 Behind Amjadieh
Part four- last
By Hooshyar F. Naraghi
November 2, 2003
The Iranian
The following is the
last part of a story about playing soccer in the the middle
of the streets of Tehran. The original text was written
in
Persian
for a high school composition class in 1971 in Iran. Amjadieh
is the name of the oldest football stadium in the heart of
Tehran. It is no longer in active use because most
soccer games are now held in the 100,000-seat Azadi
(Liberty) Stadium.
We were scheduled to take an Algebra test on a
particular Tuesday afternoon. Our teacher had called in sick
that day. He was a college student accustomed to skipping more
classes than his own students! We had been orchestrating a critical
match for some time. The absence of the teacher meant the game
could be scheduled for that very afternoon. The anticipation
of a cheerful and competitive game was the source of great
excitement.
Before we were released from class, Mr. Tabrizi
summoned all of us in the school yard. In a grave tone that was
typical of
him, he shared the news of the Algebra teacher's illness. This
meant we were being released early today. He asked us to take
advantage of the additional time to better prepare for the test.
Mr. Tabrizi also made sure to emphasize that this
free time was not to be wasted aimlessly and idly on the streets.
He had no
tolerance for such behavior. None what-so-ever! In order to catch
and discipline those of us too unruly to obey, he had planted
a number of informers.
Although the nodding of our heads in unison
acknowledged Mr. Tabrizi's sermon, our collective eyes were fixed
on Naser the
Bear. He had actually concealed the ball under his big overcoat!
One deep look into the students' eyes and one knew for sure that
Mr. Tabrizi's array of barked orders were not sinking in. Our
thoughts were racing toward the game and its final outcome. We
all seemed genuinely in awe of Mr. Tabrizi and respectful of
his orders. We somehow managed to keep a straight face and actually
look quite innocent.
Mr. Tabrizi continued his tirade by mentioning
the neighbors' complaints. He threatened to personally expel
anyone caught playing
football on the street. He wanted us to go straight home like
well-behaved students. In order to lend credence to his threats,
Mr. Tabrizi chose to direct his attention toward one of the students
by the name of Amir Aslani. This one happened to be our goalkeeper.
He told Amir that such games were not tolerated
at all! Amir assumed one of his most innocent
looks, and in his squeaky
adolescent voice, he replied that he did not even know how to
play football. Hardly able to keep ourselves from bursting into
laughter,
we filed out of the school premises one by one. Only a few short
steps away from school and we were already engaged in jokes about
Mr. Tabrizi. That always brought general laughter as we proceeded
behind Amjadieh in perfect formation, like a military platoon.
The goal posts were set within seconds, the ball
pressure was inspected and approved by Naser the Bear, and a
few rocks were
collected from the middle of the street in order to clear the
surface completely. What a great joy!
All the players seemed to be getting ready for
a life-or-death battle. My friend Hasanpoor hung his jacket on
an old hook on
a neighbor's wall. I laid my books to rest inside the opening
of a cement streetlight. My other friend Farzin was tucking his
pants into his socks in a rather hasty manner. The game began
in earnest. The thought of school and Mr. Tabrizi's so-called
speech were soon left behind. Our concentration was mobilized
toward the championship. We were on a winning streak.
The game was approaching its end, when I suddenly
noticed a white car veering into the street. My heart skipped
a beat as soon
as it dawned on me this was none other than Mr. Tabrizi's old
VW bug!
All I could muster was a distress call to my partners
in crime: "Hey
guys! It's Mr. Tabrizi. Scram! Get the hell out of here!" Suddenly
hell broke loose. We had been ambushed. Everyone started making
a run for it and dispersing like retreating infantry. Mr. Tabrizi
parked his car swiftly. He jumped out and began grabing anyone
who crossed his path. All this was done while reciting a string
of his all too familiar abusive verse.
