When Football Was Heard, Not Seen

By Mareb Al-Ward

Since my childhood, football had found its way into my heart in a way that’s hard to describe. I didn’t first come to know it through stadiums or clubs, but rather through the television screen — through Japanese anime that filled us with passion and the spirit of competition. And that unforgettable series — Captain Tsubasa — was the spark that lit it all. I watched it with eyes glowing with dreams, as if I were living inside it — running, celebrating, and grieving with every scene. From there, my love for football began to take root deep within me, becoming part of my daily life: beside the house, in the alleys of our neighborhood, and later on the school playground, especially during middle school.

One of the things I loved most was accompanying my father on his weekly trips to the city for shopping. Sometimes I went after much pleading, and sometimes when he saw me sad, he decided to cheer me up by taking me along. We used to travel in a Toyota Land Cruiser from the late 1970s or early 1980s, driving along a dusty road that stretched from our village to the district center or to a nearby city in another province.

Upon arrival, my father would sometimes leave me in a small shop or a pharmacy owned by one of his acquaintances from the village, while he went around the markets buying household needs. Those moments I spent alone in the city were magical to me — I would watch people around me, listen to the noise of vendors, and gaze at the faces moving under the noon sun. But what fascinated me most were those who carried newspapers in their hands. One paper in particular caught my attention — a colorful sports newspaper called Al-Riyadah, published every Sunday by the Al-Thawra Press Foundation in Sana’a. To me, it was a window into a distant world — a constant source of wonder.

I often wondered how that newspaper even reached us! When I asked someone, he told me it could be bought from a kiosk. I didn’t understand the word at first until he pointed to a small stand near the Economic Corporation and another by a well-known resort. In our district center, there were no kiosks — just one bookstore called Maktabat Al-Amal (“Bookstore of Hope”) that sold a few newspapers and school supplies.

The problem was always time. The village cars, and those from nearby villages, usually returned before noon, while newspapers from Sana’a arrived late, carried by public transport vehicles. I lived through an indescribable childish anxiety: would I arrive in time to get my copy, or would I miss it? When luck was on my side and I managed to find it, I felt as if I had won a prize. But when the seller smiled apologetically and said, “It’s sold out,” it was enough to extinguish the joy of my entire day.

From those colorful pages, I learned the names of teams and players, memorized match schedules and league standings. I followed the Shaab Ibb team with particular passion — it represented my home province and was one of Yemen’s strongest clubs at the time, supplying the national teams with top talents. That small newspaper became my mirror to the great world I longed to belong to.

Yet despite all I read, one simple question kept echoing in my mind: How can I actually watch the matches? Television didn’t broadcast them then — until I discovered that the radio was my only possible gateway. I begged my father to buy me a radio, and he did — a Panasonic. That was the beginning of a new chapter in my relationship with football.

The batteries were a constant struggle. My mother thought buying them was wasteful, but I insisted — believing that those voices coming from the airwaves mattered more than anything else. Every Thursday or Friday felt like a small holiday. Around three-thirty in the afternoon, I’d climb to the roof of our house perched on a small hill, carrying my radio and searching for a signal. Radio Sana’a had the strongest reception, followed by Radio Aden and then Taiz. I would adjust the dial, tilting the device slightly until I caught the voice of the late commentator Salem Bashaeeb, with his warm tone and unique cadence.

And once he began commentating, time itself seemed to stop: no sound existed but his, and no image but the one my imagination painted of the players on the field. Sometimes the broadcast would weaken or cut off, but I never gave up — I’d adjust the radio, turning it right and left in search of a frequency that brought life back to my ears.

Those small moments — filled with waiting, wonder, and fragile connection — shaped within me an undying love for football. A love unlike any other game — one that feels more like memory itself. It’s the story of a lifetime that began on the roof of a small village house, and whose echo still lingers in my heart to this day.