From childhood hero to friend: My journey with Iraqi football legend Ahmed Radhi

That night sowed the seeds of my deep, inexplicable emotional attachment to a player who won the hearts of thousands of Iraqis. The same player who rendered Muayyad al-Badri – a seasoned sports commentator – speechless as he announced Iraq's first victory in years.

It was a beacon of hope, a desperately needed triumph after a series of bleak political and social defeats.

For the people of Iraq, it represented a break from the bitter oppression they had become accustomed to; a freedom from a world that had boycotted and besieged them; a moment of reprieve from the tyrannical authority that controlled their fate at home.

Despite his legendary skills, Radhi didn't fit the stereotypical image of football heroes. He wasn't hefty and muscular; his handsome, smiling face was not rosy or sharp; it was wrinkled with signs of chronic fatigue.

In the stadium, Radhi often seemed sluggish, detached – even dull. But once the ball was at his feet, everything shifted. He was like a poet staring at a blank page, struggling with hollow words; as he touched his favourite pen, he discovered prose so potent it could ignite entire arenas with its flawless rhythm.

That night, Radhi created poetry in front of our eyes. But the truth is, his journey had started long before.

A long journey

As the first player from the Iraqi youth team to join the national team, Radhi's rapid ascent in the football ranks was undeniable.

Born in 1964 in Baghdad's Al-Amel neighbourhood, Radhi hailed from a football-loving family, with his brothers Ali, Saleh, and Fadhel all active in local teams. Following in their footsteps, Radhi devoted himself to daily six-hour practice sessions. With his tall stature, impressive agility and striking dexterity, he quickly honed his skills.

Eventually, he joined the Yarmouk Youth Centre, where he received training under Taleb al-Hashimi.

Around that time, he stumbled on a talent competition held at the People's International Stadium in Baghdad. The competition served as preparation for Iraq's participation in the Gothia Cup in Sweden in 1979.

His fate began to change. He caught the eye of trainer Thamer Muhsen, who put in a word with Mumtaz Thomas, coach of the Iraqi youth team, and with Radhi in tow, the team went on to win the championship in Sweden.

A year later, at just 16 years old, Radhi achieved another milestone. He became the youngest player to pass a test for Baghdad's Youth Police team, under the guidance of Muzaffar Nuri.

After winning a tournament with his middle school team, Radhi received an invitation to join the Tarbiyah Baghdad team, which consisted of top youth players from schools across the capital.

Two years later, Radhi took part in Sweden's Gothia Cup for the second time with the Iraqi Youth Team. He emerged as the championship's top scorer, netting seven goals.

His exceptional performance attracted the attention of several talent scouts, including Tarbiyah Baghdad's trainer, who recruited him for Al-Zawraa Youth Club.

Despite bringing him onto the team, however, the coach wasn't fully convinced of Radhi's potential. He failed to see how the teen's lanky figure and laid-back demeanour – which could easily be misconstrued as laziness – could hold up in a fast-paced game.

But the truth was that Radhi was a lion in wait.

He was driven by strategic play. Instead of vigorously fighting and relentlessly chasing the ball, he calmly read the stadium and anticipated his opponents' next moves, striking at the most opportune moment.

Radhi was a confident player – some would say too confident. He was always eager to punch above his weight; to compete with older players and go head-to-head with the most powerful defenders the game had to offer.

This trait would follow him throughout his life: in his coaching career, as a sports manager, in his political and parliamentary journey, and finally in his bid to become the Minister of Youth and Sports.

He had a strong sense of urgency, burning through accomplishments in search of the next big thing.

When he was just a boy, he played with teenagers, and when he was a teenager, he played with the youth. He made history when he joined the Iraqi national team at 17.

He knew what he could achieve, and he wouldn't rest until he did it. These lofty ambitions were both his triumph and his downfall.

Man of the people, star of the national team

In 1981, Radhi joined Al-Zawraa, one of Iraq's most renowned football teams, where he played alongside his role model, Falah Hasan.

