Around the World in 80 Games: The Earth Shaped Ball

GAME 1: AUSTRALIA

Date: March 6th 2016, 12.45pm

Ground: Murray Park Oval, Adelaide

TONY DORIGO’S DAD

Breathless and bog-eyed I boarded my plane for Adelaide, Australia, 10,000 miles from home.

The first leg of the journey was on a deluxe A380 airbus from Manchester to Dubai. There I sat in spacious economy comfort, watching films with loosened top button and belt, happily sending silent little farts out into the cabin’s beigeness. At no point did I feel like I was flying. This was in total contrast to the eleven hours I then spent sardined on a 747 down to Adelaide.

The best bit about cramped flying is when you’re jammed in the middle of two other passengers and you need a pee, especially when you’ve just had your meal and the trays have yet to be collected. I was like a horse let loose in a lamp shop. Within seconds of standing, I’d managed to stick my thumb in a chicken dinner, whack my head on an overhead locker, then trip over a flailing headphone wire, which sent me lunging across the aisle to come face to face with a startled portly woman shoveling in a sherbet lemon.

My travelling companions were the very lovely Helen to my right and Graham to my left. Helen was a young trainee nurse from Kenya. Her vibrancy and beautiful black shining skin made me feel about as attractive as a bleached and wrinkled big toe. Graham was an earthy, gravelly voiced chap from Huddersfield who had been born old. We all got along famously on this mammoth journey.

My mate Christian Wilson picked me up from Adelaide airport. We’d been to college together in Burnley, Lancashire many moons ago, when The Housemartins’ London 0 Hull 4 album was never off the turntable. Chris, a proud Yorkshireman, is funny, off-beat and generous to a fault, though his habit of striding around in just his skin-tight underpants would compromise even the most affable wombat. I stayed for a week with him and his wife Robbie in tranquil Magill, Campbelltown. Their young children, Archie and Charlie, plus Ziggy the darting, collapsing sheepdog were also in residence, as were four barking frogs.

I spent the first few days adjusting to the jet-lag and being shown around this sedate capital city of the state of South Australia. Under stunning evening skies, and to the sound of lunatic, screaming cockatoos bringing daylight to a close, Chris and I watched some great games of local football, including the team he coached, St. Peter’s. I also caught up with an old mate from home whom I used to play football with. Gavin Park was a great striker back in the day. Faster than a toupee in a hurricane, you could play any sort of decent through ball to him and we were virtually guaranteed a goal. As for my mission, I must admit I didn’t have a clue where to start. With only three days to go before my departure for New Zealand, it was time to move my hairy bum.

THE GAME…….

I made the run so why didn’t you pass you greedy bastard? Don’t call me a greedy bastard you greedy bastard!

Chris mentioned that a group of older men had a kick-about in the nearby Murray Park Oval every Sunday. On a steaming hot late Sunday morning, we wandered up there to find to find a 7 v 8 in full flow. The swearing was terrific. These greying and balding men were playing as if their lives depended on it - bollocking and badgering each other with all the intensity of their younger selves. It was a colourful and wonderful spectacle. There were Aussies, Italians, Croats and Greeks; azzurri blue shirts mixed with crimson bibs, Aussie gold and a wide assortment of different coloured ankle strappings and knee supports. Chris donned his boots to even up the numbers.

Although a captive audience, if ever there was a perfect way to start my journey then this was it. A group of blokes in their senior years, still playing for playing’s sake and loving every minute of it. Chris and I chatted to them during their half-time break, and some agreed to join us for a kick-about at the end of their match. In the two minutes it took me to plonk my jumpers down on the grass in readiness, I was drenched with sweat. I will never know how those chaps carried on to complete another 45 minutes in that cauldron.

Shattered, but driven on by the spirit of the game, eight of these fellows eventually came over to play with us. They spoke of how they remembered playing in parks and streets like this as children, and how important it had been for them, not only in terms of enjoyment, but in learning about courage and camaraderie. Watching them play at close quarters was magical. Although exhausted, they were all still hungry for the ball, looking for space, trying clever one-twos and flicks and tricks, and forensically dissecting shots that may or may not have crept inside the sleeve of a jumper. The game was still everything to them, and they captured its essence perfectly.

We played a 5 v 5 for around half an hour, the game ending all square at 2-2. The lads invited Chris and I for a beer afterwards. Sitting in the shade of the stand, I asked if any of them would be up for a quick interview. Hey! Dorigo! He wants an interview. Dorigo? No! Couldn’t be? I asked the man walking towards me if he was related to ex-Leeds United and England left back Tony Dorigo. Yes. He’s my son. Tony Dorigo’s Dad! Here in this park, today of all days. What crazy fortune! Being a Leeds fan, Chris was pretty chuffed to meet him too.

