Many of us understand what it means to be loyal to a sports team. We feel the team’s agony and ecstasy in our bones, as if it were our own. We cheer for the team, knowing that ultimately its victory assures our sanity while its defeat leaves us empty and aimless. At least, perhaps some of us are that loyal. The Senegalese are that loyal.
It was the football (soccer) match we were all waiting for. The winner would continue its battle toward a spot in the Coupe d’Afrique Nationale, and ultimately the World Cup in 2012. The loser would say farewell to its chance for the next 3 years. Not only were the stakes high. More importantly, Gambia was coming to our home turf. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the geography of Senegal, the country looks as though it has a mouth, inside of which the tiny strip of Gambia has been swallowed. In other words, Gambia is entirely surrounded by Senegal, except for a tiny portion Atlantic coastline. It is easy to assume that the two countries are archrivals, and the Senegalese, who already joke that the Gambia is apart of their country, had only one thought in mind: victory.
We arrived at the Leopold Sedar Senghor stadium at about 3:00. The match was to begin at 4:00. Hundreds and hundreds of people were already in line at the gates, and the string of eager fans seemed to stretch for miles. Yet somehow, we were able to make our way into the line and we arrived at the gates, and then to our seats, before the kickoff. Not unlike their geographical relationship, the Senegalese fans filled every seat in the stadium, giving off a yellow, red and green hue. Only one small section was occupied by a rowdy bunch of blue, red and green Gambians.
The game began and proceeded rather uneventfully. Neither team was particularly exciting, although we exaggerated the applause whenever slightly appropriate. At the end of 45 minutes, the score was 0-0.
Towards the middle of the second half, Senegal took control, swerving, dribbling and passing around the Gambians to finally get the ball in the net. As 1-0 appeared on the large screen, the crowd exploded in excitement and relief, while down on the field the players did much the same. After that, we all settled back a little into our seats, no longer gripping the edge in nervous anticipation. Bravo Senegal. We were all doubtlessly confident. Well, our naïve assuredness was shattered when, five minutes from the end of the match, Gambia snatched up the ball and sunk it in the our goal. 1-1. There was a second of excruciating, stunned silence before the small but powerful Gambian crowd erupted in gleeful shouting, drumming and chanting. Around the stadium, the yellow, red and green flags stopped waving.
The remaining time ticked away too quickly but hope had already been lost. You could see it in their faces. We exited the stadium with the crowd, quiet and sullen at first. It took me a while to realize that people kept shouting at me to take off the Senegal cap that I was sporting. To be honest, I was rather disappointed at the Senegalese lack of team spirit. Win or lose, you are supposed to tough it out with your team. That is what loyal is. Well, as we were headed to our bus, we saw some sort of commotion up ahead. Before we could get close enough to see what was going on, we were being herded in the other direction. But then it became very clear. A crowd of young boys was shoving, throwing stones, shouting. It was like a suction effect as more and more joined the ruckus, and the pulsating swarm of them only got more and more dense. As we walked up the hill away from them, I could see the beginning puffs of smoke coming from the tear gas that was sprayed, and I watched until I could no longer see the crowd, only the sky getting thicker and darker with smoke.
None of the Senegalese seemed very shaken by the affair, and thus I wasn’t either. But in all actuality, I was. When we arrived back to school, I went upstairs to print out a document. Fifteen minutes later I was about to walk out the door to go home when someone stopped me and told me to go out on the balcony. The street (where I would have crossed) was filled with people throwing rocks, pushing things over, shouting, shoving. The normally busy street had been blocked off so no cars could pass by. Soon, two pick-up trucks pulled up and police jumped out, wearing helmets and carrying shields, and proceeded to chase the scattering crowd, which disappeared as soon as the officials arrived. I later spoke with my friend who had been in the gas station during the riots, and witnessed burning cars, and the storming and vandalizing of a convenience store across the street. This was more than loyalty to a sports team. This was desperation.
I was up and about early the next morning. It was as peaceful and quiet as any other morning (which is not that peaceful or quiet). The road was open. People walked to and fro where the day before riots were raging. Walking by the convenience store, I saw that it was closed and the windows were shattered, confirming that it had not all been a figment of my imagination.
On the surface, it was all for the loss of a football match; perhaps a little deeper down it was for the loss of dignity, a wound to their pride. But it is clearly more than that. While I will never entirely understand, I can understand that the yellow, red and green garb a cultural and patriotic identity, a history, hope for the future and anger at the present, and not only a sports team.
Thanks for the new postings. In the cooling and colorful fall of Wisconsin is great to get a little Africa Ben
And I though I was competitive. Kind of frightening.