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Robson Sharuko, H-Metro Editor
LAST Sunday, l suffered a minor heart attack.
I didn’t know it then – the sudden sweating, difficulties in breathing, intense headaches, dizziness and loss of strength.
I know it now because that’s what the power of medicine has told me.
Like my colleague Robert Marawa, the celebrated South African sportscaster, I lived to tell the story.
My South African namesake probably got it worse than me, flirting between life and death in ICU on two of the three occasions it has hit him.
I have always been dogged by a legacy of high blood pressure issues for as long as l can remember.
The first specialist who dealt with this, a very long time ago, said this was a hereditary issue, something passed on through my family’s health fault lines.
It doesn’t help our cause, too, that we are generally big guys in my family tree.
Hopefully, God willing, the hours I am now spending in the gym will help provide me with a natural remedy to the curse, which stalks me.
At least, just like Rob Marawa, l am lucky to live and tell my story.
Rahman Gumbo, one of the most celebrated football figures of our generation, wasn’t so lucky.
He died at his base in Botswana on Friday after suffering a heart attack at home earlier in the day.
He was only 60.
When I first heard the tragic news, thanks to my extensive contact network, it felt quite personal.
It brought back a flood of the events of last Sunday when, all of a sudden, my world spun upside down and trying to just stand became a tough assignment like conquering Mt Everest without oxygen.
Rahman Gumbo was born in 1963, the year football in this country underway a seismic change with the establishment of Dynamos.
So, in a way, he was tied to football from birth and, throughout the course of his life, would leave footprints on the game which will never be erased.
He was a fine player, a great goal scorer and scorer of great goals, who even had the quality to make it into Reinhard Fabisch’s Dream Team.
One gets a feeling his real value as a player was not as appreciated as it should have been and it didn’t help that he flourished at a time when the likes of Peter Ndlovu cast a shadow on everyone else.
But, he was good, very good.
His goal against Bafana Bafana, in that famous 4-1 win at the National Sports Stadium, hit from distance with laser accuracy and power, was one for the archives.
He also thrived as a coach and, at the turn of the millennium, was one of a number of coaches who guided the dominant Highlanders to a series of league titles.
Dr Rush, as he was affectionately known, was also fearless and rather than remain in the comfort of home, took the gamble to coach in foreign countries.
He thrived in Malawi, clearing the path for the likes of Callisto Pasuwa, and thrived in Botswana, which was effectively his second home.
Later, he became Sunday Chidzambwa’s trusted lieutenant at the Warriors, the old Warrior recognising he needed the energy of his younger assistant to get things done.
But, for me, what stands out was the fact that he was a good man, which is better than being a good footballer or a good coach.
In his company, you felt very much at ease, even if you had criticised him heavily a few days earlier, he always greeted you with that smile which would have won him an acting role had he grown up in Hollywood.
He always cared for his profile and that meant he was always well dressed, his hair was always well kept and, while he liked his beer, he never let alcohol turn him into a nuisance.
We have just lost a real football man at a time when our game has been hijacked by some outsiders and is badly crying out for its real sons to rescue it.
Almost eight hours after his death was announced, only the leaders of Botswana football were flooding social media with condolence messages.
They were also quick to announce that a minute of silence would be observed in all league matches there as a mark of respect for Dr Rush.
Of course, there was deafening silence on the home front, from ZIFA and the PSL, in a graphic illustration of how those who have hijacked the game don’t have the institutional memory of this sport.
The good thing is that nothing can devalue Rahman Gumbo’s iconic status in our game.
Online Reporter