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Matty Hayward – @MattyHayward96

Matty discusses the departing Omar Mussa

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OH, MY MUSSA

“In football…to be loved is more important than winning.” – Marcelo Bielsa, football’s most influential thinker this century.

“Maybe I didn’t love you, quite as often as I could…And I guess I never told you I’m so happy that you’re mine” – Willie Nelson, music’s most famous Willie.

This sounds like one of those anecdotes that is completely made up. If I’d tweeted about it five years ago, one of the most tiresome men (always a man) on the internet would’ve nominated it for a Didn’t Happen Of The Year Award. But I promise it’s true. You have my word.

This morning (Friday) I was reading an extract from a novel about Syrian refugees with my year 8s. One of its protagonists was called Omar. Another was called Musa. This, obviously, brought an enormous smile to my face when I read it, to the extent that I had to pause and explain to my bemused students why. I’m not sure I did a great job, or maybe they just didn’t get it.

I don’t think every gets, or got, Omar Mussa, the Burundian midfielder whose departure from Plainmoor was announced hours after my year 8 lesson. But those who did get it couldn’t watch him without smiling.

The Moose was more of an idea than a footballer. It’s not just him leaving Torquay that stings, it’s what he came to represent. It’s the feeling that he gave us.

Let’s go back a few years. On December 4th 2021, Gary Johnson’s Yellows (or cyans, as it was on the day) ran away 2-1 winners at the Bob Lucas ‘Stadium’ thanks to goals from Joe Lewis and Sinclair Armstrong. It was a nerve-settling win on our way to a now-utopian-seeming mid-table National League finish. Weymouth looked awful – doomed for relegation – except for one player. Joe Uglow, on this very website, described their number 8 as “impressive” about whom it was a “surprise (and relief) to see him taken off on the 70th minute.” Joe went on, “hopefully Gary may be tempted to make an enquiry about his availability.”

Omar Mussa ran the show that day, against a midfield of a not-yet-ancient Asa Hall, a not-yet-injured Tom Lapslie, and a two-weeks-earlier-booed Armani Little: he would’ve improved our bench, if not the starting XI.

Fast forward a further two seasons at Dagenham and Redbridge, three appearances for the Burundi national team, and The Moose finally loped his way to the English Riviera. Crowned by the club’s official press release as a “cultured midfield schemer”, he had a fortnight or so to make himself ready for the opener against Enfield. He started, he came off after an hour, we won. Then came Farnborough: he started, he came off after a half, we lost. Then we barely saw him for months.

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Concerns about match-fitness/sharpness/game-readiness/whatever euphemism you like waned, as did Bishop’s Cleeve rawness, and come November Omar was firmly back in the fold. He appeared in twenty five games in a row across the raniest months of the year, mostly starting on the left wing – the centre forward at Worthing experiment excepted but not forgotten – causing journeyman farmer full-back after journeyman plumber full-back to watch on in horror, from their arses, as he ghosted past. I do hope the St Albans right back has had hours of counselling after his merciless roasting at their place. He’s the only player we’ve had all season who has played on the wing and been able to go inside or outside his man.

We didn’t beat St Albans away, of course. And that’s one of the sticks used to beat Omar with. People say that for all the trickery, the flair, the talent, he hasn’t actually won us that many games. Fair enough. Football is a ruthless game, and the ruthless reality is that if he was ruthless enough to accrue more than two goals this season, or ruthless enough to keep the ball in the corner at Slough, we would’ve won the league. He frustrated me, too. There’s not a single player in the squad that couldn’t be fairly criticised in the same way, though: they all made mistakes, missed chances, had bad games.

Anyway, I didn’t watch Omar Mussa for the end-product. I loved watching him because of how he made me feel. Sorry if that makes me a Romantic. I loved watching Omar Mussa because he was fun. Because he was the only player to pull on a Torquay shirt in a long time – since Kalvin Kalala, maybe? Possibly Lemonheigh-Evans at his best – where nobody knew what he was going to do next, where you knew he could skin someone or wazz a forty-yard pass across the pitch. He literally, physically, non-metaphorically, not in a cliched way, got the heart racing.

Perhaps his most loveable attribute was his mentality: he’d see an outlandish through ball, play it, overhit it by half an inch, then moments later go and demand the ball again, and be visibly frustrated if he didn’t receive it. He never shied away, never shunned responsibility, never ducked the opportunity to paint a picture with a football.

He was never lazy, either, like some critics lazily assert. The way he moves around a pitch – his long, languid, elasticated strides – might give the impression that he doesn’t work as hard as the short-legged Duracell Bunnies, but there was never a moment this season where you could’ve doubted his commitment to the cause. In fact, there were several moments this season when it was Mussa himself who was putting in the extra yards, regaining possession in his own third before kickstarting a counter-attack of his own.

There’s a cruel irony in the fact that Omar’s best game in a Torquay shirt came at home to Weymouth, that he played his best football in a game where we needed to score six or seven goals, and probably should have. The irony is made all the crueler by the fact that this was one of his first games he started in the deep-lying midfield role: a position that, had he been moved there a few months earlier, might have seen us create more throughout the season, and might have seen him establish himself as an un-releasable.

That said, he started running that game after about forty minutes when the formation was rejigged and he was thrown out onto the left wing. Within seconds, he’d cut inside twice, first zinging a shot wide of the near-post, then getting fouled just outside the area.

Omar never quite found the right position in our team, never quite fit into the way Paul Wotton wanted the team to play, and that will be the reason he didn’t stick around. That’s fine. No blame attached to anyone. Some pegs don’t fit their holes.

But Omar was a ballerina, a magician, maybe a luxury player. I quite like luxury, and magic, and ballet. Who doesn’t? The sight of him coming off the bench had me, completely unironically, jumping around the terraces like an exuberant schoolboy when his mum mentions McDonalds. It’ll take someone very special to come close to replacing him. The best thing that can be said about Omar Mussa, is that he brought an enormous smile to my face. He was loved.

COYY – MATTY

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