Stranger than Fiction
Credit:
Since Lord Treisman’s lament, eccentricity in high places is the current buzz about the administration of world soccer. It’s nothing new for BRIAN de SALVO who came face to face with international soccer Nigerian Style a few seasons ago when Cobh Ramblers were in the national League and a slender young African, not required for squad duty made his presence felt in Cobh’s unusual press box.
This is a True Story. Truth Stranger than Fiction. Set in Munster, Africa, South America and, er Watford, it’s a shoe-string spectacular. It begins in Cobh, where the town steeples down to the sea. Climb up the hill and you’ll come to the neat ground of Cobh Ramblers. Don’t be misled by the quaint name; Roy Keane has worn its colours.
The first thing to catch the eye in St Colman’s Park is a construction well placed to win the title of the Press Box from Hell. Reached by a very long and almost vertical wooden ladder it is a corrugated iron edifice access to which would challenge a stunt man. Fortunately, it’s a decoy, superseded by a portakabin near the corner flag. From here you can almost see the game. It’s located parallel to the dead ball line which means that viewing action in the nearby goalmouth requires excellent squinting skills and synchronised swimming head choreography of Olympic standard from those seated on your right.
But it‘s in the portakabin that I find him. Onoriode Omagufi. A slight, charming, neatly dressed young African, exotic for Cobh, maybe, but we’re culture cool in Ireland now. The other day I saw a young woman in full purdah in Gorey and none of the locals even blinked.
It’s unusual for players to haunt a press box unless they want something overheard. In due course young Omagufi lets slip that he’s recently won a full international cap for Nigeria. Nigeria? Don’t Okocha, Kanu and Yobo play for them? I reach for the Cobh team sheet. Omagufi’s not even on the bench. Is he injured? No. Send for Hercule Poirot.
A plot, so improbable that even Agatha Christie couldn’t have made it up, emerges. Omagufi is telling the truth. He did play for his country, coming on as a 50th minute substitute against Venezuela at Vicarage Road, Watford. Not Lagos. Watford. Actually the game was to be played in Reading but was mysteriously switched at the last moment. In fact it very nearly didn’t get played at all. When the Nigerian party arrives at their hotel they are refused admission. Something about an unpaid booking deposit.
The pre-match press conference scheduled for Thursday doesn’t happen either. “Jay-Jay and Yobo are here,” explains a spokesman for the promoters, the wonderfully named Soccer Success, “But the players from Nigeria missed the plane.” Missing the plane in Lagos is an occupational hazard for Nigerian players on their reluctant way back to their employers but this was on the way to a match and anyway rumour has it only two were due to travel from Nigeria, the rest of the squad being selected from those playing in Europe.
No press conference on Friday either. The Nigerians are discovered in a restaurant instead. “They’re hungry,” is the promoter’s excuse. The Venezuelans, who have waited two and a half hours in vain for a coach to transport them to a mythical training session, pull out of the match. They are on their third hotel and owed a lot of money. Much depends on the full house Soccer Success expects to-morrow, twenty two thousand paying customers.
At kick off time one thousand long suffering fans are in the stadium but neither of the teams. A Nigerian deputation is in desperate negotiations at the Venezuelans latest hotel. Eventually the match kicks off over two hours late. It’s in these crazy circumstances that Omagufi, who is credited as playing for FC Ericom, wins his first full international cap.
He has talent, no doubt. But here Omagufi’s a luxury, an out-and-out attacking winger. Most Irish clubs play a four four two formation favouring flank men who work up and back. That could explain why Omagufi hasn’t made the breakthrough with Cobh. But how do you explain how a youngster who can’t get a start in the First Division of the eircom League gets selected to come on for Jay-Jay Okocha in the international arena? FC Ericom? Soccer Success? It’s enough to make you nostalgic for the good old FAI.
This is a True Story. Truth Stranger than Fiction. Set in Munster, Africa, South America and, er Watford, it’s a shoe-string spectacular. It begins in Cobh, where the town steeples down to the sea. Climb up the hill and you’ll come to the neat ground of Cobh Ramblers. Don’t be misled by the quaint name; Roy Keane has worn its colours.
The first thing to catch the eye in St Colman’s Park is a construction well placed to win the title of the Press Box from Hell. Reached by a very long and almost vertical wooden ladder it is a corrugated iron edifice access to which would challenge a stunt man. Fortunately, it’s a decoy, superseded by a portakabin near the corner flag. From here you can almost see the game. It’s located parallel to the dead ball line which means that viewing action in the nearby goalmouth requires excellent squinting skills and synchronised swimming head choreography of Olympic standard from those seated on your right.
But it‘s in the portakabin that I find him. Onoriode Omagufi. A slight, charming, neatly dressed young African, exotic for Cobh, maybe, but we’re culture cool in Ireland now. The other day I saw a young woman in full purdah in Gorey and none of the locals even blinked.
It’s unusual for players to haunt a press box unless they want something overheard. In due course young Omagufi lets slip that he’s recently won a full international cap for Nigeria. Nigeria? Don’t Okocha, Kanu and Yobo play for them? I reach for the Cobh team sheet. Omagufi’s not even on the bench. Is he injured? No. Send for Hercule Poirot.
A plot, so improbable that even Agatha Christie couldn’t have made it up, emerges. Omagufi is telling the truth. He did play for his country, coming on as a 50th minute substitute against Venezuela at Vicarage Road, Watford. Not Lagos. Watford. Actually the game was to be played in Reading but was mysteriously switched at the last moment. In fact it very nearly didn’t get played at all. When the Nigerian party arrives at their hotel they are refused admission. Something about an unpaid booking deposit.
The pre-match press conference scheduled for Thursday doesn’t happen either. “Jay-Jay and Yobo are here,” explains a spokesman for the promoters, the wonderfully named Soccer Success, “But the players from Nigeria missed the plane.” Missing the plane in Lagos is an occupational hazard for Nigerian players on their reluctant way back to their employers but this was on the way to a match and anyway rumour has it only two were due to travel from Nigeria, the rest of the squad being selected from those playing in Europe.
No press conference on Friday either. The Nigerians are discovered in a restaurant instead. “They’re hungry,” is the promoter’s excuse. The Venezuelans, who have waited two and a half hours in vain for a coach to transport them to a mythical training session, pull out of the match. They are on their third hotel and owed a lot of money. Much depends on the full house Soccer Success expects to-morrow, twenty two thousand paying customers.
At kick off time one thousand long suffering fans are in the stadium but neither of the teams. A Nigerian deputation is in desperate negotiations at the Venezuelans latest hotel. Eventually the match kicks off over two hours late. It’s in these crazy circumstances that Omagufi, who is credited as playing for FC Ericom, wins his first full international cap.
He has talent, no doubt. But here Omagufi’s a luxury, an out-and-out attacking winger. Most Irish clubs play a four four two formation favouring flank men who work up and back. That could explain why Omagufi hasn’t made the breakthrough with Cobh. But how do you explain how a youngster who can’t get a start in the First Division of the eircom League gets selected to come on for Jay-Jay Okocha in the international arena? FC Ericom? Soccer Success? It’s enough to make you nostalgic for the good old FAI.