He showcased his skills for two seasons, catching the attention of a goalkeeping coach in the Iraqi national team. The man recommended Radhi to Ammo Baba – the esteemed Iraqi coach preparing for Iraq's participation in the 1982 Arab Gulf Cup in Abu Dhabi.

Ammo Baba travelled 165km to the Salah Al Din Stadium to witness Radhi first-hand. His decision to call him up to the Iraqi National Team prompted the first of many Radhi-fueled media frenzies.

Iraqis loved Radhi. He was living proof that an ordinary person from a humble background could reach the world stage.

Raised in a modest Baghdad neighbourhood by hardworking parents from the south, Radhi and his family could barely afford to fund his dream. Every day, he walked 4km to the stadium where he trained.

Radhi's perseverance inspired the nation. Suddenly, glory wasn't reserved for those living in castles. A young boy from a poor neighbourhood could grow up to receive international accolades, rub shoulders with kings, and have his picture taken with presidents.

His posters adorned the walls of countless young boys and girls. Baghdad's newspapers tirelessly documented his every move. Hardly a day went by without his picture staring back at me from newsstands; in fact, coverage of Radhi rivalled that of the president and his son, surpassing the fame of celebrated singers, actors, and poets in the country.

He was on his way to becoming a bonified legend.

The man, the myth, the childhood hero

In the early 1990s, during Iraq's economic embargo, I tricked my mother into giving me pocket money for "sweets" from the nearby market. Instead, I spent what few coins I had on newspapers from Uncle Yassine's shop.

News clippings spilled out of my makeshift album dedicated to Radhi (made from a transformed school copybook). 2,000 pictures, hundreds of reports, and countless interviews. I documented every last bit of information I could get my hands on. I knew almost everything there was to know about Radhi – except his exact birthdate, which evaded me for years.

I idolised him, like many Iraqi kids born in the '80s. We wanted to be handsome, successful and famous like Radhi. We wanted to catch the eye of beautiful girls like Radhi. We copied his haircut and walk. On the football field, we imitated his goal celebration – shaking our right fist in the air.

In a country where the frontlines had become a final destination for many young men, Radhi inspired us to dream bigger than we ever had.

And he united us, too.

When he faced a FIFA ban due to contract issues with the Qatari Al-Sadd Club, the head of Al-Zawraa Club called upon Iraqis to donate and help lift the ban. The entire nation celebrated during the 1986 World Cup when Radhi scored Iraq's only goal against Belgium's Jean-Marie Pfaff, the tournament's top-ranked goalkeeper.

Even in his death at the age of 56, Radhi brought us together in grief and disbelief; he succumbed to COVID-19 in 2020, just five days after contracting the virus.

With each of his 62 international goals, Radhi ignited joy and pride in our people. He captured Iraq's hearts no matter which club he played for, from Al-Zawraa and Al-Rasheed to Al-Wakrah and Al-Arabi.

My own true calling

Radhi was so beloved that "a Radhi header" became a popular saying in Iraq to describe an expected accomplishment. (It was no surprise when he scored a successful goal with a knock of his temple.)

To my knowledge, no other public figure in Iraq's modern history has had such a profound impact.

Radhi was the only Iraqi ranked as the best player in Asia. He won the Iraqi Premier League five times, the Iraq FA Cup seven times, the Arab Club Champions Cup three times, and the Arab Gulf Cup two times. He qualified for the 1986 World Cup in Mexico, as well as the 1984 and 1988 Olympics, with the Iraqi national team.

He won titles. He broke records.

But Radhi grew to believe that his greatest reward was his bond with his fans.

Their love for him served as his first line of defence in times of crisis. He never forgot how Al-Zawraa supporters surrounded the club's building, blocking its entrances and demanding justice from the head of the club's administrative committee, Rukan Abdelghafur, one of Saddam Hussein's companions, after he was excluded due to a dispute.

On a personal level, Radhi motivated me to chase my own dreams.

