Fever pitch

Motorcycles line both sides of the main road outside the soccer field, also the only paved road that runs through this side of the country. There is a group of rowdy, and I can tell by their breath, semi-inebriated men outside the front gate. I push my way through with my host father, and we search for an opening in the crowd to stand.

The soccer team from Bante wears blue. The team from Gouka, my home team, wears orange. The players are all wearing knee-high socks; not all of them are wearing shin guards.

There are no lines drawn to mark the edge of the field. The perimeter is determined by the spectators sitting in the grass who will jump up when the players get too close.

The goal posts are wooden and don’t sit quite straight. When an overenthusiastic player sends a shot soaring over them, we wait while someone hunts in the bush on the edge of the field for the ball.

During the first half, there is one red card, one offsides call and many fouls. 

At halftime, supporters form a clump five-people deep around their respective teams while kids take to the field to kick around their own makeshift soccer balls during the 15-minute break.

The second half begins with a referee’s whistle, but it takes 5 minutes for the people to clear the field and the players to take their positions.

A woman passes selling oranges, bags of water and sodabe, a liquor made from palm that, if not distilled correctly, can cause blindness.

The call of a second red card causes a roar from the sidelines. The spectators, almost all male, cheer for their teams the same way they bargain for taxi prices and discuss the weather: with wild gesticulations, looks of utter disgust on their faces and words I don’t understand in Ife in a raised voice. There is little French spoken here.

This is not a European match. This is African football.