The plastic football
Saturday was a free day for us. It was not a school day. After breakfast, we met up as the sun was beginning to rise. There was no time to think about chores. By 8:00 am, our group of boys from the neighborhood was calling or whistling to each other as we got ready to play football.
When it came to playing football, there was no stopping us children.
Back then, we did not buy footballs from a store. Our footballs did not have logos; they were not perfectly round. We did not need to have a pump, and definitely our balls did not bounce like the ones seen on television now. Our footballs were handmade from material we could easily get at home, like plastic bags. In our neighborhood, having a real football was rare. If you ever encountered one, even years later, it was most likely because of the church or a local school. And even back then, on very special occasions, we would get a chance to play with a real football.
As we got ready for our big day, Abraham, Christopher, Aston, Bernard, Musangilay, and I met at my house before others began to arrive. Each one of us was holding something: a bundle of used plastic bags and pieces of string from empty maize, rice, or charcoal sacks. We got plastic bags from a variety of locations: behind shops, in garbage dumps, and in our neighbors’ yards. Some of us already had a collection of enough sacks and used plastic bags sought during the week. I tried to gather the softer, stronger bags, ones that I hoped wouldn’t tear easily.
I preferred colored plastic bags, blue or red ones. Sometimes I asked neighbors.
“Plastic bags, please?” I’d say.
A few people would give me some without any question. Others seemed puzzled and told me to come back later. Getting real footballs was rare. Footballs were too expensive for our families, so it was necessary to make our own. To make our balls, that day we sat under the tree at my house, shielded from sunlight, and put our materials together. There were no frills, no unnecessary movements. Familiar motion took over. Plastic bags were crushed, spun, packed, and wrapped to make the ball.
“Tie the string tighter around the ball,” Abraham said to me.
“The ball will break if you tie it too tight,” said Musangilay.
Christopher laughed.
“This one will fly like Ronaldinho,” he said.
We coiled strings tightly around the plastic bags to hold the plastic together into a round shape. In total, we made three balls pretty well, but not perfectly. Of the three, the one that bounced the highest was chosen as the match ball. More boys arrived from the neighborhood. Of course, there was always one name mentioned first, and that was Dibatayi. Others were down the street. Aston, who was a quick but careless player, and Bernard, who was the quietest of the bunch, were on defense. And Musangilay, who talked more than he ran.
Everyone on one team took off their shirts, and the other team kept their shirts on to differentiate the teams and so that players could easily spot their teammates. Team captains chose teammates and called them one by one. Those who were chosen first believed it was a testament to their abilities, while those chosen last hid their disappointment. The process ended quickly, keeping the selection from becoming a public embarrassment.
We put stones on the ground as goalposts and set our flip-flops around the pitch as line markings. The dust began to rise in the air as we played on the dusty field. We played in the field near the main road. The teams changed as boys arrived late or left early. Each team had seven boys on it. The game had no rules. No referee, no offside. There was only shouting and arguing and laughter.
“That was a foul,” Dibatay yelled as the game progressed.
“Play on,” Astone laughed.
Christopher kicked the ball, and everybody started to run after it, laughing. If a car came, we would scatter and reset. We had no formal celebration when a teammate scored. But we cheered as if we had just won a championship. We called the names we heard on the radio after goals, dribbles, or nice passes. “Ronaldinho,” “Zidane.” They were from a world greater than ours. When we played, it was no longer a dusty road. We were coated in sweat and dust, and no one wanted the game to be over. The voices of our mothers ended the game at 5.30 pm. We ran home, washed, and ate together. We replayed the match with words and planned for the next one.
“Your goal was just luck,” Musangilay said to me.
“A goal is a goal,” Abraham said, and we laughed.
Football gave us something to look forward to. It gave us something to share. It shaped our friendships and structured our days. Football for us was everything. As boys, we resolved to play football every day. Playing football taught us patience. It taught us teamwork and fairness. We learned to enjoy small things in life. It helped us escape from home life. It was an anchor. I remember that Saturday, when our parents and passersby looked at our plastic balls and saw trash. To us, those balls gave us real games, real memories, and real things to anticipate.
That was more than enough for us; it was everything. We could not wait for the day when we could actually play with a real football, which we usually got from school or church. We asked a teacher, sports master, pastor, or church youth leader for permission to use it, and it was done with a lot of respect. Even when permission was granted, it came with strict conditions. Supervision, time limits, and limits on how many players could participate; if the answer was no, that was the end of the discussion.
We usually gathered a bunch of other children to play with when we got a real football. But in the end, the ball ended up being worn down, flat on one side, and tightly patched with leather or used car tubes. We were not allowed to just grab it and use it. It was locked away or closely guarded, and we used it for one or two hours at a time. That football was temporary and never truly ours. But on that day, when we got a real football, we were part of something extraordinary. When the local Power House Ministries church organized a new tournament, everything changed. They introduced an honest-to-goodness football game, got us a white, round, and real football, and brought in visiting teams from other neighborhoods. Those occasions were not part of everyday play.
They included church youth days, school sports days, interclass matches, and some holidays. Sometimes visitors came specifically to watch the children play. Outside those activities, the ball was not used. It was kept locked away or stored under supervision. I remember that one day, during a tournament, we put in a superhuman effort and managed to go the extra mile. Dibatayi from our team scored the first goal. I also remember another boy scoring the final goal, which made our team beat the other team 2-0, and the sea of kids going wild. There was no reward, aside from the celebration.
As for making our own balls for our own fun games, no adult suggested the idea. I copied what I saw other boys doing and added my own flair. There were no instructions; it was the passing down of a secret recipe for happiness. I had my own tricks to teach. Every new boy who came to the neighborhood tried to make one, and even if his first ball was ugly or weak, he learned quickly and kept trying, matching the energy of the rest of us. Dibatayi made the best footballs. He put condoms in the middle before covering them with plastic. He made his balls firm and round, and the best part was that they lasted longer. Everyone wanted to play with Dibatayi’s balls.
As we made footballs, we teased each other in light and friendly ways. Weak balls that broke easily made laughter and jokes; cruelty was rare. Often, the older boys were the ones who stepped in to teach, showing us how to fold the plastic tighter and tie the rope more securely around the ball. We loved helping each other. Tomorrow’s match relies on a ball that someone made. Occasionally, we engaged in little bouts to see who could create the most perfect or massive balls. No one announced the competition, yet everyone was aware of it. If your ball fell apart after one game, your peers mocked you mercilessly. But if it endured for several days, you commanded admiration.
Our football matches also cemented our friendships. A boy you argued with in class could become your best teammate by afternoon during a soccer game. Whoever borrowed your string to tie the ball might lend you his ball tomorrow. The dusty soccer field built our brotherhood, not by blood, but through common goals and laughter. I remember those days with an open heart. The activity did not simply revolve around making balls with plastic; it taught us creativity. We learned to transform useless trash into something joyful. We did not want money, attention, or even an invitation. We simply needed each other and time to weave the magic.
Our parents did not see why we spent so much time playing football. To them, football was a waste of time, especially when chores waited. They did, however, know where to find us, on that field, not getting into trouble. Today, some people see plastic balls and call them trash. For us, they were treasures. They were decorative plastic, not garbage. We played with them every day, fixed them when they broke, and shared them. Those balls were not trash. They were something to look forward to, the best reward we could have after school. We gave ourselves something through those balls, and in return, we received memories that still make me smile.
