I'd like to talk about a football match my younger brother Emeka played in last year. He was sixteen at the time and had just been picked for his school team in Enugu, in south-eastern Nigeria. The match was the semi-final of an inter-school tournament, played on a dusty pitch behind a secondary school on a Saturday afternoon.
Emeka plays as a goalkeeper, which is a nerve-racking position to watch. For most of the first half his team were under pressure, and he made two brilliant saves, one of them a full-length dive that got the whole crowd on its feet. Then, just before half-time, he misjudged a cross and let in a soft goal. You could see his shoulders drop. In the second half his teammates equalised, and the game went to penalties. He saved one, and they won by a single kick.
Watching him was a completely different experience from watching professional football on television. I couldn't sit still. When he conceded that goal I felt almost physically sick, because I knew he'd blame himself for days. And when he saved the penalty I screamed so loudly that I lost my voice for the evening. I think it's because you know the person behind the shirt: I'd seen him training in our compound every evening, using a wall and a worn-out ball. So the result felt personal. Looking back, what moved me most wasn't the win but the way he recovered from his mistake and kept his head up, which is something I've tried to copy in my own life.