Football Lover

I hated football. As a child, I was more the bookish type. I react everything I could lay my hands on. And I was utterly disinterested in sports. I really could not see what the hype over those sweating, brawny folks was about. OK, so some people can run, swim or jump really fast or far. So? But my deepest disdain was reserved for football and its millions of fanatic fans worldwide. Why were these people so crazy about 22 people running after a rubber ball on a rectangular patch of grass? Loong challenged my prejudice. When he heard me remarking that football was a silly game, he called me an ignoramus, in my hearing. I kicked his ass in response. Literally.

'You were lucky that he didn't retaliate you,' my good friend, Sharon remarked later. 'He is so big and you're so petite, one shove from him and you would have flown across the dining room.' 'If he had dared to touch one hair, just one hair on me, I would have kicked his balls!' I announced, unwisely, in front of several spectators posing as a concerned crowd, feeling smug because I had managed to get away with violence. Loong was one of those adrenalin charged people who liked challenges. He must have heard about my boast because the next evening, the night when my favourite programme was to be shown, the TV set disappeared from my room.

And so, war was officially declared. With the help of Sharon, who was the belle of the hall (students hostel), I sneaked into his room and retrieved my TV. At the same time, his underwear ended up in the dustbin of the hall's kitchen. All my mail began to disappear. They finally reappear on the notice board in the den of the Student Union six week later, costing me more than L20 because of late payments to various agencies. He received calls at 3 a.m. that hung up on him. Who knows what would have happened as the battle escalated if we had not reconciled before the worst could take place? Let me start at the beginning.

We met in university. We were both Singaporean and studying in the same university in London. Fate? Maybe, maybe not. The university we were studying in had a very open policy regarding foreign students. As a result, its population was even more multi-racial than that of Singapore. More than 50% of its student population were from outside Britain. And there were many Singaporean around. We were just two of them. Loong was two years my senior and we happened to be staying in the same hall (in the UK, the hostels are called 'halls'), which could be Fate after all. For our university was notorious for its appalling state of student accommodation. Actually, it was notorious for its appalling lack of student facilities, in general.

It didn't even have a proper campus. The story du jour was that there was this Singaporean chap who had enrolled in the university without bothering to read up or find out very much about it. He knew someone who was studying in another university in London and thought that he would just ask her to take him there a few days before term started. The helpful acquaintance agreed. On the appointed day, she took him into the heart of London and paused before some old buildings that looked like poorly maintained offices. he stopped too, thinking that maybe she needed a break after the rather long walk from Covent Garden. After about ten seconds of silence, she said, 'This is it. This is L-.'

He laughed, 'Don't joke. How can this be L-? Don't play lah, just take me there, OK?' He became convinced that his university of the next 3 years was ensconced in these miserable looking office block like buildings only after his female companion insisted firmly for quite a while. His only consolation was 'no, of course these few buildings are not the whole university. Not big enough. It will be acquiring a few more buildings across the road in the near future.' After the initial shock and disappointment, we, all of us, grew used to learning in office like buildings, overcrowded lecture theaters, and so on. But one perennial gripe was the lack of accommodation. The university did not have enough premises to provide lodging for all its students. As such, usually, only first year undergraduates were guaranteed rooms in its halls. People who were in their second or third years had to fight for the remaining places. It was harder to secure a place in a hall if one was a second or third year undergraduate than to win the National Lottery.

Of course, one's chances were much higher if one were female, especially a petite Asian female. Because with the 'I don't feel save living by myself' excuse, the guys just didn't stand a chance. So then, the discerning reader would be wondering, 'How about Loong? Obviously a male, and in his third year, how come he was living in the hall too?' It was an indication of his wiles. For that crafty fellow had submitted his father's bank passbook statements to the university on the ground that he was too poor to afford unsubsidised housing in London. Of course, he neglected to mention that was the only one, and the least, of his old man's several accounts. It was one that had been specially opened to finance his studies in London. And that was how I got to know him. Of course, I was bound to know him, seeing as how we were both Singaporeans studying in the same university in London. But staying in the same hostel gave us the opportunity to know each other little too well.