What an absolute gentleman Bobby Dorigo turned out to be. He told us stories of his son’s playing days and what he was up to now, and about how much he loves meeting up with the lads in the park every Sunday for a game, a beer and sometimes a barbecue. When I asked Bobby what he thought about the billion-dollar industry that is the English Premier League, he said, Money is always helpful, but you have to give it to the right people. He had a keen dislike of referees, but thought the game was generally on the up in Australia. Finally, when asked to sum up his feelings about the game, he took a long, satisfying swig of his beer and said, It’s not a hobby, it’s a way of life. With that, the 72-year-old Bobby Dorigo, who looked not a day over 52, rejoined his gang of football-daft mates, whose average age turned out to be 65.

In the car on our way to the airport, conversation turned to the meaning of life. Chris said that we can waste a lifetime thinking about questions like that and it’s better just to live. Bobby and his enduring footy warriors were certainly doing that. I was off and running but with no real plan. What would be would be…

GAME 2: NEW ZEALAND

Date: March 10th 2016, 12.30pm

Ground: Central Bus Station, Christchurch

EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE ALRIGHT

Cranes, drills and artists’ spray cans work the streets to build from the havoc that earthquakes wreak

Distant place but something close

Unity in the face of loss

Here I am in another man’s land

But it’s mine

It’s yours

It’s us

It doesn’t matter what you throw

We drop, we hold, then throw it back

Says the neon sign to the new tender night

‘Everything is going to be alright’

On the 22nd February 2011, 185 people lost their lives in the Christchurch earthquake. Five years on and the city skyline is still dominated by cranes. The streets shake now from the pounding machinery as the people fight to re-build from the rubble.

The city’s artists and imagineers were among the first to plant the seeds of renewal. At the forefront of this were Gap Filler, a creative urban regeneration initiative. They began as a response to the September 2010 earthquake, and their work continued after the 2011 disaster. Projects included an outdoor cinema driven by the pedal power of the cinema goers, and the Dance-O-Mat, which is an open-air urban dance space with a coin-operated washing machine powering its four speakers. This proved a real hit with day-time shoppers and night-time revelers alike. Gap Filler quite literally got the city moving again.

Many incredible murals now adorne walls left exposed after the earthquake. Buses turned into bars, wasteland into garden cafes. One of the most striking and affecting ideas was the white chair installation on the corner of Cashel and Madras Street. People were invited to come and paint white any of the 185 donated old chairs, of all shapes and sizes, in remembrance of those who had died. Some of the victims’ relatives came and painted a chair that they felt their lost love ones would have liked to have sat on. With the painting now complete, the sight of the empty chairs was both moving and haunting. With the installation now becoming weather beaten, artist Pete Majendie is pushing for it to be relocated, possibly across the road at the site of the old television centre, where 115 people lost their lives in the disaster.

This spontaneous explosion of creative energy breathed hope and colour back into a devastated city and its people. With plans now on the table to create a multi-million dollar revamp, including a convention centre and a 35,000-seater multi-purpose stadium, it would be great to think that those incredible artists and innovators will continue to be allowed to infuse the city with their soul and imagination.

THE GAME…

I met Adam and Mark on their lunchbreak at a cafe right outside Christchurch Central Bus Station. They were scaffolders working on a new-build opposite. Mark was from Northern Ireland and Adam from Macclesfield, England.

As we chatted, Mark took off his work boots, grabbed my footy and started doing some keepy-ups. Adam, despite his knee being tender from a cruciate ligament injury, couldn’t resist joining in. Off came the boots and the game was on. A stray pass landed at the feet of one Mandeep Singh, a splendid looking chap who was just about to cross the road. He returned the ball and jumped at the chance to play. Just then, Simon, suitably from Christchurch in Bournemouth, England, sat down for a brew a few feet away. He agreed to play and, before we knew it, the jumpers were down and we had a 2 v 2 going on in a postage stamp space outside the station.

The two strapping scaffolders started well and looked clear favourites. Mandeep had other ideas. The man was on fire, pulling Cruyff turns every two minutes. Some talent for a lad from Chandigarh, India, obsessed with cricket. With Simon in his nets throwing incredibly effective break dancer meets tantric sex-fiend shapes, the underdogs quickly raced into a 2-0 lead. The boys in the high-vis jackets were not happy. Sweating like a glass-blowers arse, they worked hard and clawed back the deficit. Next goal’s the winner shouted Adam, as the lads had to get back to work.

