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Sharuko On Saturday

WITH time, it has translated into something like a spiritual calling — for me to be the one who keeps telling their tragic story, again and again and, by doing so, hoping to honour their memory.

It has become something like an obsession — for me to be the one who keeps rewinding the story, again and again, so that it doesn’t get lost along the way, in the mist of the passage of time.

It has become something close to a crusade — for me to be the one who keeps turning back the hands of time, to that place and time, when the worst disaster in our sports history occurred.

So that, even as time flies by, the names of those who perished don’t fade away, to be consumed by the files of history, cast into the shadows of mystery and forgotten by the memory of man.

And, even as the seasons change, their faces aren’t swept away by the changing tide, and forgotten by the recollection of humanity. So that, even as new heroes emerge, and other stories are crafted and told, they remain a big part of our history, of our adventure and of our journey.

A reminder of the darkness, without which light loses its meaning, a reminder of the tragedy, without which triumph loses its significance, a reminder of death, without which life loses its importance, a reminder of love, without which hate amplifies, and immortalises, its influence.

For us to keep asking the questions, even when no one can provide the answers, because that’s the way it is, and the way it should be.

Like why the number 13?

The exact number of World Cups (13) which, by the time we got our Independence in 1980, would have been held had two tournaments, in ‘42 and ‘46, not be called off because of World War II.

The exact number of World Cups (13) which have held since we made our debut appearance, in the qualifiers for this tournament, in 1969 against the Socceroos of Australia. The exact number of South African players, who were thrust into battle that fateful day, in that ill-fated 2002 World Cup showdown.

And, the exact number of matches, if we take away the drawn two games, which we get in the head-to-head battles between the Warriors and Bafana Bafana.

Seven wins for the Warriors, six for Bafana Bafana.

The jersey number which Adam Ndlovu, a symbol of both tragedy and greatness when it comes to our football, used to wear during his distinguished service to his motherland.

The number of years which his brother, Peter, who escaped from that horrific crash with injuries, and nightmares which will last a lifetime, spent playing professional football in England.

And, of course, the number of years which Peter spent, playing a leading role for the Warriors, before finally finding a way, as captain, to drag his country to their first AFCON finals when qualification was finally achieved in 2003.

On Friday the 13th, in October, 1972, a plane carrying a Uruguayan rugby team crashed in the Andres and 17, of the 45 people on board, died instantly.

Twenty eight people initially survived the crash and, in 72 days spent high up the mountains, the survivors were forced to eat their deceased colleagues, just for them to make it to another day.

By the time rescue came, two months later, only 16 people were still alive.

On Friday the 13th, November, 1970, the deadliest tropical cyclone, in history, smashed onto the shores of Bangladesh.

By the time it passed, the Category 3 hurricane had killed, at least, 300 000 people with one district of the Asian country having about half of its population wiped out.

Even Apollo 13 failed to land on the moon, in 1970, after an oxygen tank failed on the spacecraft.

According to biblical tradition, there were 13 guests at the dinner table during the Last Supper, Jesus and his 12 disciples, including one, Judas Iscariot, who betrayed him.

The next day, Good Friday, our Lord and Saviour was crucified.

TWENTY YEARS LATER, THE PAIN OF THE LOSS STILL FEELS UNBEARABLE

I have always wondered why, for one reason or another, eight Manchester United players ended up dying in that Munich air crash in February 1958.

Exactly the same number as the journalists, who also died on that plane, covering the Red Devil’s successful adventure that had seen them move into the semi-finals of the European Cup.

That’s also exactly the same number of the players, among the nine players who survived that horror crash, who have died since that darkest day in the Red Devils history.

Nine was also the jersey number Bobby Charlton, the only player from that plane crash who lives to this day, wore when England won their only World Cup in 1966 and, when he finally retired from football, it was also the jersey number he was using.

Frank Taylor was the only football writer, who escaped from that horror crash with his life, the other two — Peter Howard and Ted Ellyard — were photographers.

Somehow, fate had, in a dark way, managed to ensure one of the football writers would live to tell the grim tale, and how the dreams of such a promising bunch of footballers, were cruelly quashed.

Taylor, who died on July 19, 2002, at the age of 81, after losing his battle with cancer, captured the story of that Munich disaster in his classic book, “The Day A Team Died.’’

On the south eastern corner of Old Trafford, there is a clock that has remained permanently stopped, with its time reading 3:04pm, the time the plane crashed, while the words, “Feb, 6th, 1958,’’ are at the top and “Munich’’ at the bottom of the frozen time.

What this means is that, no matter what happens, no matter what they win, no matter what they lose, the Red Devils will never forget the flowers of Munich.

Thirty five years later, on April 27, 1993, a chartered Zambian military plane came down just off the coast of Gabon, killing 18 of the finest Zambian footballers of all-time, their coaches, supporting staff and everyone on board.

A week earlier, journalist Beauty Lupiya had accompanied Chipolopolo to an AFCON qualifier against Mauritius, on the same plane and, on the flight back home, she spoke to rising star, Kelvin Mutale, who had scored a hattrick during the match.

