[Note: I’m posting another “series” on this blog. All entires are written by Simran. Most of us went thru the same cycle while growing up. It’s a good read.]
On the southwest coast of Penang Island lies Ferringhi beach, a long stretch of sparkling white sand, wooden sampans, hotel resorts and middle aged white male tourists wearing tiny Speedos and showcasing their bulging bellies. You’d see stray mongrel dogs dozing off in the sun and on lazy Sundays, bronzed skin Chinese fishermen would be smoking Dunhills and playing checkers in the shade. I live a stone’s throw away from that beach in the sleepy neighbourhood of Hillside (Tanjung Bungah).
There was a small field in Hillside that was only the size of 2 backyards, but for us boys, it was like playing at Old Trafford. It was my second home, a place where I would spend most of my afternoons with my Chinese mates – Ah Gan, Chi Tuck, Kok Meng, Ian, Kheng Chuan and the others. Kicking the ball around until the sun went down. We called ourselves the Hillside gang.
Tall oak trees encircled the small grounds; you could see the roots reaching out of the ground like giant tentacles, so we used the trees as our boundary. Six huge, circular flowerpots covered the field, so we improvised by chipping the ball over the pots. There were no goalposts, so out slippers became makeshift small goals. Hobbit goals. I mean, who wants to play goalkeeper when you’re a kid? You’d be bored to death. The backs of our fake ‘Made in Thailand’ jerseys were blazoned with the names of Eric Cantona or Ian Wright, not David Seaman or Peter Schmeichel.
Those were the golden years of my life.
Losing countless balls up in those trees,
Kicking the ball straight into somebody’s house and jumping over their fence to get it back, these are the memories that are etched in my skull. We played the same field all through high-school. And those Chinese boys have been my best friends for at least 10 years now. But I think the best lesson I learnt on that pitch was not to give a sh*t about race or religion.
On the southwest coast of Penang Island lies Ferringhi beach, a long stretch of sparkling white sand, wooden sampans, hotel resorts and middle aged white male tourists wearing tiny Speedos and showcasing their bulging bellies. You’d see stray mongrel dogs dozing off in the sun and on lazy Sundays, bronzed skin Chinese fishermen would be smoking Dunhills and playing checkers in the shade. I live a stone’s throw away from that beach in the sleepy neighbourhood of Hillside (Tanjung Bungah).
There was a small field in Hillside that was only the size of 2 backyards, but for us boys, it was like playing at Old Trafford. It was my second home, a place where I would spend most of my afternoons with my Chinese mates – Ah Gan, Chi Tuck, Kok Meng, Ian, Kheng Chuan and the others. Kicking the ball around until the sun went down. We called ourselves the Hillside gang.
Tall oak trees encircled the small grounds; you could see the roots reaching out of the ground like giant tentacles, so we used the trees as our boundary. Six huge, circular flowerpots covered the field, so we improvised by chipping the ball over the pots. There were no goalposts, so out slippers became makeshift small goals. Hobbit goals. I mean, who wants to play goalkeeper when you’re a kid? You’d be bored to death. The backs of our fake ‘Made in Thailand’ jerseys were blazoned with the names of Eric Cantona or Ian Wright, not David Seaman or Peter Schmeichel.
Those were the golden years of my life.
Losing countless balls up in those trees,
Kicking the ball straight into somebody’s house and jumping over their fence to get it back, these are the memories that are etched in my skull. We played the same field all through high-school. And those Chinese boys have been my best friends for at least 10 years now. But I think the best lesson I learnt on that pitch was not to give a sh*t about race or religion.
Written by,
Simran Latif
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