The Ball 2010

Hotel Barcelona, one would assume, in a football-mad town like Chefchaouen, might have some football connection. It does.

Mohammed at the Hotel Barcelona

Mohammed, the hotel manager loves his football. His eyes lit up when he saw The Ball.
“You must be a Barcelona fan,” I suggested, looking at the poster of FC Barcelona on the wall.
“No. No. No,” came the reply. And promptly off came his djelleba to reveal a Real Madrid sweater. “I am Real Madrid.”
“How can you work at Hotel Barcelona?”
“My dream is to work at Hotel Madrid,” he smiled.

Arriving with The Ball in Chefchaouen late on a damp and chilly Monday evening felt like we had stumbled upon a Star Wars convention. Hooded OB1-style djellabas everywhere on the street, coming out of every tiny poorly-lit alleyway, backstreet and in the cafés, restaurants and shops too. At first they look slightly intimidating; full of secrets and wizard-like magic.

City of djellabas

Suddenly, a jedi knight sprung out of his carpet shop, flipped his hood from his head to reveal a huge grin. He has seen something that he liked.

“Le Ballon” he said in French.
“The Ball” came the reply.
“Give me The Ball. Come,” he directed.

Chefchaouen’s Bob Dylan

We followed him into his shop out of the dark and the rain. The floor covered with sawdust. The walls displaying elaborate, colourful hand-made woollen carpets and clothing. It was time for keepie-uppie. Four guys, three djellabas and a ball.

Carpet shop team

We weren’t on the dark side anymore.

Just 45 minutes of intense bureaucracy and our first major border crossing is relatively painlessly behind us. Christian’s experience and expertise came in useful, as did a few small donations to border “helpers”. As this long day draws to an end, The Ball has begun the African leg of its journey.

The first sign of Africa’s World Cup

Despite the rain that is still falling, it feels great to be in Africa. The prospect of an amazing football pitch in the Rif mountains awaits us, 45 kilometers away in Chefchaouen.

On the road. In Morocco. In Africa.

“Hurray!” exclaims Christian as we speed down a newly constructed motorway to Tetouan. “We’ll be there in no time.” The most important word in Moroccan is “shukran” (thank you), he tell us. He’s been here before. Its a case of first time for me. And for The Ball.

The ferry from Algeciras led us to Ceuta. The swell was huge and the crossing much slower than usual. As we made our way from Europe to Africa we left Gibraltar trailing behind us and I couldn’t help but contemplate the time to come.

Sure, the worries were there: will I have enough dosh? Will I get sick? Will I lose The Ball? What will I do if my passport or bank cards get stolen?

Andrew passes Gibraltar

But the positive visualisations of Africa outshone the negative thoughts. I was glad to be leaving Europe and entering Africa. Winter in Europe is not the ideal place for random football encounters. Nor for street football. People in Western Europe might just be more interested in the thousands of other leisure options they have. The real journey is about to begin. I am expecting that much more football waits us in Africa.

Let The Ball roll.

Scrambling out of bed, packing frantically and heading off to Alice’s school. A presentation to the school assembly followed by children signing The Ball and a kick-about in the gym…

Children at the Laude school sign The Ball

The team at the Laude school

And then off again. On the road: driving through driving rain once more. It has been raining constantly for more than 12 hours now. Avoiding enormous puddles and dirty water rushing down from the hills, we finally arrive at the ferry terminal in Algeciras. It’s finally time to leave Europe.

Off to Gaucin on Sunday in search of the first recorded mention of football in Spain. After much hunting around we were directed to the Hotel Nacional.

Hotel Nacional in Gaucin

Inside, a guestbook apparently exists with the note in it written by a certain Captain W F Adams — but the hotel was closed and looked like it wasn’t likely to be opening again in the near future.

Gaucin hotel blind

Some doors won’t open and not all roads lead to Rome.

Andrew contemplates the view to Africa

Africa, however, is beckoning…

12 hours of driving from Vilanova i la Geltru across Spain and we arrive in Grenada. One night’s sleep and up again to find Grenada rained out. Game cancelled.