Finally, I had an answer to my Arabic language teacher's question. I wanted a human hero, someone made of flesh and blood, who lived among us. I wanted to witness their miracles with my own eyes and feel their greatness in my very bones.

Although my attempts to become a successful footballer were unsuccessful, I scored countless goals on the streets of Baghdad. The odds weren't in my favour; I knew I was no Radhi, but maybe I didn't need to be.

After some excruciating soul-searching, I found my true calling—poetry. I fell in love. I became as enamoured with poets as I was with football strikers, and I started to wonder: is poetry the football of literature?

When I composed my first poem, I thought of Radhi.

A burning question for my hero

On the day that renowned radio broadcaster Amal al-Mudarres hosted Radhi on her show 'Studio No. 10,' I clung to the radio like a lifeline.

My mother was busy making lunch. As the show approached its end, Amal's gentle voice announced, "And now, dear listeners, the Captain will be available to answer your questions for the next half an hour."

My mind was made up. I needed to call the Captain and inquire about the one missing piece of information in my album: the exact day and month of his birth.

Living 280km away from Baghdad, I couldn't directly dial the capital. My only option was to trek 3km to the local Post Office for the phone call. With no money for a taxi and only half an hour left, I prepared to sprint.

My mother pleaded with me not to go. I had to cross a busy highway, navigate through an orchard guarded by intimidating watchdogs, and walk over a rickety bridge on the Tigris River.

But I was already on my feet, her concerned shouts fading behind me.

Fifteen minutes later, drenched in sweat, gasping for breath, and my head burning under the scorching sun, I arrived. I handed the phone number to the employee and entered the phone booth.

Ring ring.

"Hello. Is Ahmed Radhi still at 'Studio No. 10'?"

"Hello, darling. No, he left to pick some watermelons!"

Then there was laughter. I wondered what this operator's deal was. Why couldn't he just connect me to the Captain so I could get this precious bit of information? A voice interrupted my thoughts.

"Do you have a question?"

What did he mean? Would I get to speak to the Captain?

"I do, I do. I was wondering when the Captain was born."

"On April 21st, 1964."

The line disconnected. That was it.

At first, I was irritated. Yes, I got the answer I needed, but I wanted to speak to Radhi himself. Why couldn't the operator have patched me through, so that I could tell the Captain how much I loved him, and that he was my role model?

But wait. Where did the operator get that information from, anyway? How does he know the Captain's birth date?

It was only when I spoke to my mother afterwards that I understood what had happened.

"My son," she said, bursting into laughter. "You were talking to Ahmed Radhi himself! It looks like the sun has got to you."

I had spoken to my childhood hero. Radhi had given me my final puzzle piece.

Little did I know, it wouldn't be the last time we speak. Far from it.

An aborted dream, and a broken spirit

In late 1993, Doha hosted the Asian qualifiers for the 1994 World Cup (to be held in the US), coinciding with the peak of Radhi's footballing career.

He led Iraq to top its group in the initial qualifiers with five goals. However, North Korea dashed their dreams by defeating them 3 to 2, aided by the expulsion of Saad Abdelhamid and the coach's error in benching midfielder Naim Saddam.

New coaching staff, led by Ammo Baba, arrived, but couldn't salvage things. The President's son desperately desired qualification to improve his father's besieged regime's image, and the Iraqi people longed to see their country in the prestigious World Cup.

As far as fans were concerned, the team represented the last golden generation of Iraqi football. They deserved to qualify.

But despite Radhi's impressive goals against formidable opponents like Iran, Saudi Arabia, and Japan, their efforts proved futile. The haunting memory of that ill-fated match with North Korea remains vivid in my mind. Baghdad's streets were filled with sorrow — as if a national disaster had struck.

It may be hard to believe, but even 30 years later, I still have nightmares about that game.

A victory that crucial would have brought solace to many Iraqis, temporarily helping them forget the diseases that claimed their children's lives. It would have filled them with pride to see their beloved football star play in the land of Uncle Sam against the likes of Maradona, Romario, Baggio, or Matthäus.