Third year males were in scarce supply in the hall and guys obey the same demand and supply laws as most commodities. No wonder then that Loong was so cocky and sure of himself. Determind not to follow the example of numerous others before me, I ignored him instead of hanging onto his every word, laughed at his histrionics instead of oohing and aahing, criticised his new haircut instead of tsking-tsking at its cost. needless to say, he was rather needled by my sarcasm and outright refusal to accord him the hero worship that he felt was his due as the oldest Chinese male in the hall. There was the International Relations graduate student from China. But as a decrepit 34 year old, he didn't really count. 

With hindsight, I realised that I was attracted to him. Passably good looking, sporty and confident with a sense of humour, what's there not to like? But attraction aside, there was no way I was going to be a number, a statistic. I would rather than one of the mass whom he would indulge with a quirky smile when he was in a good mood but promptly put out of his mind once within the privacy of his room. Even I was pretty impressed with the scheming ways of my subconscious.

And now, discerning reader, you would be wondering, 'If the two of you were always at loggerheads, how could you ever get together?' It would be thanks to Sharon and a trip to Italy. I believed that I had already mentioned that Sharon was the belle of the hall. Not only was she the undisputed Glamour Queen amongst the Chinese fellows, the number of Caucasians waiting to date her was also long enough to form a bridge across the Channel. So it was no surprise that Loong invited her to join him on a trip to Italy. Another common do when Singaporeans head out to UK to study. By giving the excuse that since they are already in Europe, they might as well tour the whole of Europe, or try to. After all, the cost of transport from one point in Europe to another is a pittance compared to an air ticket from Asia to Europe.it is a better deal then that they try to finish touring Europe in their three years there. Then, after they have graduated, they would not have to spend money booking exorbitant tours to Europe from Asian anymore. So every summer, when term breaks for a three month vacation, thousands of students would swarm to Europe for a month or so of travel before heading back to Singapore for their favourite chicken rice or cha kway teow. 

And since that year was Loong's last year in the UK, before he returned to Singapore to be shackled by the chase for the ubiquitous 5Cs, he was all the more raring to have a ball of a time. I think I forgot to mention that such trips were also a favourite avenue for guys to hook gals. No doubt, Loong must have asked Sharon along with hopes of going steady with her. But as they say, 'Good works in mysterious ways.' Sharon was tai-tai material. Anyone with half an eye could see that. Sharon came from a background that reeked of money. In Singapore, she was the type who would be chauffeured to school in a Mercedes, learn tennis in the afternoon after school, and have high tea in posh hotels every now and then with her tai-tai mother. It was in her genes to be a tai-tai too. Anyone with half an eye and half a brain knew that.

Loong's family was relatively well off. But they were well off with a heartland touch. Instead of nestling in the exclusive residential enclave of Bukit Timah, his father opted to stay in a semi-D in a private housing area off Upper Serangoon Road. Meals taken outside the home consisted of nasi lemak and prawn noodles consumed in coffeshops rather than unpronounceable courses in marble-clad restaurants. A union between Loong and Sharon would be tantamount to the classic Cosmopolitan Heartlander clash. But I wasn't Sharon's chaperone, neither was I Loong's minder. Why should I care? I only agreed to accompany them on their trip to Europe because Sharon said that she would foot the bill for my accommodation. So I would only need to cough out the expenses for the ferry ticket, the inter rail ticket and food. Who in the right mind would say no to such a good deal, even if it meant having to put up with Loong? To ensure that it  would not be too obvious that I was the gooseberry lamp, Sharon invited a fourth person, John a hapless admirer of hers, to join us on the trip.

It started off quite well. Loong and I tried our best to tolerate each other; Loong, because he wanted to impress Sharon and to show that he could behave like a gentleman; I, because I was too shy to make a nuisance of myself after being subsidised by Sharon. Things went on quite well until we reached Mt. Vesuvius the famous volcano that buried Pompeii. By then, we had been on the road for more than two weeks. We were all tired, physically and mentally. Moreover, we were also tried of the self enforced diet of bread and canned food. but we trudged on, each determined not to be the first to crack. We completed the grueling climb up the mountain, stayed the night on the peak (just so that we could say that we had done so, despite the uncomfortable conditions) and watched the sunrise after a sleepless night. It was majestic sunrise and our spirits should have been lifted and inspired. I don't know about the rest, but my spirit plunged to the pits at the thought of going downhill. The trip down the mountain was only marginally easier than the way up.