Farzin, a usually
shy boy, opted to run downhill while holding his books in front
of his face. He was intent on maintaining his anonymity. I found
the situation extremely awkward. I decided to abandon my books,
and dive into the empty and narrow canal as if my life depended
on it. And being a veteran recipient of Mr. Tabrizi's wrath,
my life did in fact depend on it.
As far as poor Amir was concerned, he was captured
by Mr. Tabrizi. He was now a prisoner
of war. Fortunately for me, the noise of the copious
beatings
he was in the process of receiving from Mr. Tabrizi was louder
than the drum-like sound of my own heart.
"You scum of a liar! Is this how you keep
your promises? Didn't I order you not to play football?"
"Sir, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do that.
See, I didn't want to play, but these guys forced me!"
Amir's
words were still ringing in my ears, when I finally gathered
the courage to make a run for it. I could not stay there
all night! I sprung from my ditch and made a dash toward the
end of the street. I pretended to be Jesse Owens, the Olympic
runner I had admired on television a few years back.
Once I was near the end of the street,
I ran into a co-conspirator who had suffered a near-miss situation
as well. We spent the remainder of the way speculating the identity
of the snitch who had ratted on us to Mr. Tabrizi. It was getting
dark and I bid good-bye to my friend at one of the intersections,
each of us continuing toward his home.
I was in the process of masterminding an excuse
for my tardiness. My books were left behind and I had to come
up with a credible
story about their absence. I was certain that this would tip
off my parents. I reached the front door of our house. I rang
the bell and the gate was opened by the electric door opener.
So far so good. As I was about to enter, I ran into
my older brother, who was obviously waiting for me in the hallway.
Before I had a chance to muster a word, I felt
his leather belt descending on me, showering me with an abundance
of lashes. I
don't recall how many! The lashes left instant painful marks
on my back. The intense and burning sensation made me twist like
a snake. I was too stunned to think straight. As if this corporal
punishment were not enough, my face was slapped with a blow so
hard, I'm certain it must have been heard by all the neighbors.
I'm counting my blessings today that I did not
end up swallowing my teeth in the process. I spent the entire
night in physical
pain over my own injuries, and in agony over the fate of my fellow
team-mates.
It took all the strength and courage I had to
show up at school the following day. It would have been simply
easier to vanish
from the planet. Before the start of our first
class, Mr. Tabrizi lined us up in the school yard.
He performed the authorized punishment -- lashing
the back of our hands with a twig he had reserved for special
occasions such as this. Naser the Bear was the only person who
skipped punishment. The lucky devil had the foresight of
calling in sick and not showing up for a whole week!
We were done. This episode marked the end of the
Behind-Amjadieh Era. It was just not the same anymore.
Everyday, Mr. Tabrizi patrolled the streets, cruising in his
beat-up white
VW. His objective was to suppress further development of our
football ambitions.
However, Mr. Tabrizi was not successful in
every aspect of his militant endeavor. He was not able to erase
the myth. "Behind Amjadieh" will spread by
the word of mouth and by future generations. In fact, many similar
situations like ours remain to be discovered. In Tehran alone,
there are so many alleys and deserted streets
that one can never keep track of the exact number of playgrounds.
Over time, no
one will have the strength to prevent us from pursuing our dream.
We will play our games and continue to do so for as long as we
can. No one. Not Mr. Tabrizi, not the snitches who tipped him
off, not even my brother, who proudly believes he had frightened
me for good. We will continue to play "Behind
Amjadieh", wherever in the world we may be.
The world is filled with the likes of Mr. Tabrizi.
They come and go. They do not leave their marks behind. One militant
cold-hearted school superintendent can always be replaced by
another. Even we will vanish some
day and be replaced by our children.
But what will always remain
is the perseverance of Iranian youth. They will pursue
their dream and never cease to play and practice. They will turn
places like Behind Amjadieh into playing fields in
order to fulfill their aspirations. Some day, someone will care
enough about them and provide desperately needed facilities. THE
END
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