Big game in Africa, part 2

Wallace Kwaw, the master of the house in which we lived outside Cape Coast, retired last year after more than two decades as a tour guide at the Elmina Castle. A self-made man, he had worked hard, making a very nice life for his family.

As a side note, I should mention that part of his efforts included building the book shop at the castle. If you happen to find yourself in Elmina, the store boasts perhaps the best selection of books on Ghana, and slavery in particular, that you’re likely to find anywhere in the country.

When it came time for Wallace to step down and assume the life of a country squire , he decided he would henceforth devote himself to two things: his goats … and soccer. Not keen on animal husbandry myself, but wanting to get to know the man with whom I would be living for three months, I decided to commit myself to learning more about the sport.

Wallace proved an excellent guide, and endlessly engaging companion, for my crash course on the Spanish La Liga, the UEFA Champions League, Ghana’s national team (called the Black Stars), and the single abiding obsession of most Ghanaian men, the English Premier League.

“I suppose my favorite team is Manchester United,” Wallace conceded, “but I like the style of play of the Spanish teams. The British use a more physical approach, more brute force, but the Spanish play with more style.”

And so they did when I had a chance to compare. And I had plenty of chances. If the TV was on, which it typically was at night, it was showing soccer. Outfitted with a satellite dish, Wallace tended to watch only those channels showing soccer ― any game would do. Breaking it up, when they were no games, with a visit to CNN. Mostly we would toggle back and forth from a Barcelona game, say, to the Arsenal game to some obscure French league game with guys who looked like they’d had their hair done for the match.

In less time than I would have ever guessed it possible, I found really enjoying the games. I quickly grew to look forward to our evening constitutional. We would enjoy one of Aba’s wonderful meals, and then I would retire to the living room, sometimes with a cold beer, to watch the game with Wallace.

Over the months, I learned the teams. I learned the names of the principal players, even settling on certain favorites (Lionel Messi and Samuel Eto’o for Barcelona, Wayne Rooney for Manchester United). I started checking the standings in the newspaper. I even regretted when circumstances prevented me from seeing an important match. And incredibly, for the first time since I’d idolized Phillies third baseman Mike Schmidt, I thought about buying a jersey.

I will take a great many things away with me from Ghana. There are Aba’s yam chips, the country’s groovilicious highlife music, the smiles of the kids and my uncanny resemblance to one of Ghana’s presidential candidates. But I will never forget those evening sitting with Wallace at the end of the day, his leg hanging over the arm of his lounger, and watching soccer. Thank you, Wallace.

(Picture: Wallace and I at Cape Coast Castle, which is conspicuously absent a book store...)