Socking it around

There is something pleasantly refreshing about watching children play. For many observers, it is a welcome escape from their daily trials and tribulations. It is a breath of fresh air; a return to an innocence many struggle to recall. And when they do, it is often with pangs of nostalgia.

Imagination, above all, is a child's primary means of entertaining his or herself. And for hundreds of thousands of young Egyptians, for whom money is tight, imagination has merged with resourcefulness to produce a variety of street games.

Unfettered by financial misfortune, and undaunted by the fact that they are unable to join sporting clubs, go to the cinema or youth centres, these underprivileged youths have wholeheartedly embraced the old adage that necessity is the mother of invention. Instead of a lush grass playing field, they have taken to the streets, rooftops and alleyways. And instead of expensive name-brand equipment, they make their own.

When it comes to football, the Egyptian invention is in a class of its own. Known as Kura Shurab, or "sock football", the game has transcended classes, districts and cities, and famed itself nationwide.

I would know, I was a sock football fanatic myself -- causing chaos in the family by hogging all the socks and slippers I could find. And I am not the only one -- I shared my passion with millions of youngsters across the country.

The craze has turned into tradition.

On Jafaar Wali Pasha Street, a group of youngsters, intent on honing their football skills, chase after a soccer ball. But instead of a round, federation-approved leather ball, theirs is made of a stuffed sock.

"That's why it's called sock football," laughs 13-year-old Hassan Gouda, the son of a public sector employee. "What you do, is you take a pair of plastic flip-flops that are ready to be replaced," he explains, "And you mutilate it," he laughs, his hands depicting the chopping up of the flip-flop into bite-size pieces. "And you stuff all these bits in a sock, and wrap it around itself," he continues. "And you get string -- lots of string. And wrap it around and around and around."

This, he points out, is the part that takes talent.

"The expertise comes in wrapping it around in a way that makes the ball round. It's not easy," he smiles. "It takes practice and technique. Once you have it round, you coat it with a special kind of glue," he explains, referring to cobbler's glue. "You leave it to dry and you have the perfect ball. Of course size depends on the type of player and age and all this," he offers.

Gouda elaborates on the rules of the game.

"Two teams of six players face off against each other," he begins. "The playing field is the street, and the goals are marked by two big stones spaced out evenly at each end."

The length of the game is left open for children to decide, but it generally lasts as long as their interest holds. While the children sprint up and down the street, their minds drift, but only for a fraction of a second, to the roaring fans in imaginary bleachers. The competition between these pint-sized punters is as heated as any World Cup tournament. The excitement at victory sends youngsters running home in glee, and the losers' eyes drooping mournfully to the ground. The sport has developed its rules, regulations, and followers around the country. And as it has developed, so too has it blossomed, with district sock football tournaments popping up and becoming the norm.

The concept of street sports as a whole, in essence, is a subculture of its own, and the safe side streets of Egypt's many provinces and cities are the playgrounds of youngsters from all walks and scopes of life. While hide-and-seek, marbles, and tug-of-war can frequently be spotted, the most common afternoon sight is that of youngsters, teenagers, and even adults playing football in their neighbourhood. Pedestrians stop and watch, and cars know the protocol -- they slow down for a minute, honk their horns, and the players move swiftly and wave them through.

"It's a part of the culture," says engineering student Alaa Osman. "You can't walk in the streets and not see people kicking a ball around. The day you do, that's the day you know that something is wrong."