The Header » Zambia: Champions of Africa

You could not write a better underdog narrative than the one that played out Sunday afternoon in the Africa Cup of Nations Final. Glory be! For those of you either 1) fixated on Luis Suarez’s unfathomable, despicable decision not to shake Patrice Evra’s hand before the Liverpool/Manchester United game; or 2) shaking your head in wonderment over the shitshow that was the Grammy’s, take heart in what the Zambian national team accomplished.

In 1993, on the way to a world cup qualifier in Dakar, Senegal, all but one player in the Zambian first team perished in a plane crash just 500 yards from the shore of Libreville, Gabon, where the final was played on Sunday. That player, Kalusha Bwalya — by far the team’s best player — was traveling to the game from Europe where he plied his trade at PSV Eindhoeven (the only Zambian player to find professional work outside the country). Now the president of the Football Association of Zambia, he was on hand on Sunday when Zambia improbably beat by far the best team measured by the talent assembled — Côte d’Ivoire. Zambia, a team whose entire squad plays in the country’s domestic league beat a team populated with high-priced talent, trained and vetted in the best leagues in Europe. In penalty kicks. Eight of them.

The game lacked much flair and drama (save Didier Dogba shanking a penalty kick, field-goal high in regulation time), but the winning did not. The Zambian coach carried Joseph Musonda (34 years old), who had been injured after fifteen minutes and left the pitch crying because he could play no longer, back onto the field to celebrate with his team. The team then congregated in a circle chanting, seemingly in prayer, before ultimately doing what looked very much like a New Zealand style “Haka.”

I say “looked like” because the game I saw was streamed through a cruddy computer connection at one of the best-known-soccer bars in New York City. Mainstream TV channels did not carry it, but undeterred, we improvised: a computer was hooked up to one of the televisions and poorly-pixilated futbol was had by whatever streams/feeds folks could offer. It was crud. It was glorious.

I sat next to a friend of a friend with deep ties to Côte d’Ivoire who knew his players, their histories, and their pitfalls. Me, I knew barely anything about the Zambian players but rooting for them was a non-issue. Years ago, I rode across the Zambia-Zimbabwe border on the back of a flat-bed truck frantically trying to hold onto big oil drums while the truck drove through the switch backs down into a desolate, breathtaking valley. Loud buoyant music was playing in the cab. Incandescent. Once in a lifetime. Like the Zambian victory.