand. "It's really easy to see where pappa is" Sophie says. I look at the playing men and nod in agreement. Hartmut is always very tanned but will never be as dark as these men. "I just look at all the guys until I see somebody with curly hair and then I know it's my dad." I smile while my eyes fill up a little. Sophie gets a tight squeeze and looks at me with puzzled eyes. "You are right" I say.
The man with the curly hair scores a goal, the first goal in his life, and the field bursts out in jubilant screams. "You must give him a kiss and a hug after the game", the women say. I walk past the men. "Your husband is a fine player, we are happy that he is one of us."
My heart swells. We are happy to be one of them.