Focus was total. One mistake and it was all over. After a tense period, with players risking their lives to retrieve the ball from the busy main road, the breakthrough finally came. Mark and Mandeep went in for a tackle and the ball spilt invitingly to Adam who tucked it away with some aplomb. Tantric Simon had finally reached orgasm and lay flat out in the nets.

A funny, fast and spontaneous game with some great chaps. I sat and chatted with Mandeep for a good while afterwards in the bus station. He told me how he was not allowed to leave his high school until he could speak 5 languages proficiently and said his parents had saved for over ten years so that he could now study in New Zealand. He was tired of people judging him because he wore a turban and felt that those people should concentrate less on him and more on enjoying life because it was so short. Well said that man.

GAME 3: NEW ZEALAND

Date: March 12th 2016, 7.00pm

Ground: Latimer Square - Christchurch

LOST JOSH AND THE DREAM

Did this day really happen?

Although game two had been brilliant, I was desperate to engage some Kiwi’s in a game of ‘soccer’, the third most popular sport in these rugby and cricket loving islands.

I needed to get out and about, and there is no better way to do that in Christchurch than on the bus. With Canterbury 92.9 FM knocking out the classics, each ride was a real pleasure. I had Neil Young (Harvest Moon), Bob Marley (Could you be loved) and The Stranglers (Golden Brown) all on my first twenty-minute journey. I would travel all over Christchurch for just $3.50 a day. The bus drivers themselves were Gods and Goddesses from Planet Manners Cost Nowt. One driver told me I’d got on the wrong bus at the wrong place, but then drove me the mile to my stop, despite this deviating from his route. All the passengers clapped as I alighted, wishing me a great time in their city. As the bus pulled away, I stood in the street with a silly smile on my face, aglow in the kindness of these lovely folk.

I whizzed around town in these happy carriages all week, until on Saturday March 12th, my friend with whom I was staying, the very wise and wonderful Sine Stewart, dropped me and my ball down at New Brighton Beach. My head almost popped when I saw the stunning white sands and the vast, glorious rolling ocean. Removing my boots and socks, I stepped onto the beach and into another dimension. I came round some hours later with pants rolled up to my knees, wet legs and sandy feet. My pockets were full of shells and the cool wind blowing up from the Southern Ocean felt beautiful on my sun-burnt skin. I was taking a photograph of an ethereal washed-up, bleached white tree when a voice said, What do you find interesting about that?. I turned to see a woman in her 50s, looking at me with kind eyes. I explained the journey I was on, and she said that she knew it… she knew when she saw me that I had her son’s spirit within me. Her son Bruce had been an artist who loved travelling and randomly filming people and places. Sadly, he had taken his own life the year before, aged only 27. She told me that she kept him alive by talking about him and seeing him in others.

This touching moment had the effect of knocking me back into the day. I looked at the time and was astonished to find that six hours had passed. This place had unlocked an overwhelmingly blissful world within me; the highest natural high I had ever felt. I wandered off the beach and into nearby Rawhiti Park, where a large Māori family were gathered to celebrate a child’s birthday. I asked some of the cousins loitering on the periphery if they fancied a game. They said they would if I could find a few more players, so off I went in pursuit. The very next person I spoke to was a huge, huge young man made of granite sat on a wall. He stood up to greet me and blocked out the sun. I felt the size of a flea’s willy as he crushed my hand in his huge mitt. Wrong shaped ball mate he boomed. No bother at all big man I spluttered, with all that was left of me as a man. Wringing my hand to get the blood flowing again, I continued my search for players, but it soon became obvious that the Māori women were not too keen on anyone playing soccer on this celebration day, so off I sloped.

On my way back to the heart of the sleepy seaside town of New Brighton, I noticed a few people on the pier gazing down at the beach. I joined them to see a man raking a perfect giant flower in the sand. Was I back in that other dimension? Leaving the pier and strolling through the remains of the Saturday open-air market, an elderly woman stepped in front of me and asked me to dance. We danced a few steps and she told me that she still had the magic. My dream was complete. It was time to head back to the city.

THE GAME……..

Christchurch City Mission feeds and provides shelter for the city’s homeless. Returning from the beach, I popped my head in for a nosey and was greeted on entrance by a lovely chap called Keith. There were around twenty people sat at tables in the dining area. Keith insisted that I join them, then recited the Lord’s Prayer before food was served. I sat across from Kevin at tea. In another life he would have been a big handsome film-star, with his big black bushy beard, lovely warm brown eyes and a gentleness that belied his size. It turned out he was from Bolton, England originally and had fallen on hard times due to mental health issues.

