“Thank you for inviting me. I’m here to explain to you the importance of football.” The man in the suit stood on the stage with a mike in one hand, and in the other, shoulder high, a soccer ball.
We were at a celebration dinner for all the projects for marginalised adults in Luton UK, funded, with gratitude, by Europe. There was gardening for recovering mentally ill, health activities for mothers and babies, teaching English to newcomers (my job), working with the elderly, and many others –opportunities for all kinds of people who are usually lost under the headlines, whom our government wasn’t reaching. We were sitting at round tables in a huge dining hall.
“Why football? you ask”. Well, I didn’t, for one. His opening remarks did nothing for me. Football was a fanatic-filled single-minded bunch of people who said “we” or “my” team when their feet had never once touched the football grounds in their lives, but offered endless opinions on what a manager should/shouldn’t do. I smiled with the rest, expecting to use the time to study the reactions of others. [I had much to learn.]
There was no doubt in the minds of any of us here that this man should be the keynote speaker. He was breaking down the hatred between the warring tribes of Luton – stopping the destruction of each other’s territory, the cruel signs, human excrement shoved into letter boxes, and all the grim things that had challenged both police and priest in these areas. He was gaining success and was now training players to become referees – training sessions with mixed tribes, of course.
He had noticed that mothers were bringing their young sons to play football, then waiting until they could be taken home after the session. What a waste of women’s time, he thought. Could he get girls playing football? He could. But first he had to clear the football grounds of men. Thursdays, then, became Women and Girls’ Day. All men safely cleared from the grounds, except two – himself, and one to move the goal posts. Once the young girls started playing, he was ready to train some of the mothers to be referees. His was, by far, the most successful European funded project in Luton.
Now, here he was standing strong and confident as he looked at the rest of us around the room, still crushed under the brutal shock of the Brexit vote, knowing we’d no longer have projects like these again. As usual, it would be the already-neglected people who would suffer the most.
“Why Football?” he repeated. We waited. “I will show you. When I blow the whistle, I will throw this ball to the nearest table and it is your job to catch the ball and pass it to the next table as fast as possible. Can you do that in one minute? When each table has received and passed the ball on, throw it to me up here on the stage. Don’t worry. I’m a footballer. I will catch it.”
The whistle blew. It was all of us against him. We would show him! We could get it around before the whistle blew again! Excitement and energy mounted. With hope-filled hearts we watched it whizz from table to table, daring it not to be dropped or fumbled or slowed down in any way. Some of us were poised, ready to receive it and speed it on.
What a relief, when, before the whistle blew again, it went sailing up to the stage and was deftly caught one-handed by the speaker.
“Well done!” he exclaimed. “Now, look around the room. Which person, at each table, threw the ball?”
Silence. Then embarrassed laughter. We didn’t know. All eyes were on the ball.
You know, I keep thinking of this guy whose name I can’t remember. I know he went on to say that when there’s vital, total involvement in gaining control of the football, it is impossible to see anything or anyone else of the people around you. Whatever you think of your team mates, or the opposing team, all eyes have to be on the ball. And that is “why football”.
I wonder where he is now.
That, of course was years ago. But the incident keeps coming back to me. Perhaps it has somehow expanded my heart, to encourage me to think how I hear the truth, no matter where it’s coming from. Maybe I need to learn not to dismiss automatically before they speak, the stupid, irritating, self-centred idiotic egoists. Maybe they, too, offer the truth sometimes. Through all my prejudices, may I not be deafened to hear it.
I made up this recipe as one of three soups served at a Bread-and-Soup supper, and everyone (meat gnashers included) liked it the best. (Note. The picture is not my soup. The camera has lost all the photos of my cooking process. Arrrgh!)
Mushroom Soup
(Vegan?)
Ingredients
Dried mushrooms, coconut oil, fresh mushrooms, onion, leek, celery, stock, water, coconut milk, herb seasoning, salt and pepper. Ground almonds for thickening. Sherry (optional).
Break up 40 g (about 1 ½ ozs, perhaps half a cup) dried mushrooms into a bowl. Pour on a pint of boiling water. Wait until the mushrooms turn flabby, the water cool enough to handle mushrooms, then squeeze them over a sieve, saving as much of the dark water as possible. Chop roughly.
Chop an onion, a leek, and a celery stick. Melt 2 tablespoons coconut oil in a heavy bottomed pan. Fry vegetables with the soaked mushrooms gently without browning, for ten minutes.
Slice 340gm (12 ozs) maybe 2 cups’ worth fresh mushrooms and add to the vegetable mixture. Cook gently for 5 – 7 minutes. Add 1 tsp herbes de provence, or dried thyme, and salt and pepper. Cook for about 10 minutes more.
Add 1 pint mushroom soaking water and 3 vegetable stock cubes or stock pots. Bring to a simmer. Ensure everything is fully cooked on very low heat.
Remove from heat. Whizz up with a stick blender until it is one smooth, glorious, brown sludge. Return to heat and add 2 cans of coconut milk. Heat. If it is too runny, thicken with a couple of tablespoons of ground almonds. On very low heat, stir until rich and creamy looking. Serve hot.
ADD? Some people like to add 2 tablespoons of sherry to their mushroom soup. Whatever you do to adjust this recipe, I’d love to hear from you. Add your thoughts in the Comments section.
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