Christian soaking wet at the Alhambra

In any case, the clock was ticking again and we had to hit the road. Alice lives in Bel Air, just outside of Malaga and had offered to put The Ball and its carriers up for a couple of nights. As Christian covered the miles I prepared for the BBC World Service interview slightly nervous about the thought of 300 million listeners. A sigh of relief, interview completed in Alice’s laundry room, it was time for some southern Spanish coastal cuisine and some brillant company. The water and the conversation flowed.

Alice, Phil and family

Thank you for your great hospitality!

“Where is my bag? Where the — — is my bag?”
“What’s in the bag?”, I asked.
“Ohhhh, nothing important… just my filofax, my passport, my credit cards. Everything.”

Ironically, we’d just been listening to the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, whose cover says “Don’t Panic” in big friendly letters — but I was panicking. Christian seemed to be panicking too…

The sun had been shining and we had been making good progress towards Valencia. The Ball seemed happy enough too: it was still on a high after rolling around on the grass pitch-side at the Nou Camp yesterday.

A random pitch in Vilanova

We had stopped earlier as we were leaving Vilanova, a random football moment had suddenly appeared. Out of the car, camera at the ready, Christian put his bag down to kick The Ball. Elaborately-dressed children enjoying carnival season marched by singing and chanting. 150 kilometres later, ready to feed our caffeine habit, he realised he’d left his bag back there in the park.

After back-tracking to Vilanova, a friend who speaks Catalan called the police. And you know what? Someone had turned in the bag… And, nothing was missing…

Christian savours the good news

Bill Hicks liked to say that “life is a ride”… but our ride has taken us up and down this toll road two too many times today. As I write this we are speeding off along the coast towards Valencia — again. Adreneline is still rushing like the gusts of wind outside. What a ride it’s been today.

“It’s not Friday the 13th is it?”, asks Christian as I type away. He suggests paying a Homage to Catalunya for lettting him off so lightly for such a grave lapse of concentration… I tend to agree. The ride continues as we head south.

Friday the 12th — lucky for some.

The Ball in Barcelona

“Barca is not just a club, it is more than a club”, remarked our guide. His mother is Barca. His father is Barca. He is Barca. He has the honour and pleasure of being able to work for this great club. He is proud to be Barca.

The Camp Nou is not just any stadium, with a capacity of 98,000 it is Europe’s biggest. Fans flock from everywhere to pay their entrance fees and have their photos taken from the stands but very, very few are allowed to set foot on the field of play. At 10am a call was made to the press liason officer of FC Barcelona. The Ball wanted to visit the Camp Nou. Was it possible?

We turned up at 4pm at Barca TV. Minutes later we were out in the middle, next to the hallowed turf. Memories of the final minutes of the European Cup final in 1999 came flooding back — when Manchester United, in one of the all time great climaxes of the Champions League, defeated Bayern Munich with two extra time goals.

Christian at the Camp Nou

Andrew at the Camp Nou

As we drive away from Barcelona, Christian smiles: “We are in Spain. We just walked out onto the turf at the Nou Camp.” Not everyone gets to step out onto the hallowed Camp Nou turf. Thanks to The Ball and the generosity of FC Barcelona, we were able to.

“Jack is mad about football” said Chris Lunch, “he’s definitely up for something with The Ball. His football team are expecting you.” He certainly is mad about football, and very well versed in it. Last minute change of plan: coach ill and freezing cold outside- training had been cancelled. Instead, we were off to Carcassonne, 12 year old Jack on board, directing the way into the historic old town and philosophising about football.

Jack with Andrew in Carcassonne

An Irish mother, and an English father, living in the South West of France with with his Portuguese stepdad, he’s deeply religious: “Manchester United is my religion” he said at breakfast. He watches a lot of football with Paulo, an FC Porto fan who idolises one touch football and the beautiful game. Paulo has Portuguese cable tv — no problem for multi-lingual Jack to understand and anyway, football is a universal language. Jack wears a t-shirt emblazoned with the words: This is an authentic Christiano Ronaldo signature. It is. Paulo organised that.

But who is he going to support at the World Cup? France is out of the question after Thierry Henry’s handball nearly brought his mother to tears. Mother Una: “That was disgusting”, Henry will never be forgiven in Ireland. Jack likes Spain and Brazil but he’s probably going with England, mum is not exactly over the moon about that one either.