After eating, the young charismatic Julian Rata Moka, a support worker, entered the building. Julian had only been employed at the mission for a couple of months, but was clearly a popular figure. The first thing he did was offer me shelter for the night and more food if I needed it. I thanked him before explaining my presence. We chatted for a while about his work, the homelessness issues in the city and also the Māori tribal traditions. He explained that his mother was pākehā (a white New Zealander) and his father was Māori. His Iwi (tribe) was Ngāpuhi and his Hapu (sub-tribe) was Ngāti Hine.

Julian suggested I should have a game in Latimer Square, about a hundred yards up the road (Latimer Square had been the site of a rapidly assembled makeshift hospital after the 2011 earthquake). He helped me to recruit for the game, and off I marched to the square with three eager players. Tony was a rough and tough Scouser who had lived in Christchurch for 15 years. He was a bit worse for wear off the beer, repeatedly asking me if I was a Liverpool fan and showing me the Scouse Forever tattoo encircling his left nipple. Tall Josh, a young Kiwi, was chatty in a one-to-one situation, but a mouse in a crowd. He could spin a ball on his finger and was spending his first night at the mission. Then there was Lost Josh. He was also a Kiwi. With the muscle tone and grace of a ballet dancer, Lost Josh seemed to exist in a place far out of the reach of us mere mortals. He smiled a lot, hardly spoke and pirouetted around the pitch all night in his vest. He had a kindness, a gentleness, but ultimately a heart-breaking sadness about him.

At the far end of the grassy Latimer Square, some of the city’s homeless were gathering for the 7.30pm food van. I wandered over and asked if anyone fancied a game. Three players stepped forward; another Josh, who I’ll call Aragorn Josh, as he had the hood and demeanor of that hairy warrior from Lord of the Rings; Shona, who was deaf and all smiles and bouncing with energy, and Johnny, who I think was Shona’s partner, all wiry and mountain climber-like. 3 v 3 in Latimer Square. An all-Kiwi affair except for Tony.

Tony, Shona and Johnny teamed up against all the Joshes. It was clear from the start that there was a bit of needle between Johnny and Tall Josh. They could both play a bit. God bless Tony. He ran his little body into the ground until his head turned purple, then went in the nets. Aragorn Josh stayed in goal, quiet in his oversized wellies with his hood up, no doubt plotting the downfall of Sauron. Shona played with guts and determination throughout and never stopped running. Lost Josh went in for tackles like he was auditioning for Swan Lake; a ragged angel now in his dirty vest, laughing at the absurdity of the world.

The odd random person turned up, played a pass or had a shot then moved on, but it wasn’t until the stray dogs turned up that we lost count of the score. In all the excitement, these deadly black canines were running wild and literally started biting players’ ankles. The game was finally over when some of the troops drifted off to join the food van queue.

Tony, Lost Josh and I sat down on a bench looking up at the evening sky. It was absolutely stunning. The glorious blue peppered with white cotton wool clouds, and the sun, trying to be ignored, sliding out of sight behind us. Tony and I chatted about how amazing our world is. Lost Josh smiled up at the heavens, and the heavens smiled right back at him. Later that night we had a small earthquake.

GAME 4: NEW ZEALAND

Date: March 13th 2016, 2.00pm

Ground: Hagley Park, Christchurch

FETCH IT FELIX

In Christchurch, New Zealand, time just hangs in the air, perfectly balanced. You can push it along or slow it right down if you wish, but somehow it persuades you to leave it just where it is. From my first day in the city, listening to young Scottish busker Paul Shearon belting out my favourite John Martyn tunes from the Solid Air album, to Lost Josh and the beauty and wonder of the New Brighton beach dream, I had connected with this stoic south-island city on a deep, spiritual level.

I stayed with Sine and her partner Michael during my time in Christchurch. Sine is an amazingly brainy, caring and astute woman whom I used to work with in England twenty years ago. She works in children’s services in Rapanui. Michael is a petrol-head and a hot-crossed bun loving Kiwi with a dry sense of humour. He was a project manager for the Christchurch Earthquake Recovery Authority. They had both been working as I had been wandering, so I was chuffed when Sine said she’d try and rally a few mates for my final game on her day off.

THE GAME…….

On a hot Sunday afternoon, I met with Sine (a Scot) and her friends, Merran (a Kiwi) and James (an Englishman), in the huge Hagley Park, the largest urban open space in the city. We needed more players.

Fabienne ‘Fabi’ Wagner, John Walcher (both Germans) and Guus Bremmers (a Dutchman) were having a picnic behind a nearby tree. I asked them if they fancied a game. Within five minutes they had packed up their basket and joined us. I then hijacked Felix and Hannah (also from Germany) who had been strolling through the park. Matt (a Kiwi) then joined us and the game was on. A 5 v 5 in very humid conditions.

It was the Germans and Dutch