Swamp Soccer

Article by: Nigel Wallis, August 2006

So it's 'Auf wiedersehen, Berlin' and 'Hei, Hyrynsalmi' as we shoot for the world of swamp soccer, where the spirit of sportsmanship means flailing around a mosquito-infested bog and drinking beer. Portuguese divers and French head-butters need not apply.

On the map it wasn't far, merely a few short centimetres towards the Arctic Circle. In reality it was almost 650km from Helsinki, forcing an inspired last-minute tactical adjustment. Dropping the road-trip idea to the subs bench, I drafted in the extra pace of a budget flight to the west coast city of Oulu and put my faith in an unyielding Russian defence. Hyrynsalmi lies close to the former Soviet border, ready to keep me at least in the right country should I stray too far off course.

"Finns love motor sport. Drive fast, but don't hit the reindeer." That was the erstwhile guidance I received before picking up my hire car in Oulu, and sound advice it was. Two hours after touching down I'd crossed route 22 to Hyrynsalmi without a single run-in with Santa's furry friends, leaving the sluggish caravans behind. A few kilometres further from town, down a dusty track, along an aromatic forest path and through the first patch of ankle-soaking bog, I squelched from the trees into the wonder of the swamp arena.

There's no offside, no definite penalty box and unlimited substitutions are made on the fly.

Using little more than white tape and plastic drainpipes, fifteen soccer pitches had been marked out across the swamp. On the sidelines, a ragtag collection of men and women comprised the 300 wannabe cup-winning teams. It appeared as if there weren't any rules and, well, that's not far from the truth. There's no offside, no definite penalty box and unlimited substitutions are made on the fly. It's brilliantly chaotic, although the only disappointment this year was the sparkling Finnish summer that parched the swamp dry. Imagine playing soccer on a trampoline or a sponge cake and you're halfway there.

At silly sporting events up and down the country, be it milk-stool throwing, mosquito swatting or the insane sitting-on-an-ants-nest competition, the average Finn likes nothing more than a good knees-up. The swamp soccer tournament is certainly no exception.

I'm more than relieved to see a band belting out Hendrix and Young covers to a crowd in fancy dress, whilst a team of guys in long dresses and blonde wigs manage to play a game and swig simultaneously. Over by the lake, a huge pink boom box belts out the theme from Baywatch as people dance like only continental Europeans can - without the slightest trace of irony. Nearby, prostate in a ditch, a spectator lies dead to the world. My watch says two in the afternoon; it's going to be a long day.

"Remember to take care of your insurance coverage!" declares the tournament programme in a chipper if not hugely reassuring tone. And not without good reason as one member of Athletico Hucknall, England's sole representatives, leaves the arena aboard an ambulance, nursing a suspected broken leg.

Other foreigners are faring better. The Russians are strong, uncompromising and calculated, whilst the Germans of Schlammfreude Niedersachcsen look sprightly. Not so Team Scotland, who, despite fielding numerous foreigners who claim ancestry under the dubious 'Scottish Granny' rule, are as rubbish as the real Scotland. Lest anyone doubt the ancestry of Athletico Hucknall, they prove themselves as English as a washed-out bank holiday by crashing out in the quarterfinals. It's startlingly like real life.

Great soccer players come from Brazil, great swamp soccer players come from Finland.

Heading back to Helsinki, I realise I don't even know who's won. Almost certainly they were Finnish. After all, as the old but much underused saying goes, "Great soccer players come from Brazil, great swamp soccer players come from Finland". Great parties also come from Finland, and after a long weekend carousing under the midnight sun with new friends, that's what really matters. The World Cup could learn a lot.