Out of the Shade

Excerpt from the chapter Out of the Shade

Roger Milla waited nervously on the bench, watching the Romanians’ attacking play while studying each of their midfielders and defenders, looking for weaknesses. When his chance came, and he knew it would be for only a short spell, he wanted to exploit every hole in their defense to score his maiden World Cup goal. He felt relieved when the halftime whistle blew.

According to Coach Valeri, he could be introduced into the match at any point after the interval. During the break, Milla spoke with teammates to understand the realities on the field; it was hard to fully assess a match in progress from the sidelines. He spoke with N’Kono, praising his heroic work in goal, pointing out two specific saves. If those saves had not been made, Milla told him, the team’s morale might already have been in shambles.

Though he did not say it aloud, Milla appreciated Paul Biya’s judgment in reducing the role of Joseph Bell, something he might have orchestrated behind the scenes after Bell publicly disparaged the team, and placing N’Kono as the starting goalkeeper. After the second half began, Milla started warming up, one eye on the pitch and one ear tuned for Coach Valeri’s call. It came in the 59th minute. The flag was raised for Emmanuel Kessack to come off the field, and Milla stood at the touchline waiting for Kessack to exit.

At that moment, few outside Cameroon could have imagined the significance of the man who was about to enter the field. It looked like a routine substitution, except to many back in Cameroon, who believed the old man still had something left in him to give to the nation’s glory, just as their president believed.

Romania kept attacking, but they found it hard to break through the defense put up by Cameroon, with N’Kono leading it from behind. Milla prowled the field freely, looking for an opportunity to strike. Unmarked and largely ignored, he did not seem to matter much to the Romanian defenders, an unremarkable old man who did not look dangerous.

Then, in the 76th minute, his probing along Romania’s defense opened an opportunity for Milla. A Cameroonian defender sent a long, high ball that landed near Romanian defender Andone, who attempted to clear it. The ball bounced awkwardly off the defender’s leg. Milla was circling Andone, sensing the opportunity. He leapt to take control of the ball, collided with the defender, and both men fell to the ground. Milla recovered first. He regained his balance, brought the ball under control, and drove it past the goalkeeper, who flung out his limbs in a vain attempt to stop it.

The stadium roared in appreciation of the goal, even though most of the crowd had been rooting for Romania. Roger Milla had finally achieved what he had carried with him throughout his playing life. He turned and ran, not wildly, but with purpose, toward the corner flag. And there, he danced to immortalize the dream he had just fulfilled. It was an extempore act, not planned or borrowed. It rose naturally from his body, from his feet and hips, from a joy too large to be contained inside. His steps were light, playful, almost mischievous. He circled the flag, shoulders loose and knees lifting, and to some bookish spectators it reminded them of Zorba’s dance. It was a celebration, but also defiance, a refusal to age, to diminish, to fade quietly. It became a symbol of Africa’s arrival in world football, its coming of age, carried improbably by an aging man on behalf of an entire continent.

Teammates rushed toward him, shouting, laughing, piling around him, but for a few seconds the dance belonged only to him. Milla had scored in the World Cup at last, fulfilling his long dream, smiling not for the cameras but for himself.