WHEN RUFARO SHOOK LIKE OLD TRAFFORD

Sharuko on Saturday

AS the clock ticked towards another painful ending, in what has been a season of both torture and shame for Manchester United fans, the sad faces at Old Trafford told the whole story.

A young boy was captured by the television cameras crying.

Every drop of his tears was a representative of the collective torture which millions of Red Devils around the world were suffering — their souls battered by the weight of pain, their hearts shattered by the reality of an impending humiliating defeat.

I was one of them and every passing minute was a slow and painful march towards the end of an adventure in which we would bow out in shame despite having not lost a match in the Europa League in regulation time.

United had somehow connived to throw away a two-goal lead at home, allow opponents who played a man short to come back from the dead and score twice to force the game into extra-time.

And, in that extra-time, they had conceded twice and they were now staring elimination in the face.

But, somehow, United found life where none appeared to exist, an ocean in a desert, plenty of sunshine in the Arctic Circle and fought back to score three times to win the match.

Two of the goals were scored in the final minute of extra-time.

And, as Old Trafford erupted, the explosion of emotions dragged me back to a time and place when Dynamos fans used to have a club whose fighting spirit always ensured that they were never beaten until the final whistle.

Back in the day when they were the real Glamour Boys, not the fake ones that we now have, dressed in borrowed robes with the colours blue-and-white to try and deceive us that they are still the real deal when the reality is that they are a counterfeit of DeMbare.

Back in the day when they would take on the heavyweights of the continent — the likes of Al Ahly, Zamalek, Esperance, ES Setif, JS Kabylie — and go pound-to-pound with them in the ring, without any fear and without any touch of an inferiority complex.

They were the football club of choice in this country — the one every ambitious young footballer wanted to play for, the barometer of success and the symbol of greatness.

They were irresistible, the dominant bull in the kraal, the pride lion, the football club of their dreams and there was a time when their claims that they had seven million fans could not be challenged because you had to be at Rufaro, at least by 1pm, to get a seat.

The football gods appeared to be on their side and kept providing them with the best of the local talent and, even when these stars retired, there would always be an heir waiting in the wings to fill the throne.

When George Shaya retired, Moses Chunga came through and became their talisman and when he left for Europe, the production line brought in the likes of Memory Mucherahowa, Vitalis Takawira and Tauya Murewa.

They also had the right leaders, honourable men who understood that this was the people’s team and not a football club which had to be personalised and converted into some form of tuckshop as has become the case today.

The likes of Morrison Sifelani knew that their responsibility was to serve the people’s team, to provide leadership and to add value instead of converting it into their own property.

They thrived, and so did the team, because their leadership was built on honour and not dishonesty.

Sadly, we cannot say the same about those who are in charge today.

WHEN DEMBARE WERE THE GLAMOUR BOYS

For the first time in the history of DeMbare, we have a board chairman who has overseen a barren 10-year spell without the Glamour Boys being crowned league champions.

It’s hard to believe this is the same club which won SEVEN of the 10 league championships on offer in the first decade of Independence and FOUR of the first titles on offer.

It’s hard to believe that this is the same club which came within 90 minutes of being crowned champions of Africa in ’98 and which reached the semi-finals of the CAF Champions League in 2008 despite having the smallest of budgets among all the competing clubs.

Forty five years after Independence, Dynamos remains the most successful football club in the country but whether they are still the biggest is now questionable.

The number of fans who still care to watch their league matches has plummeted so much that Rufaro now appears to be a scene of a funeral, instead of a football match, when they are hosting matches there.

All that is left are the memories.

And, boy oh boy, it’s quite a massive bank of memories.

Scenes like what we saw at Old Trafford on Thursday night, when Rufaro used to be a cathedral where the DeMbare fans enjoyed their dreams, where their heroes always delivered — even when it appeared like it was now Mission Impossible.

The 1994 Africa Day Cup showdown against CAPS United at Rufaro immediately comes to mind.