Mutale, somehow, told Lupiya even if the plane crashed, as it struggled to gain altitude, they’d be safe because it would float in the Indian Ocean but the journalist reminded the footballer plane crashes usually didn’t have such fairytale endings.

Lupiya didn’t travel with the team, for the ill-fated flight to Senegal, and while Mutale died in that plane crash in Gabon, the journalist remained to tell the grim story.

By the time you read this blog, next Saturday, exactly 20 years would have passed since chaos exploded at the National Sports Stadium, after police fired teargas into the crowded bays and, when the madness was over, 13 Warriors fans lay dead.

Or, were about to die.

Scores of others, including some who would be maimed for life, were injured.

In a matter of minutes, in which mayhem transformed the giant stadium into a cage of death, the darkest day, in the history of Zimbabwean sport, had just been scripted.

Alec Dean Fidesi, then just six at the time, was the youngest to die and his fresh face has become the defining image of that tragedy.

On that afternoon, our football saw its soul as it was devoured by a combination of events with a tragic ending, and being one of those who lived through that tragedy, one of those who covered it, and talked to a number of families who lost their loved ones, I have always felt it’s my responsibility, just like Frank Taylor and Beauty Lupiya, to tell this grim story.

To keep alive the memory of those who perished that day, to keep reminding the new generation of Warriors fans that a group of supporters, 13 in number, once went to cheer their boys in a World Cup qualifier against Bafana Bafana, but never went back home to tell their stories.

To honour the memory of those who died that day because, in choosing to go and support their country, and ending up being killed for doing that, they also paid the ultimate sacrifice which only a true patriot can choose to do.

DON’T WORRY DEAN, I WILL ALWAYS SING IN YOUR CORNER

They might not have chosen their path, fate ruled for them, but the worst we can do, especially those of us who lived through that tragedy, and became its official witnesses and, in some way, its victims — because we also have had to deal with the psychological burden of seeing some of our fellow citizens dead, or dying — is to forget their sacrifice.

It would be the ultimate betrayal.

And, while some of our football leaders, many of them fly-by-night opportunists who just come into this game for the money, and not for what it represents, and who probably don’t even know such a tragedy happened, have forgotten them, we must never follow their evil path.

Because, doing that, would be shaming the memory of an innocent soul like Alec Dean Fidesi who, even though he was still six, had long understood the importance of a national cause, the virtues of supporting your national football team and the purity of standing toe-to-toe with his heroes, in that stadium, on a united mission.

Today, his grave lies at Marondera’s Paradise Cemetery, just another reminder of the dead,  just another person we lost, forgotten by his country, betrayed by the game he loved with all his heart and, for which, he paid the ultimate price.

No one knows what Dean would have become today, had fate been kinder to him, and he had lived to this day, which wouldn’t have been a big ask, given he would have been just 26.

But, we can only imagine and, I can tell you, it hurts.

After all, he was born in the same year as Marvelous Nakamba and no one can say he might not have scaled similar heights, becoming a multi-millionaire football star.

He was born in the same year as Emre Can, Eric Dier, Jordan Pickford, Eric bailly, John Stones, Bruno Fernandes, Yerry Mina and Raheem Sterling, the kids of ’94, who have become superstar footballers today because, unlike Dean, fate didn’t deal them a cruel blow.

And, cut their lives, when they were mere six-year-olds.

He could have been as good as Trezeguet, the Egyptian footballer who was also born in 1994, whose only goal, in that 2019 AFCON finals Group A opener, consigned the Warriors to defeat.

In a strange way, he represented the generation that came just after the wild nights, and unforgettable days, we enjoyed during the Dream Team’s ’94 World Cup/AFCON campaign, came to an end.

It was the end of an era and, as new babies arrived in the country in 1994, free from the burden of what we had carried during years of repeated failure, this was also supposed to mark the beginning of a new era.

One which, exactly 10 years after our failure in ’93, ended in success in 2003 when Peter Ndlovu and Sunday Chidzambwa, at long last, found a way to lead us to the AFCON finals.

Sadly, for Dean, he didn’t live long enough to see it, his young life taken away in such brutal fashion, three years earlier, at the giant stadium.

Next week, the clock will mark 20 years after that disaster and, while our football leaders can forgot those we lost that day, for those of us who lived through that disaster, doing so will be a betrayal of their memory and sacrifice.

That’s why I will always sing in Dean’s corner, the boy who was born in the same year as pop star Justin Bieber, but never lived long enough to become a man.

To God Be The Glory!

Peace to the GEPA Chief, the Big Fish, George Norton and all the Chakariboys in the struggle.

Come on United!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Bruno, Bruno, Bruno, Bruno, Bruno, Bruno!

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You can also interact with me on Twitter — @Chakariboy, Facebook, Instagram — sharukor and every Wednesday night, at 9.45pm, when I join the legendary Charles “CNN’’ Mabika and producer Craig “Master Craig’’ Katsande on the ZBC television magazine programme, “Game Plan”