By the time we reached the foot of the mountain, I think Sharon must have felt that she had earned her rights to some comfort. She declared her decision to abandon the hostel we were planning to stay in. Whipping out the gold credit card that her father had given her, she announced that she was going to check into the Hilton International. For a full five seconds, we were all silent. I secretly watched Loong and saw his face flush a full red in the face of this betrayal. He, the hardiest of the Singaporean male specimens, a red beret commando, who had spent numerous nights at train stations in his inter railing days, were to become a softie and spend a night in the comfort of a five star international hotel? he would never leave it down if his beer drinking buddies were to get wind of it!

John, perhaps sensing an opportunity, quickly agreed to accompany Sharon. I was in a dilemma. Sharon was my friend. She had protected and helped me several times in the course of my war with Loong. On the other hand, Loong looked so pitiful, shoulders slumped, his usual cockiness nowhere in sight. This must have been when my subconscious decided that it was a good time to let me know that I was attracted to him. Taking a deep breath, I took the plunge and declared that I would stay with Loong. Loong threw me a grateful look. I was so absorbed with him at that moment that I almost missed the venomous glare Sharon shot me. That was that. After the trip, Loong and I became an item officially. And that put a stop to my friendship with Sharon. For some reason, it was just no longer the same. Maybe she felt that I had stolen Loong from her. Or maybe she was pissed off with me for not sticking with her. But I was too caught up in the first flush of romance to pay too much attention to it.

Even after Loong had graduated and returned to Singapore, we continued our relationship long distance. We would write letters and phone each other almost everyday. Loong's thrifty father used to nag him over the phone bills that he chalked up. I would also cut short my trips to Europe in the summers so that I could return to Singapore earlier to meet him. He also took leave to fly to London during my vacations. Finally, I passed my last examinations. Then, many of my contemporaries were worrying about the weak British economy, fretting that they might not be able to find jobs in the UK after graduating because they did not want to come back to Singapore. I didn't care. All I wanted to do was to get back to Singapore as quickly as possible so that I could be with Loong for good.

I returned to Singapore and found a job. We decided that we would get registered at the Registry of Marriages (ROM) after I had worked for a year. That was the best year of my life. My job jept me busy and I was learning a lot. At the same time, after work each day, we would spend some time together over dinner. If we had more time, we would catch a movie, watch a play or jut do some window shopping. Sometimes, we would even catch a football match together, despite my previous declarations about the stupidity of the game. Over the weekends, Loong and his buddies would organised a game and I would take a picnic mat there and support Loong along with the other girlfriends and wives.

I learned to appreciate the game. Loong taught me some of the finer points of football. But I learned for myself the excitement in the midst of a game when I was rooting for him in one of the matches he would play against some of our old friends from university or his colleagues. I learned to cast aside my prejudices and realised the enchanting magic of football, how it could captivate millions of fans around the world. I became a convert. Loong and I were a perfect fit. We learned from each other and overcome our own prejudices to accommodate each other's differences and quirks. The one year passed quickly and we carried on as planned, to go through that ROM ceremony. 

I loved white roses and had ordered a bouquet for the ceremony. My cooleague, who lived near the florist, had promised to pick up the blooms for me before meeting us at the ROM. But she called in sick. So Loong told me to head to the ROM with our parents first while he drove to the florist to pick up the flowers. He never turned up. His mother received a call from the police saying that he had been involved in an accident. When we rushed to the hospital, he was already dead. According to the police, he was speeding and had tried to beat a red light but hit an oncoming car instead. He must have been trying to get to the ROM on time.

