adminFittingly, Charles “CNN” Mabika, the most authoritative football journalist this country has ever seen, and will probably see, was also inducted that night. And, so was Steve Vickers, as good an all-rounder, when it comes to sports journalism, and as decent a man, as any you can come across, was also inducted.
Sharuko On Saturday
AS long as I can remember, I have always been called ‘The Godfather.’
I’m not sure why mine was quite a complex nickname because all my childhood friends had very simple ones.
Solomon Banda was simply Sodzeya, generated from his King Solomon’s first name, a mathematics genius who made MPC look like kindergarten stuff.
Charles Phiri was simply Dzvuto, generated from his love of sipping tea, a fine student, his studies took him to Cuba before he returned home for various adventures.
Gift Dani was simply Mbaura, generated from his character as a fiery character, who took no prisoners, like Solo, he pursued his love of teaching.
Orirando Manuwere was simply Ngwaramu, generated from his addiction of reading novels, which meant he must have consumed half the collection of Mills and Boon by the time we had completed our primary school studies.
Steven Ngodzo was simply Carlos, generated from ‘Carlos The Jackal,’ the fellow we all feared, the guy who found a lot of romance in bullying us.
He wasn’t the worst, though.
That title belonged to Jim Banaaaa==da, we called him ‘Bonecrusher,’ a fierce guy who appeared born to inflict pain on others.
He was quite mean, brutality walked with him, barbarity appeared to be a part of his DNA and savagery was his obsession.
I survived the worst of his beatings because I was a distant relative and, now and again, he would privately require a helping hand from me on the rare occasions he put a bit of attention to his school work.
At least, he had a nickname we could all understand, after all he used to crush both our bones and our spirits, and he had no apologies for being a master in inflicting considerable pain.
No one, though, could understand mine, it first emerged when we were in Grade Six, in 1982, exactly 40 years ago.
I now know it’s the year the world marked the 10th anniversary of the release of the super gangster movie, ‘The Godfather,’ widely celebrated as the greatest film of all-time.
Of course, we didn’t know all this because, back in 1982, our movie staple diet consisted of western movies.
The likes of ‘A Man Called Horse,’ ‘A Man Called Sledge,’ ‘The McMasters,’ ‘Rio Lobo,’ ‘Soldier Blue,’ ‘Big Jake,’ ‘Doc and A Gunfight.’
Every Tuesday evening, we would troop to the Main Beerhall, back home in Chakari, to watch stars like Clint Eastwood, John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Steve McQueen, Henry Fonda, Lee Van Cleef, Charles Bronson, Clint Eastwood, John Wayne and Gary Cooper.
An epic gangster movie like ‘The Godfather’ was not part of our regular diet.
But, whatever inspired them to give me that nickname appeared like a calling, of some sort, given that, somehow, key phases in my life have been linked, in one way or the other, to that gangster movie.
In 1992, on the 10th anniversary of the year my nickname first emerged, I signed my first contract as an employee of a company.
Thirty years later, it remains the only employment contract I have signed in my life.
Coincidentally, ’92 also happened to be the year the Capaci terror attack happened, on May 23, when the Sicilian Mafia struck a huge blow against the Italian establishment.
The Sicilian Mob killed anti-Mafia judge Giovanni Falcone, his wife Francesca Morvillo and their three security agents – Vito Schifani, Rocco Dicillo and Antonio Montinaro.
Four months later, on July 19, 1992, they struck again by killing anti-Mafia judge, Paolo Borsellino, and five members of his police escort — Agostino Catalano, Emanuela Loi, Vincenzo Li Muli, Walter Eddie Cosina and Claudio Traina.
Three days later, Colombian drug lord, Pablo Escobar, escaped from his luxury prison.
It was also the year John D’Amato, known as Johnny Boy, the boss of the New Jersey Mafia, was also shot and killed.
PELE, THE REAL HALL OF FAMER, REAL GODFATHER
It was also the year the establishment also struck one of its biggest blows against the Mafia when John Gotti, the Godfather who rose to head the powerful Gambino family, was FINALLY convicted of racketeering, murder, illegal gambling, obstructing justice, committing tax fraud bribing a detective.
Known as the “Dapper Don,” for his flamboyance, Gotti had until his conviction in 1992, used his financial weight, his Mafia connections and everything in his power, to intimidate witnesses and escape going to jail.
That ended on October 27, 1992, when he was convicted and imprisoned, without the possibility of parole, for life.
Somehow, Gotti came into the world in the year football was also born, on October 23, 1940, in Tres Coracoes, Minas Gerais, Brazil.
The Brazilian Boy, who was born that day, still lives to this day, every day he spends among the living, a global celebration of greatness.
His name is Pele.
Gotti died on June 10, 2002, in the month, and year, in which Brazil won their last World Cup trophy.
As fate would have it, Pele’s finest hour, as a footballer, came in 1970, when he led the All-Star Brazilian side, considered the greatest national team of all-time, to World Cup victory in Mexico.
Fittingly, it was also his final appearance, just at the ageac of 30, on the grand stage of the World Cup.
Four months before Pele and his Samba Boys crushed Italy 4-1, on June 11, 1970, in a vintage World Cup final, I came into this world.
That was on February 16, 1970.
It was as if fate was bringing us into the world, just in time to be counted among those who were part of the global population, when football came closer to touching the levels of purity.
By the time I started my journalism journey, in 1992, they decided to induct Pele into the American National Soccer Hall of Fame.
He has been inducted into a number of other Halls of Fame, and deservedly so, because football can never be discussed, without the mention of his name.
I have always tried to stay clear of comparisons, when people start talking about the Greatest Of All Time, when it comes to football because it’s a difficult exercise to deal with.
