Outside and Off-side

I was in Standard Two of the Malay school Kluang and was slowly learning to take better care of myself at school. My mentor friend and protector, who was then in Standard Five, I think, had already taught me quite a number of survival tactics such as how to request for a lift from kindly old Sikh bullock-cart owner on a hot afternoon home; or walk slightly longer but cooler route through a shady path under huge, leafy if somewhat intimidating (in the late evening) "angsana" and “kayu ara” trees. From him too, I learned about football and how to play the game using rags, paper and even worn tennis balls salvaged from the tennis courts in town or at the club at Jalan Renggam. He himself was a school star player.

Football and rounders were about the only games I knew then but through the sheer size of the regulation football was to me quite daunting relative to my poor build, that did not stop me from taking great interest in the game. The inter-school matches always garnered massive support and interest from the local populace and such spectacles drew sizable crowds to the small school field. Other visiting school teams with fanciful names to me then included Pintas Puding, Bandar Penggaram and Kota Raja (from Singapore, I think). The most important personality in any team it seemed was not the coach or manager but a colourful slightly built man, usually with a bushy moustache who sat quietly, cross-legged at a choice spot (his choice), sometimes seen chanting and mumbling. He was the all-powerful “pawang” or shaman and one was engaged by each team. We all believed the more potent of the pawangs held sway as to which way the game went. There was even talk of these practitioners burying swine bones at a strategically magic spot to the detriment of the opposing team. If black magic is still a thriving and much sought after art now, what more in 1950?

From the mid-fifties onwards, football in Kluang town was given much boost by the appearance of teams from the various units in the British army camp at Jalan Hospital for the Kluang District League. I can remember vaguely teams from the R.E.M.E (Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers), R.E. (Royal Engineers), R.A. (Royal Artillery), R.A.S.C (Royal Army Services Corps), to be later joined by the Gurkha Rifles, and a local unit, the Malay Regiment, from Jalan Mersing. There were many more. Some of these British army teams had local players who worked as members of their units, naturally.

The Kluang civilians put up teams from the Medical Services, Kluang Malays, Chinese and Indians besides others. There were also teams from the estates, notably Pamol Estate, Elias and Kahang Estate and these valiant fighters were fondly remembered for their sportsmanship and love for the game despite returning home with huge deficits of goal scores that did not dent their spirits. Blackwood was a name that struck fear into the robust hearts of opposing defenders as was an amiable, cheerful Gurung. The former was from an army unit called the Scottish Borderers or something to that effect, whilst you don’t have to guess it, the latter, from the Gurkhas.

Football games were entertaining. Besides the thrills, spills and colours lent by the different attire and personalities, some army units brought along their regimental bands to play before the game and during the half-time. The bagpipes provided the more moving and at times melancholy moments of the dazzling presentations. The locals learned English the fun way including some unprintable, inevitably from the white supporters. I suggest a title “English at play” for anyone who contemplates dwelling on writing about language learning in this situation. It took me sometime to differentiate between outside and offside and at first I thought the captain of any team, was always the centre-forward. The centre-forwards are obsolete now, are they? Not to be outdone, the foreigners could be heard yelling “curi ayam” for offsides committed by the opposing teams. Not bad for cultural exchanges and linguistic diplomacy. Miraculously there were no fights during the inter-racial team games despite the name callings bordering on the obscene. Such tolerance!

Whilst most army ‘chaps’ were noisy and boisterous, the Gurkhas gained my respect for discipline and decorum even then! Supporters from the army units always came to the padang in their green trucks but the similarities ended there. The Gurkhas were always trim and proper with white long-sleeved shirts, ties, grey pants neatly pressed, and shiny black shoes. They quietly dropped off their vehicles in turn and immediately lined up to buy their twenty-cent tickets for the seats. Their cheerings, and applause were measured and disciplined, nothing bawdy or instigating. They left the grounds in a single file and the motion was reversed for their orderly return journey.

The padang had gunny sacks strung up the fencing to encourage more paying fans into the arena. Estate supporters merely stood on their convertible open lorries for an unobstructed view of the game. Young boys, me not exuded, were often let into the field for free by sympathetic guards stationed at gaping holes over uneven ground or large drains. The ten cents saved for the free standing tickets could be better-off used for a valid packet of “kacang putih”.

Legendary players like Awang baker, Dol Fattah, Rahim Omar from across the causeway graced the lips of all football buffs then. Homegrowns who kept the crowds enraptured were Mohd. Noor Khamis, Cheng Kok and much later Ungku Ismail (there were two of them), and Ali Radin of Batu Pahat. Ali’s placed kicks were deadly and despite his petite build was a tireless and menacing weaver who harassed poor exasperated backliners to the final whistle. We enjoyed many inter-district and inter-state games too, Kluang probably given the honour of being the venue due to her central location in the Johor state. Visiting teams included those from Hong Kong and India, who played barefooted yet gave our home team a tough time. The Kluang District team was a formidable one and the players, all amateurs, got their rewards simply through the love of the game and being the toast of the town.