What should have been the happiest day in my life became a tragedy. For months after his death, I would dream about him every night and awake with tears in my eyes, my pillows wet. I lost interest in everything, including my job. Everything would remind me of him. I could not watch a movie without remembering how he would always sit on my right and put his left arm around me, hugging me close to him if it was a horror movie that we were watching. Football was the worst. Just the sight of it in the sports section of news would trigger memories of his animation when discussing his favourite sport, the time when he taught me to do the wave, how I learned to utter 'referee kelong' under his tutelage.  I grew to hate the game more than ever. But the cliche was true. Time does heal every wound. almost a year after his death, it suddenly struck me that I was no longer thinking of him every moment when I was awake. I could also think of him and visualise him without the agonising spasm in my heart, like I was dying bit by bit too. And it had been quite some time since I dreamt of him. I was looking forward to meeting different people and began looking at guys in a more interesting light.

Then that night, I dreamt about him again. He was playing football, looking as he did in life when I used to watch him in his matches, with the wind ruffling his longish hair, the sweat drenched soccer jersey sticking to his trim torso. He was laughing as he chased the ball, so life like that the old longing crept up to me unbidden in sleep, so that once more I awoke with my pillow wet. I tried not to let the dream affect me. I went to work as usual and bantered with my colleagues. As the day wore on, the mundaneness of my life loosened the grip of the dream on me and I relaxed, confident that I was well on my way to recovery, that the previous night was an aberration. I was prepared, I knew that throughout my life, I would have relapses and would think or dream about him from time to time. It was inevitable as I had loved him so much. There was no way I could cut him out from my life totally. But life had to go on without him. He was gone. He was dead. And I had already accepted this fact, until I saw the advertisement in the newspaper.

It was about the forthcoming football match between Singapore and Perak, the final match of the Malaysian league. Again, I thought of him, thinking sadly that he would have been very excited if he had been alive. In fact, if he were still living, I would have bet anything that we would be watching that match. That night, I had the same dream again. For five consecutive nights, I had the same dream. Then I realised that the day of the match fell on the first anniversary of his death. Was he sending me a message? Maybe he would appear at the stadium, one of his favourite haunts, and I could see him one more time? The sensible promises that I had made to myself flew out of the window. I made up my mind; I would go to the match. I was so nervous the day before the match that I could neither eat nor sleep.

It was very crowded at the stadium. This was the match of the year. My feverish mind hardly noticed that many Malaysian cars parked in the car park of the stadium. After I had squeezed my way into the stadium, I heard many accents that suggested their owners had come from across the Causeway. I didn't pay much attention to these as the only thing on my mind was whether I would see Loong again.  To my disappointment, he didn't turn up. I waited and waited, my feelings at odds with those of the crowd as they roller-coastered along with the movements of the ball. Suddenly, I heard an uproar from the spectators. Listening to the people around me, I learned that it was because the referee had disallowed a Singaporean equaliser, claiming that it was offside. Some of the Singaporean spectators began chanting, 'Referee kayu.'

The emotions of the supporters became more and more heated as the minutes ticked away. Then in the eighty seventh minutes, Singapore striker, Lxxx Txxx Hxxx tried to score a goal but it was foiled by a defender from the other side. Some of the spectators protested again. They claimed that it was a foul. The referee ruled that it wasn't. The Singaporean supporters began to chant nasty things about the referee more and more loudly. Soon, the spectators began to argue with each other. The battle of words escalated and turned physical. It must have started a scuffle somewhere and others joined the action. Very soon, people were screaming and trying to head out of the stadium. A stampede ensued. I was pushed along by the surge of the crowd. All thoughts of Loong had disappeared from my mind. My only concern was whether I could get out of this unharmed. I saw people falling onto the ground, but nobody could or bothered to help them. Everybody just stomped on them in their rush to get out. The crowd was so packed that I could hardly breathe. There was nothing I could do except to follow the crowd and to try my hardest not to fall. I was very scared and began to cry as I stood there, sandwiched by thousands of bodies.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw him. Giving a small cry, I turned my neck. It was the only past of my body that I could turn. It was truly he! Had he appeared to save me? He nodded and gave me a grin. Reaching out, he gave me a hard shove that sent me tumbling through the mass onto the ground. No one caught my flailing hands. No one rescued me. My world went black as the mob trod and stomped on my body.