"Trop de Vitamin C"

My coach picked me up at the house at 2:30PM for the big game yesterday. We were still going to have our football/soccer match despite it having rained all morning. The red, clay-like terrain had already soaked up all of the water; besides a few puddles it was not even muddy at the dirt fields after hours of torrential raining.

This particular "field" was right in the middle of town, close to the Hippodrome/horse racing track. Located right off of the main road (a.k.a. one of few paved roads), it was smaller than usual. We were going to have to play 9 v. 9 instead of 11 v. 11, which was particularly disappointing because that would mean if my coaches wanted to play the white girl, one more of my native Malian teammates would have to sit out. The girls didn’t seem to mind, and when we warmed up together you could tell they were just excited to be playing in such a public spot.

Public, off of a paved road -- yes; urban or modern -- no way. During warmups, the neighborhood donkey walked onto the field and gave a frustrated donkey howl for about 25 long, loud seconds. I’d never heard an ass give that kind of a groan before (besides my brother Ben) and it was perfectly timed. After the donkey let out all its hot air, we huddled up for our big team pep talk.

Coach told us to “concentrez-vous,” because unlike the other field we’d played on, there were two huge amps set up in the corner of the field with two men on microphones. Throughout the entire pre-game, they spit out “micro teste, un, deux, trois, micro teste” and were babbling in Bambara to try to get a big group out there. It was incredibly annoying, but together with our mid-city location, effective. More people were at this match than our first. It was good advice by coach to stay focused.

The ref blew the whistle, and starting as forward I rushed in the direction of the goal to set up camp. I think they continue to put me in the position of “marquée" because that’s where they think I'll do the least amount of damage. I can’t be blamed if someone scores in the back, and if I don’t make any big moves up front, no big deal! There are other, more-acclimated-to-the-dirt-field players working hard.

Even from the beginning, the chatter from the gigantic amplifiers was beyond distracting. It was like the two men with the microphones were giving the play-by-play for a radio station, but instead of being volume-controlled by households or car radios, it was on full-blast in our tiny field for our not so tiny crowd. One of the girls on the other team got so frustrated she yelled at them mid-play to turn it down, making the hand motion to lower the volume after both announcers yelped at the top of their lungs when our team almost scored.

I wasn’t being very productive, and any time I tried to make any kind of a run downfield to try to get involved, the girls would yell at me to just stay up top. At one point, I tried to steal the ball away from one of the other team's defenders, but accidentally knocked this girl flat onto the ground. I fumbled into her with such uncontrollable force that I think she must've rolled over three times in the dirt like one of the World Cup footballers -- and the whistle blew for the foul. Whoops!

As I was helping her up, I could hear on the amp, “Cette tubabou a pris trop de vitamin C, mesdames et messieurs!” “This white girl has taken too much vitamin C, ladies and gentlemen!” I almost let the girl fall again from laughing so hard!

But really, none of our team was doing much except for #7, yet ANOTHER Fatoumata, Fatime (different from my main pal on the team, Fatu, and dress-maker friend, Fatime). I found out during the game from the microphone guys -- at least they’re good for something! -- that she plays for the women’s national team of Mali.

At that point, it hit me: I’m actually playing on a women's professional soccer team. How did that happen?!

Besides getting on her about her national team status, the announcers kept yelling “Attention, mes amis, cette #7...elle est dangereuse!” They went on and on about how dangerous she was every time she touched the ball. In one particular display of skill and grace, she headed the ball to her chest, and then used her chest to bring the ball down to her knee, then knocked the ball up with her knee, and trapped in with her left foot to her right foot, and took a shot. Five beautiful touches in perfect harmony. While she didn't score, she shut those microphone guys up for a few seconds of admiration until they, and everyone, started yelling and cheering for her.

The opposing team scored on us in a moment of miscommunication, 0-1, and it was just about the end of the first half. I was keeled over with my hands on my knees from the heat and (however little) exertion, but tried to pull some energy together when the ball was punted in my direction up top. Fatime, being everywhere all at once, ran right in front of the goal where the ball was coming. With her back to the goalie, she trapped it with her stomach.

As usual, as directed by my teammates, I was just standing in front of the goal waiting for something to come my way. The ball bounced up into the air in my direction, where I was facing Fatime, and I kicked it towards the back of the net....BUUUUUUUT!!! “Tubabou! Elle a marqué! La tubabou a marqué un but!” That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, the white girl just did that; she just scored a goal.

Vitamin C really pays off.

Talk about right place, right time. And then thank God the ref blew the whistle for half-time; I didn't know how much longer my new adrenaline high could hold me. After “félicitations” from the coaches on the sideline, I was given the wonderful news that I’d be subbing out the second half.

Being benched gave me the chance to really listen to what these weird guys on the mics were saying. Although mostly in Bambara, of which I know greetings only, I did hear a few pieces of complete babble nonsense. They went off on a rant about Nicholas Sarkozy, the president of France, and for whatever reason touched on “aubergines"/eggplant, during our professional women's soccer game. Intermittently they stuck to their real-time game chatter, and then really started mixing it up.

A DJ had shown up, and when he attached his computer to the amps the Windows welcome noise blasted. In their special corner, the DJ and the mic guys put on a French rap song. When one of the girls missed a shot, an announcer broke out into a free-style along with the beat: “Elle a voulu marqué, mais elle a echouée” which, in French, rhymes to say “She wanted to score, but she failed.” Harsh, but hilarious.

The second half came and went and no one else ended up scoring. Three girls were chosen from our team for the head-to-head PKs that were to follow. Coach gave us a pep talk in Bambara, which again, everyone knows I do not understand. For some reason, she switched into French to ask who wanted to volunteer if we needed more penalty kickers?

I’m not sure if that was aimed at me, being stated in French, but I definitely did not step up to the plate. I was planning to end on a high note, my first and what could be last reigning moment as a professional athlete. I wasn’t going to chance my glory on a PK, where who knows what could go wrong (Ghanian Gyan moment perhaps?) -- giving those ruthless announcers who knows what kind of material.

Our amazing keeper ended up blocking two of their three shots, and all our girls banked theirs. The crowd flooded the field to give all the players high fives, and to try to sneak into the group picture of both teams. The event ended with all in high spirits, including those who the announcers attacked in jest. Even my guilt from knocking the one girl over disappeared when she asked to take a post-game picture with the tubabou.