This excerpt is from “Soccer Grannies: The South African Women Who Inspire the World” by Jean Duffy with publication by Rowman & Littlefield on 10 May 2023.
Here’s the first chapter from Soccer Grannies. Enjoy!
Chapter 1
Vakhegula Vakhegula FC
I always say to the Granny Lizzy that any coach who might come to take over Vakhegula Vakhegula—it will be tough for that coach! [Laughs]
The Grannies know that when they come here, this is where they find their joy; they find their happiness; they talk and they laugh. At the end of the day, when I am going home, I too am leaving with something.
—Abraham Sevor Kwabena, Soccer Grannies coach
Sometimes you go looking for inspiration, and sometimes it just hits you in the face.
Like when you’re on an early morning run, and suddenly you’re awash in clarity about that thorny work problem that’s been plaguing you for weeks. Or maybe a total stranger makes a passing comment that pushes you to see yourself a little bit differently. Once in a while these gifts of insight motivate you to change course, act in a big way— and your life takes a major left turn.
For me, it came down to some uncharacteristic procrastinating at the start of a workday: I couldn’t know it then, but that morning my carefully charted pathveered upon a seemingly chance encounter with a group of older women playing recreational soccer, halfway around the world.
*******
Go back all the way to early 2010—a cold February morning. I was seated at my desk in a seven-story building outside of Boston, early as usual so I could get a head start on the day’s work. So it was still silent, a good hour yet before my coworkers would arrive for the day and with them the chatter of greetings and the clink of coffee mugs bringing our department to life. But on this particular Tuesday morning in February 2010, my best intentions were derailed by a news story emailed to me—something about a soccer team in South Africa.
Opening ceremonies for the FIFA Men’s World Cup were still a good four months away at that point, yet my anticipatory excitement was already stirring. A self-proclaimed soccer freak, then at fifty-one years of age, I had only recently switched from soccer momming on the sidelines to chasing the ball myself. I’ve always been a sucker for human-interest stories—the soft, meaningful narratives that tug heartstrings—and in 2010 I was particularly charmed by any features on the upcoming World Cup. The link before me had been emailed by my friend Heather, who played keeper on my soccer team. The story was about a football club in rural South Africa made up entirely of grandmothers. Cute.
I scrolled down to the embedded video and clicked play.
On my computer screen appeared an older woman with a round brown face and several missing teeth. She was wearing a saffron shirt and a paisley bandana. She was staring into the camera. “If I were to run with you, I would beat you.”
I didn’t doubt her; she spoke with confidence and had the fierce eye of a competitor.
“—even though I am eighty-three-years-old and have had six strokes.”
Whaaaaaaat?
“But soccer has really changed my life,” she continued. “It’s improved because of the football.”
Work temporarily forgotten, I brushed my papers aside—neatly placing my color-coded to-do list atop—and leaned forward to take in the scene as the camera zoomed out.
The reporter explained that this grand dame with the swagger of a seasoned footballer was part of a team of thirty-five women in rural South Africa, in their late forties to early eighties. They were affectionately called the Soccer Grannies.
I saw a dusty, sunbaked field on which the women moved through their warm-up exercises. Shoulder to shoulder they worked their way up the field—shuffle-shuffle, kick to the right, handclap; shuffle-shuffle, kick to the left, handclap. Loose-fitting shirts and below-the-knee skirts gave them freedom of movement. Beyond the dirt field, a few short trees and tufts of yellow scrub grass grew.
Another Granny with close-cropped hair came into focus.
“I like to play soccer because it helps us. We were sick, but now our cholesterol, our blood pressures, have gone down. Even our doctors are amazed when we go for a checkup. God bless the person that came up with this glorious idea.”
With that, the Grannies were off and running. They chased the leather ball, kicking wildly and sending knee-high clouds of dust into the air. Caught up in the excitement, they paid no attention to the position they were supposed to be playing.
I knew this feeling well. I wasn’t the only newbie on my Massachusetts team; like the Grannies, we were drawn to the ball as kids at a birthday party descending on a bludgeoned piñata.
The camera followed a few heftier Grannies who had slowed to catch their breath. Most of these women, I had to imagine, were not sitting all day in ergonomically designed desk chairs like mine. Yet here they were, after a full day of work, showing up for afternoon practice, tearing down the field on well-worn joints. Other Grannies were skinny, nothing but bones and muscle, racing toward the ball. Their dark skin accentuated the rainbow of colors of their headscarves and skirts.
The ball was kicked again and again and finally found the net. Smiles blossomed across Grannies’ faces as they embraced nearby players. Cheers erupted on the sidelines from the cluster of fans huddled in the limited shade. One blew on a three-foot-long plastic horn that sounded like an elephant trumpeting.
The news reporter relayed that not everyone is supportive of the Grannies’ football club, and yet the women play on despite resistance from community members. Your place is at home watching the grandchildren, they’ve been chided by townsmen.
The local churches frown upon women wearing trousers, on or off the field, so at first the Grannies played in skirts. Over time, as their confidence grew—and as their neighbors grew used to seeing them play—the Grannies pushed back on what had traditionally been deemed “acceptable” sports attire for women. Today they play in shorts. But even some of the Grannies’ friends still disapprove. “It’s undignified, squeezing into short pants.”
