Hurt without playing the game
* JACK METTA runs into an old friend who is hurting in more ways than one *
THERE was a look of pain in his eyes as he sat there on the cement floor puffing at his cigarette.
You noticed his agitated state from afar as you approached to ask for his light.
It was the sort of pain associated with physical injury, and whilst there was the obvious dressing around his big toe, there seemed to have been something else amiss.
You were still wondering about the situation as you accepted his light and proceeded to set you Spear on fire.
He was definitely not the sporting type but there was an air around him that suggested that he was definitely involved in some sporting activity, which led to his current predicament.
My curiosity got the better of me. “What happened to your big toe, mate?” you asked.
“I stubbed it. I walked into a root sticking out of the ground at the soccer grounds last weekend,” he said.
Aha, I though, there certainly was a sporting angle to his side of the story.
He continued: “The toenail was nearly ripped out but some tiny membrane at the base is not prepared to give up the ghost ...”
He smiled, the effort making him grimace.
How and why I got this immediate image of butterfly wings fluttering baffled me. Toenails do not flutter like butterfly wings. Then the image was replaced by the picture of a piece of galvanized iron roofing being in the process of getting ripped out by gale force winds with only a few nails at the end of the sheet offering little, but soon-to-be ineffective resistance.
Boy, talk about hanging by the thread.
“It must be awfully painful,” you say imagining the toenail flapping in the wind. “How’d you manage to land the prize?
He looked dumfounded. “Prize, what prize?”
“I mean the big toe and the way it is now. Obviously, you had a run-in with a piece of root, which happened to conveniently expose itself at the time your feet was moving and when they did meet, your big toe ultimately came out second best. That’s the prize for negligence.”
He smiled at the remarks. At least the mirth in his eyes was starting to dilute the dreary sullenness of the pain he had harboured earlier.
Then he laughed as if he had finally comprehended the secrets of the Baining fire dancers.
“Yes,” he stuttered, stifling his laughter. “I was rushing to Bisini to watch soccer when I had that nasty encounter with the root.”
Phew, talk about getting to the roots of thing.
He said he stubbed his big toe when his mind was distracted by other events of the day.
As an afterthought, “I should have avoided that big rain tree,” he said.
Your mind could picture the scenario clearly. The rain tree stands like a colossal in front of the soccer field, lending its shade to people involved in the informal sector.
You could imagine those gnarled roots sticking up every which way, just thirsting to rearrange somebody’s big toenail.
“You know, the worst thing about this whole affair,” he continued, “was that my team lost too.”
You broke into a big grin as a thought struck you.
He’s a two-time loser, you thought.
It was no wonder there was that nagging feeling that something was amiss. There was that psychological pain of his team losing and the physical pain of the encounter involving his big toe and the tree root.
“I should have stayed home with my six-pack,” he moaned. “I’d have saved myself the embarrassment and the pain of my team and toenail losing ...”
“Well, the damage has already being done,” you joked. “Your team got nailed and you got de-nailed. The bottom line is you both got nailed, but it seems you’re the guy who is carrying the whole lot on your shoulder.”
You look him in the eye. “You’re a two-time loser, pal.” He grimaced as if hit by something and fell silent.
By and by, you lay a hand on his shoulder: “There’s one thing I will hand to you, my friend.”
He looks up expectantly.
“You are the only man I know who is carrying a soccer injury without even playing the game.”
And talking of games, I pause here once again to pay tribute to a great rugby league player of his era.
I refer here to one by the name of Kaiva Kako from Orokolo in the Gulf province.
Kaiva is to many of his fans, a gifted footballer who enthralled the crowds with his speed and agility.
Playing at five-eighth, he had the uncanny ability to split the defence and score from anywhere in the field.
Gulf fans in Port Moresby remember well the times he would take off on attack from his own half and still score a try at the opposite end. That was his trademark.
In the late 1970s, Gulf, now Wests rugby league club, was the only club that could beat its own score on progressive weekends.
They had to, because they thrived on the prize money that came with it, courtesy of San Miguel brewery in those days.
For example, if it scored 60 points to beat its rivals this weekend, it will strive to score 61 or more points the following weekend to qualify for the hundreds of kina San Miguel put up.
It became a challenge of sorts for the club.
That’s when Kaiva’s uncanny ability to outsmart and outpace his opponents came in very handy when the boys wanted to share the spoils of the day.
It wasn’t only the Port Moresby Gulf fans who thrived on Kaiva’s prowess on the field.
Fans of Waratahs/Morobe Tigers in Lae and Mt Hagen Hawks would have seen the Kumul in action for the clubs.
Kaiva was so good in the game that he was the only one in his era to be named in the Kumul side without taking part in selection trials.
His only “black spot” in rugby league was that he would not play on Saturdays, because he was an SDA.
Most of us, who played with him and were non-SDAs never really minded because he rose to occasion and more on the other days to make up for what could have been on Saturdays.
Sadly, we were aggrieved to learn that Kaiva had moved on to the heavenly playing fields in the sky.
And it was only days after his Kumul teammate Paul Kombonari had move.
My condolences to the families and relatives for the losses. They both live on in our memories and for me, I thank God that I had been a part of their lives. For that I am eternally grateful.
And as this is the Easter weekend, we are reminded of the Wise Counsellor’s words: “Events that are surprising to you are opportunities for surrendering to God ...”
Weekender Stories