My humble submission, though, is that it must tell us something about his extraordinary talents that a guy, who last kicked a ball at the World Cup, 52 years ago, still finds his name being mentioned when greatness comes into discussion.
Italian defender Tarcisio Burgnich, who was tasked with marking Pele in that 1970 World Cup final, said the Brazilian was not human.
“I told myself before the game that he’s made of skin and bones, just like everyone else but I was wrong,” he said.
French superstar, Michel Platini, said “to play like Pele is to play like God.”
Pele qualifies to be called The Godfather of football.
After all, his extraordinary skills transformed our beautiful game, his goals seduced millions to fall in love with this sport and his humility gave it its perfect global idol.
I have never considered myself to be a great sports journalist and those who know me very well will tell you that I really am not someone who came into this profession to chase greatness.
They will tell you that I came into journalism to simply chase a dream.
One which I started to harbour, when it became clear, I could never make the standards of becoming a real star, as a footballer.
I tell my good friends that I would still have considered it a success story, as far as my journalism career is concerned, if I had only ended up just as a reporter, in this profession.
Of course, fate has taken me to the very top of the ladder, where I today find myself as an Editor of a daily newspaper.
But, I never claim that this is all because I am a genius, because I am better than the others and because, like Jose Mourinho, I should call myself the Special One.
Definitely no!
There is nothing special about the way I write.
After all, the special writers are multi-millionaires, whose books are global bestsellers and, like Mario Puzo, who wrote the crime novel, The Godfather, their work has been turned into film.
I look back at my journey and, now and again, I can see the Hand of God, at crucial phases, which ensured that I, somehow, leapt a hurdle, which could have brought everything crashing down.
I still remember the Sunday I had to travel to Harare overnight, to ensure I arrived in the capital for a 9am entry examination, at the journalism school at Harare Polytechnic, in 1990.
The plan, which my late old man had hatched, meant I had to travel from Chakari to Kadoma, on the team bus of a team which had come to play our beloved Falcon Gold, on that Sunday.
Once in Kadoma, I had to wait for the train from Bulawayo to Harare, which passed through around midnight, and gamble that I would arrive in Harare in time for the entry exams.
If that train had been derailed, or delayed, for one reason or another, it would have meant I would not have made it for the exams and my story would probably have been different.
While delays were quite common, on this particular bitterly cold night, when I had no room for error, God was with me and everything sailed smoothly.
HALL OF FAMER, IT SOUND COOL
It has been a landmark week for me, in which I have been receiving congratulatory messages from all over the world.
This follows my induction, as a pioneer member of the local sportswriters’ Hall Of Fame, in Harare last Friday.
Fittingly, Charles “CNN” Mabika, the most authoritative football journalist this country has ever seen, and will probably see, was also inducted that night.
And, so was Steve Vickers, as good an all-rounder, when it comes to sports journalism, and as decent a man, as any you can come across, was also inducted.
Of course, I have won many awards, big and small, local and international, and the first came in 1995, when I won the Sportswriter Of The Year.
But, this feels different and very special because it came from my fellow journalists and, unlike the other awards, I didn’t need to compete with anyone to get it.
This was recognition for the work that I have done, in the past 30 years, in which I have been walking in these journalism trenches.
That it came from the very people, who are the future of this profession, the young men and women who are the heart and soul of our sports journalism right now, made it very special.
When they asked me to address them, after they had inducted me, I told them that, just as well, they had done the right thing, not to attach a financial reward to the honour.
Why? Because, I told them, there was no amount of money which could be said to represent the value of this piece of honour.
In other words, it was priceless.
The point is that if the best of the current crop of sports journalists feel I am one of those guys they look up to, as their ultimate model, then I must have been doing something right.
Of course, I’m not perfect and no one is.
I have made my mistakes, many of them, and armies have been deployed, to try and bring me down, by successive ZIFA bosses, but God has been protecting me.
Exactly 25 years ago, they tried to deport me from Ghana, for writing something which they didn’t like, unless I disowned my content and apologised, live on radio.
Of course, I refused to apologise, irrespective of the consequences, because I knew the truth would protect me.
Seven years ago, I became Public Enemy number one in cricket, with many leading newspapers calling for my expulsion from Australia and New Zealand, because they were unhappy with the content of what I had written.
That has been my life, in one way or the other and, when you finally get recognition, especially from your people, it brings boundless joy.
For my childhood friends back home, just seeing me standing side-by-side with Charlie and Steve on the podium of honour means the world.
It blows them away just to believe that one of them, the guy from Number M4 82, whose old man used to be their home team’s goalkeeper, has travelled this far.
They know it’s a risky job and in the year I was born, Italian investigative anti-Mafia journalist, Mauro De Mauro, disappeared on September 16, 1970.
Fifty two years later, he is yet to be found.
To them, I remain the boy from next door, the Manchester United fanatic and, of course, their Godfather.
And, as fate would have it, my special week would not have been complete without something big connecting me to the cast of the epic movie, forever associated with my nickname.
On Wednesday, one of the leading members of The Godfather, James Caan, the actor who played the role of Sonny Corleone, the firebrand son of Don Vito, died.
His death comes in the year the world has been celebrating the Silver Jubilee of the release of the blockbuster movie.
Maybe, now, after the honour which the sportswriters bestowed on me last week, my childhood friends will find an excuse to try and explain why they have always called me ‘The Godfather.’
To God Be The Glory!
Peace to the GEPA Chief, the Big Fish, George Norton, Daily Service, Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse and all the Chakariboys still in the struggle.
Come on United!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ronaldoooooooooooooooooooooo!
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