2023-11-19, 10:02 AM - Word count:
[translated from Mongolian]
"Hey, Muunokhoi, how have things become different since you were promoted to division 1?"
"There is no one big change. The games are the same games. My teammates are mostly the same teammates. The rules of the game are the same. And yet. And yet. Now we play our road games in larger stadiums. Now our post-game press conferences have many reporters who fly from one game to the next, instead of mostly-local reporters. And now I get to be interviewed once or twice a season by people from home, like you."
"Do you miss home?"
"You live in UB - how many generations since your family stopped being nomads?"
"Only two. My grandfather is now too old to travel much, but you would recognize his stories."
"Fair, then. I ask because when any European asks me about home, or North Americans, or even most Africans, they think of a building and a landmark near it they think others might have heard of. I miss no one place. Your grandfather and I, we remember the travel to and from many landmarks, the places our yurts remained for a time, the places our yurts returned to in years where the weather was similar. Home is the whole landscape, home is the movement across that landscape with your animals, home is riding a motorcycle across empty steppe to reach family or friends or news or even cell phone reception."
"Except for the cell phone, yes, that's how my grandfather speaks of home, too. He never travelled to home, he travelled across home. And now that we both understand your meaning of home, I repeat my question: do you miss home?"
"Every day, but I also get to honour it here. Soccer is also a nomadic life, only the destinations change based on your on-field success rather than with where the better grazing is this year. Sometimes I would love to see a herd of yak stomp on all the lawnmowers they use on these soccer fields and then let their great teeth cut the grass instead. The uneven trim would make the game interesting."
"If your thoughts bring the yak with you every time you step on a pitch, home is indeed coming with you, Muunokhoi."
"Hey, Muunokhoi, how have things become different since you were promoted to division 1?"
"There is no one big change. The games are the same games. My teammates are mostly the same teammates. The rules of the game are the same. And yet. And yet. Now we play our road games in larger stadiums. Now our post-game press conferences have many reporters who fly from one game to the next, instead of mostly-local reporters. And now I get to be interviewed once or twice a season by people from home, like you."
"Do you miss home?"
"You live in UB - how many generations since your family stopped being nomads?"
"Only two. My grandfather is now too old to travel much, but you would recognize his stories."
"Fair, then. I ask because when any European asks me about home, or North Americans, or even most Africans, they think of a building and a landmark near it they think others might have heard of. I miss no one place. Your grandfather and I, we remember the travel to and from many landmarks, the places our yurts remained for a time, the places our yurts returned to in years where the weather was similar. Home is the whole landscape, home is the movement across that landscape with your animals, home is riding a motorcycle across empty steppe to reach family or friends or news or even cell phone reception."
"Except for the cell phone, yes, that's how my grandfather speaks of home, too. He never travelled to home, he travelled across home. And now that we both understand your meaning of home, I repeat my question: do you miss home?"
"Every day, but I also get to honour it here. Soccer is also a nomadic life, only the destinations change based on your on-field success rather than with where the better grazing is this year. Sometimes I would love to see a herd of yak stomp on all the lawnmowers they use on these soccer fields and then let their great teeth cut the grass instead. The uneven trim would make the game interesting."
"If your thoughts bring the yak with you every time you step on a pitch, home is indeed coming with you, Muunokhoi."
