The Beautiful Game?

How many countries can you name where football is not the national sport?

Ok, this is the best I could come up with. In the Caribbean and Indian subcontinent cricket may shade it. Canadians and some easten Europeans do handbags at (ice) hockey. Aussies and Americans have odd-shaped balls.

(A friendly note to our errant Atlantic cousins – proper games like sorker don’t require body armour, don’t score in the hundreds, and don’t flatter themselves with a ‘World Series’ when no-one else plays it).

And that’s about it - did I miss anyone? So throughout Europe, Africa, Asia and Central and South America football reigns supreme.

But hang on! Sadly there is one more place which seems to have escaped from the universal appreciation of the beautiful game. And, just my luck, it’s right here, in wonderful, perplexing, unfathomable Cambodia.

In almost every way I love Cambodia. The people are amazing (especially considering what they’ve had to go through recently), the countryside is often stunning, the temples unrivalled. But for some reason this is one of the very few places I’ve been where football is yet to take off. The one thing I miss more than anything here is a decent game of five-a-side of a Sunday evening, followed by world-righting with the lads over a cool pint of Star.

It doesn’t help that our Asian neighbours are mad about footy. The Chinese go bonkers for the Premiership. The Thais and Vietnamese can’t get enough of it, not only for gambling. The Japanese and Koreans also caught the bug after their 2002 World Cup.

So why not Cambodia?

One reason might be - I hardly dare to say it - that ‘it’s only a game’. Perhaps the average Khmer has had more important things to ponder than one-twos and sliding tackles? But actually Cambodians love to play - it’s just that, inexplicably, volleyball, kick-boxing, cockfighting and flip-flop pétanque all seem to be more appreciated than the beautiful game.

Another reason might be the facilities. Football is the only true world sport partly as it is so simple and intuitive - all you need is a round thing and you’re off. But actually you do need something else: a flat piece of land. Surely no problem in Cambodia, the Holland of the east? Well it is actually – the clay soil here dries in uneven clumps and it’s actually very hard to find a properly level bit of ground. Not such an issue for volleyball, fighting cocks etc.

But finally, after over a year here, I’ve found a few guys who like a kick-around after work. Not that they make it easy…

The first test is to know when there’s a game on – and where. The fixture list is efficiently communicated by bush telegraph. In other words everyone else knows, but I don’t have a clue where or when, and it’s just chance if I either spot a game or someone calls me.

Then there’s the pitch. The school fields are particularly awful – if you fall you roll in piles of litter, remains of old foundations bash your toes, deep and sudden dips threaten your ankles, and if you’re not careful you’ll hit your head - there are several trees in the middle of the pitch. Plus, come rainy season a sub takes on a whole different meaning. The front yard of the governor’s building is slightly better, though if you sky your shot the ball hits the pond – and I’ve a nasty feeling it is a Khmer Rouge mass grave. See what I mean about having more important things to deal with?

Another challenge is the playing style. It can be seriously frustrating, as once players get the ball they look to dribble not pass, like we did as kids - to be harsh, it’s greedy and undisciplined. And rather than the delicate balance of fair play and controlled aggression I’m used to, here I get a free-for-all accompanied by whoops and girly squeals. Don’t try that in Glasgow. On the good side these guys are agile, skillful and manage to run about for hours in the ridiculous heat. And it took me a while to notice they usually play barefoot - respect.

And there are still moments of magic. The wonderful thing about football is that at its best it transcends all cultures. The young lad with Ronaldo felt-tipped onto his plain white t-shirt is pretty handy, and when we exchange a one-two and he squares back for me to slot home it’s like old times – we don’t need to be able to speak each others’ languages, we’ve let the ball do the talking.

Perhaps even here, in this strange land so far from home, football is the beautiful game.