In a move that has sent shockwaves through the sporting world and caused several agents to spontaneously combust, the Democratic Republic of Congo's national football team has been slapped with an isolation order before their World Cup qualifier. Outbreak fears, they bleat. Pandemic panic, they cry. But let us not mince words: this is nothing short of a state-mandated pre-match lock-in, the kind of draconian measure that would make a Victorian sanatorium warden blush.
The Leopards, as they are so charmingly known, will now be forced to twiddle their thumbs in a government-approved hotel, far from the clamour of adoring fans and the siren call of dubious street meat. The official line, delivered with the kind of gravitas usually reserved for nuclear meltdowns, speaks of 'containment protocols' and 'public health obligations'. What rot. We all know the real culprit: that perennial party pooper, the dreaded lurgy, the microscopic menace that has turned the whole world into a pack of neurotic hand-washers.
One can only imagine the psychological impact on these finely tuned athletes. Stripped of their liberty, forced to subsist on room service and sanitised air, how will they summon the requisite vim for the beautiful game? Will their first touch be shaky after days of only touching television remotes? Will their shots on goal be marred by the muscle memory of repeatedly pressing a lift button? These are the pressing questions that keep this correspondent awake at night, clutching a bottle of duty-free single malt.
But let us not forget the grand absurdity of it all. Here are men paid millions to kick a bag of wind around a field, now being treated like biological warfare agents. The irony is so thick you could spread it on a crumpet. While we mere mortals queue for bog roll and argue about tiers, these gladiators of the pitch are being wrapped in cotton wool, hermetically sealed from a populace that would sell a kidney to see them play.
The footballing authorities, in their infinite wisdom, have of course offered no alternative. No suggestion that the match might be played behind closed doors, no thought to a bubble environment. No, instead they have opted for the blunt instrument of isolation, a tactic that smacks of old-fashioned quarantine rather than modern sporting logistics. It is a spectacular own goal from the desk jockeys who wouldn't know a football if it hit them in the face (which, given their decisions, one might hope it will).
Meanwhile, in the Democratic Republic of Congo, a nation that has seen more than its fair share of trials, the people are left to wonder. Is this really the best we can do? Are we so terrified of a sniffle that we must lock up our heroes? The players, no doubt, are pacing their hotel rooms, dreaming of the roar of the crowd, the feel of grass under studs, the simple joy of a pre-match handshake. Instead, they get a sealed envelope with a pat on the back from a man in a hazmat suit.
This is not football. This is a farce. A pantomime of paranoia played out on an international stage. And the only winners are the purveyors of hand sanitiser and the manufacturers of padded cell doors. For the rest of us, we are left to mourn the death of spontaneity, the demise of a sport that was once a glorious, sweaty, infectious mess.
But fear not, dear reader. For as long as there is gin in the glass and outrage in the heart, this correspondent will hold the powerful to account. Even if they are just goalkeepers and central defenders. Even if the only thing on the line is a place in a World Cup that will probably be cancelled anyway. We must stand firm, we must laugh in the face of folly, and we must never, ever let them take away our football. Or our gin.