I particularly looked forward to the games during the fasting month of Ramadhan for it somehow erased the thought of breaking fast time. As soon as the game ended, I who was always entrusted to buy the ice block (at ten cents, naturally) for chilling our drinks, rushed straight to the ice stall. I had ample time to reach home and a good bath before breaking fast. I was then in my early teens.

I did not make the school team in my secondary school years because there were simply too many better ones around who virtually camped on the school field every evening and for long hours during the weekends. Tuition classes were unknown then nor were there such electronic gadgetry as prevailing commonly now and “lepak” is a very recent phenomenon coined to welcome the affluent generation.

Perhaps our only other distraction then was the jukebox spinning songs by Presley, Cliff Richards, Russ Hamilton and Anneke Gronloh. Even then our idols with their football wizardry continued to inspire us and they came in the form of giants like Abdul Ghani Minhat, Edwin Dutton, Stanly Gabriel, Sexton Lourdes and Arthur Koh of the swinging sixties.

Twice upon a time...

During my schooldays in the 5os, especially in the earlier years, our class readers were filled with didactic tales or what is now fashionably called stories with moral values. Understandably, at a time when the nouveau riche were as yet but a distant dream and "the middle class" was a rather alien term, those with money were black and the poor, to put it very simply white and pure. It was in the second group the less fortunate, that the great majority of Malayans then belonged.

Two such stories I would like to share illustrate the theme common amongst the stories of the period. One involved a poor woodcutter (they have always been) who tore the expensive silk sleeve of a wealthy man as they passed each other on a very narrow kampong path (why the rich man for all his worth wanted to grace the God-forsaken countryside was never explained by the writer though). Of course I forgot to add that the poor hardworking peasant was carrying a huge load of unevenly cut wood on his shoulder. Hence the accident.

Anyway, there was a hearing in front of the Penghulu. The aggrieved party went with great length as to his loss, demanding a hefty compensation over the woodcutter's rash act. The plaintiff even demonstrated in great detail the brief encounter he had with the woodcutter who it seemed did not bother to take evasive action, resulting in his loss of a very new suit.

Finished with the aggrieved one, the Penghulu turned to the poor man for his version. But he only used sign language which to the all present was quite difficult to comprehend. They did not call for or perhaps did not have sign-language experts then. The more the Penghulu tried to extract information from him, the wilder became the poor man's body language. Finally he asked the accused, "Are you dumb, my man?"

Seeing this, the rich man got very agitated, "No!" he screamed. The Penghulu was not a modern-day judge however. So he could not come down on the man's unjustified behaviour with a contempt of court ruling. All he said, patiently was, "You mean he can speak?"

"Yes," thundered the great man arrogantly. "I heard him say something when we met on that little path. He can talk! He is only pretending to gain your sympathy!"

"And just what did he say then?" asked the Penghulu.

"He said, 'Please give way! Take care! I'm carrying thorny stumps!'" answered the rich man angrily.


Yet another tale I am fond of re-telling children under any charge in school involved another judge, this one had real tail. No pranks here, and I am not disrespectful to the decorum and sanctity of the august courtroom where his lordship had decreed many a wise decision. The title is "A Monkey's Judgement".

It seemed that two friends tilled a common land. Amongst the shared crop was the banana. One unusually luxuriant plant caught their attention and they eagerly awaited the bananas to mature. Come harvesting time, they, being the meticulous and peace-caring citizens that they were with the added virtue of knowing their legal rights, counted their ripened bunch fruit by fruit to determine their exact share. The bananas were equally shared according to number, size and weight, and point of ripeness, to their fullest satisfaction. There remained one odd banana out, nevertheless. This was the most succulent, the largest, the best-looking and certainly the prized one.

Neither would part with the banana of bananas. They agreed on arbitration. The villagers advised the two friends to hand over the banana to the poorest man in the kampung. It could well feed his family of five for a day, in view of the enormity. The plan was rejected.

Finally the village elders decided to let the case be in the hands of a banana expert. It was a wise old monkey, who of course in that time of history understand human language. More importantly, he was a very fair judge who had on numerous occasions settled village disputes to the satisfaction of the parties concerned. The two friends (they swore they were still friends) agreed.

Having heard the pleas from both sides on judgement day, the learned judge gave the verdict that the banana be cut into two equal halves. He did just that, cutting the banana cleanly and precisely into two. He was after all, the wise one. However, one of the friends complained that his piece was a wee-bit smaller, to which His Lordship merely took off a slice from the other piece with his courtly knife, peeled off the skin and popped it into his mouth. Then it was the turn of the other complainant to claim dissatisfaction and the patient arbitrator repeated his act with the same firmness. Neither of the two would accept his share at any time in the solemn proceedings that followed and the process of reducing the size of the banana went on with each little piece finally ending in the judge's little chamber to be further processed.

The two farmers ended with nothing. They moved to have the wise judge disqualify himself but the case had ended and so had the succulent banana. Any further action even with the benefit of counsel would be deemed irrelevant anyway.