The Glamour Boys were down 0-2 to their biggest city rivals at the break but an inspired show from Murewa and Takawira in the second half turned the game on its head and they eventually won 4-2.

Chamu Musanhu said it was the greatest match he featured in.

Vietnam was brilliant that day, its magical sounds filling the veins of the Glamour Boys with the fuel they needed to go the extra mile and write a beautiful story their fans will remember all their lives.

But, for me, one game will always stand out when it comes to the sheer resilience of those Glamour Boys, back in the days when they were the people’s team and the people would power them to the greatness which now defines their legacy.

It wasn’t a come-from-behind masterclass as the Miracle of Old Trafford we witnessed on Thursday night.

But, it had a similar happy ending with the fans being taken to the edges of hell and back and then, when it was all over, finding themselves dancing and celebrating on the green fields of heaven.

A TALE OF TWO DAVIDS

That match was on September 21, 2008, at Rufaro.

Maybe, this was the unique sound produced by emotions, when they are being ruthlessly battered, by the sheer power of the forces of brutality.

When a people have to deal with the emotional torture, which comes with being hammered by a combination of the agents of adversity, and the merchants of                          calamity.

For the majority of those crammed inside Rufaro, this was the sum of all their fears, a people buckling under the weight of the possibility of failure.

For 88 minutes, their souls had been tortured by the sheer intensity of this blood-and-thunder showdown, where Dynamos and Zamalek had fought a ferocious fight.

Every man, in their blue-and-white identity on that field, had fought long and hard, the forwards stretching the opponents with their relentless mobility, the defence repelling the danger, with stubborn rigidity.

There had been no room for stupidity, no desperation for popularity, no individual quest for celebrity status, just collective efficiency, from each of them, in pursuit for the immortality, which would come with success.

With a sense of responsibility, for club and country, they had fought with both maturity and dignity.

Now, only two minutes of regulation time were left, to define everything.

In this poor neighbourhood where they were created, exactly 45 years earlier, before transforming themselves into a giant of an institution, which made a mockery of their humble origins, they now faced their defining moment.

The challenge for these Glamour Boys was simple — win the game and they would be off to the semi-finals.

Then, they were awarded a free-kick, just outside the Zamalek penalty area.

The odds were firmly against the hosts, even with this dead ball opportunity and, as Rufaro held its collective breath, amid a wave of silent prayers, one man appeared to be standing on a secluded island, where everything was fine.

It was David Mandigora.

Some, inside the stadium, could barely watch as David Shoko started his run, swung his left foot, the connection with the ball appeared perfect, delivering the energy, which powered it, from its base on the surface.

Anyone who claims he or she saw the ball’s movement, from the time of its contact, with David’s boot to its destination, somewhere into the top corner of the Zamalek net, is a blatant liar.

Even the television cameras missed its flight.

The Egyptian wall never moved and neither did their goalkeeper.

Then, everyone saw the ball, it had nestled into the back of the Zamalek goal and, the explosion which erupted at Rufaro, must have shaken the Richter scale, used to measure the intensity of earthquakes.

There are moments in football, just like in life, which define heroes.

When time appears to stand still, frozen by the significance of the occasion, when nothing else appears to matter.

And, in the 88th minute, of the eighth month of the eighth year, of the new millennium, for David ‘’Yogi’’ Mandigora, and his fearless band of the Glamour Boys Class of 2008, it all came to pass.

In their eighth game, since they first met and eliminated the holders Etoile du Sahel, they reached out for the stars, and kissed the edges of immortality.

No one, who had the privilege of watching that game, especially what happened, in the 88th minute of that encounter, will ever forget what they saw.

In that moment, Yogi’s legacy, as a legendary player, and iconic coach, was sealed.

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 in the struggle.

Come on Warriors!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Khamaldinhoooooooooooooooooo!

Text Feedback: 0772545199

WhatsApp — 0772545199

Email — [email protected]; [email protected]

You can also interact with me on Twitter (@Chakariboy), Facebook, Instagram (sharukor) and Skype (sharuko58).