A few of their own grandchildren are among the naysayers: “Grandma, you can’t play soccer; you’re too old.”
But not everyone feels that way. The camera panned to a teenager on the sidelines, bursting with pride. “I feel good when the Grannies play soccer so that they can be fit and strong,” he says with a smile.
The video ended, and I noticed the clock with a start. It was going on 7 a.m. I really should be getting to work . . . And yet . . . I couldn’t help myself.
I went back and immediately replayed the video—two more times.
The outside observer might conclude that these ladies and I had little in common. Me: White suburban professional. Them: Black rural grandmas. But I knew better; my own time on a cherished team told me of the camaraderie and support they must be getting from their own teammates, the feeling of confidence that grows from flubbing shot after shot on goal, and then one day a little more oomph behind your kick, directed with a just little more finesse, and suddenly your teammates are slapping you on the back. We weren’t so different, these Grannies and I.
Sighhhhh. Unable to ignore the towering pile of paperwork any longer, I grudgingly turned my attention away from the Grannies.
But they had unpacked their bags and taken up residence in my brain.That day, as I scrolled through endless spreadsheets, I couldn’t have imagined that in fewer than six months the 7,875 miles would be bridged between my home in Lexington, Massachusetts, and the Grannies’ in Nkowankowa, Limpopo, and I would be joining them on the field.
*******
The ref blew his whistle, signaling the half-time break. It was our regular Thursday evening game, and the faces of my teammates matched our pink team jerseys as we headed to the sideline and reached for water bottles. Heather, our fearless goalie with a strawberry-blonde ponytail, interrupted the chatter. “Did you guys see the video I sent? The one about the Soccer Grannies?”
“I saw it!” I enthused. “I just loved that they haven’t stopped playing just because they’re older.”
“Ladies,” Catherine broke in with her French accent, “we can do what they are doing. We can keep playing as we age, just like the Grannies.” She’d been born in France and had played soccer with her brothers as a young girl. Now she coached and played on our amateur team—the Lexpressas, an assemblage of middle-aged women of all abilities.
“We need all the inspiration we can get,” said Allison, a midfielder gazelle who excelled at sprinting up the sidelines. “Those dang birthdays just keep coming . . .”
Our lively conversation had caught the attention of Anne, a player from the opposing team. I knew her as a skilled defender who had stolen the ball from me countless times. “You know,” she said, “the Veterans Cup will be held in Massachusetts this July.” Every year a different state hosted the national tournament for adult soccer teams. I’d never attended but had heard lots of stories. “Heck,” Anne continued, “we can invite the Soccer Grannies to come play. A Japanese men’s team plays every year.”
Thus sparked an idea in my brain.
If there were other suggestions made that day, I missed them, for I had already burrowed deep into thought, thoroughly enchanted at the prospect of meeting these women.
“Catherine,” I piped up, “I’d like to try to contact the Soccer Grannies.”
“Bon,” she said with a sharp nod, “you do that. We will see what we learn.”
*******
Granny fever, I saw, had proven contagious. The original NTV Kenya video I’d seen only days before had led to articles from Reuters, the BBC, and CNN. I pored over the reportage, trying to figure out how to reach the Grannies.
The official name of their football club, I learned, was Vakhegula Vakhegula—vah-KAY-goo-lah, vah-KAY-goo-lah, they pronounced it. It means “Grannies Grannies” in their native Xitsonga, in homage to South Africa’s beloved national men’s team, Bafana Bafana.
I scanned another article and found what I was looking for: The team was set up in 2006 by cancer survivor Beka Ntsanwisi. I scribbled her name on a piece of paper and eagerly read on.
“Most of the time I have to use my salary to buy kit for them and organize events. It is not easy for me. I hope as more people get to know about the league, we will get sponsors,” says Ms. Ntsanwisi.
I searched, and her name popped up as the recipient of dozens of community awards. Lovingly known as “Mama Beka,” she hosted a religious radio show on Sunday mornings, reading Bible verses and interviewing guest pastors. Beka would invite listeners to call in and share their problems on the air. One such caller, it seems, had been mourning a relative’s death for months but still was unable to bury the body, which remained in the mortuary because the family could not afford the funeral expenses. Moved by their plight, Beka sought donations from listeners and local businesses, which she then used to purchase a coffin and provide a tent and food for a proper funeral service.
Other listeners would share details about their physical woes; many, many were in need of medical interventions they simply could not afford. Beka to the rescue: she would contact health-care providers on their behalf and seek financial assistance. On multiple occasions she had found donated wheelchairs and gotten them to callers in need.
One more Google search, and I found Beka’s email address at the radio station.
Suddenly shy, I didn’t want to seem pushy—just friendly; I decided in this first message to not mention Anne’s idea about the Grannies attending the Veterans Cup. I lowered my eyes to the computer screen and typed.
Dear Ms. Beka Ntsanwisi,
Good day!
I play soccer with a women’s group in Lexington, Massachusetts, in the United States. The women are 35 years and older, but as time marches on, more of us are in our 50s. We were delighted to see the video and articles about South Africa’s football Grannies. The Vakhegula Vakhegula Football Club with players in their 60s, 70s, and 80s is an inspiration to us!
Perhaps we could be sister teams?
Best regards,
Jean Duffy
Good enough. I took a deep breath and hit send, uncertain if I’d ever hear back.