What a missed opportunity. We would never get to ride the euphoria of such a sweet triumph. Football was, and will always be, the modern opium of the people.

The defeat in Doha shattered Radhi's chance for World Cup stardom. By the time the subsequent World Cup arrived, Radhi was 33, his passion and energy depleted, burdened by the sanctions imposed on him by Saddam's son Uday.

He moved to Qatar and joined Al-Wakrah, but news about him became scarce as satellite receivers were still banned in Iraq in the '90s.

I no longer needed to visit Uncle Yassine, the newspaper vendor, to collect more pictures and articles for my collection.

The Asian Cup qualifiers took place on August 13, but qualification proved challenging this time, and Radhi failed to score any goals. His game had clearly deteriorated, likely due to the limited opportunities for improvement in the Qatari tournament compared to the intense Iraqi championship.

Radhi was summoned to Baghdad and subjected to a punishment reminiscent of that of military defectors: a week of imprisonment with daily beatings and waterboarding. (Later, in 2017, Radhi would tell me: "I cried bitterly. The cruelty of that punishment made me wish I had never played football. The entire world seemed so worthless to me.")

A week after, Uday survived an assassination attempt but was left with a permanent handicap that would affect him for the rest of his life.

Homecoming, and an unlikely friendship

Three years later, Radhi came back to the banks of the Tigris River to spend his last season in his home club of Al-Zawraa. Alongside his teammates, he won the Iraqi Premier League and the Iraqi Cup.

At the age of 35, surrounded by his fans in the Al-Shaab Stadium, he played and scored in his last official game; the match against Al-Karkh crowned a storied career full of ups and downs.

After the final whistle, he raised the cup and walked around the stadium with his daughter Haya on his arm, bidding farewell to his fans.

The irony of fate was that the peak of Radhi's professional career coincided with an international boycott that isolated Iraq almost entirely from the rest of the world, at all levels, including sports.

If there had been no ban, Radhi would have participated in all Gulf, Arab, and international championships. He would have scored miraculous goals and achieved records that we would talk about for years to come.

Like many footballers, Radhi became a coach after retiring, then moved on to sports administration following the US occupation of Iraq, heading Al-Zawraa club for a short but successful time.

He was then elected to the Iraqi parliament, which he would later admit was a failed endeavour that cost him much of his popularity.

Around this time, my own dreams had begun to pick up steam.

I published several books, won awards, and became a known figure – albeit to fewer people.

I was no longer a kid, but I still recalled who inspired me all those years ago. I decided to reach out to my hero directly, this time without an "operator" to stand between us.

Visiting Radhi's profile on Instagram, I wrote him a message. I told him my story like I've relayed it in this article, without hyperbole or exaggeration.

An hour later, I received a notification. A message from Radhi.

"Dearest Ali, many people have loved me and spoken highly of me, and many fans have praised me. None of their words had the effect of yours.

"I am sorry that I wasn't able to return that love to you. It was not out of negligence on my part, but because I wasn't afforded the chance to do so.

"You are such a wonderful person, and I'm immensely thankful to you. I pray to God to guide you through a successful life."

That one message was the start of a friendship that would last until the legend departed from this world.

Even after his death, the bond that Radhi shared with millions of his fans never diminished.

Some people are like that. They possess the ability to transcend the limitations of mortality through the sheer power of their artistic achievements.

And Radhi was a true artist. Player No. 8. A performer, a strategic thinker, and a force to be reckoned with. His death only served to consecrate his many victories – a final act before the curtains shuttered.

Can the legacy of Pele, Messi and their likes be confined to their performance on the pitch? Does the impact of football end when the whistle blows? Probably not. Creativity has no expiry date. Neither does the effect that some people have on you.

Ahmed Radhi might have scored some amazing goals in his career, but his biggest reward came from winning the hearts of his fans. They – we – will remain forever faithful to his legacy.