During the Euro '88 Football Final, what was

Nelson Mandela Doing?

It read like myth - Ruud in a magazine bought from WHSmiths - or a dream: a European with locs? My skin screamed!

The Ballon D'Or baller was melanin. TV stereotypes were my prison: this loc'd brotha spirited my cell open

flying past full backs, his moustached grin a conjuring. The poet I've become would not exist without the hymn of him.

He dribbled and darted as Dutch fans drummed. Ruud was their captain, their conductor, his Dutch plantation skin escapism:

a nation of Christmas-blackface in awe of reggae singing Ruud, vocals a mixture of grace and rage. The volleys that he scored turned my blood to dub like '80s bowlers from Bajan corn fields and St Lucian shores running through visions of ankle fetters,

muscles flaming during fitness chores, a team of Pan-African athletes hauling six wickets at Edgbaston and Lords.

They ignited the Blackness in my skin in latte-and-panini Muswell Hill, an ocean from Mum's ackee and dumplings.

In the final, Ruud leapt for the kill: a predator - his header - cameras framed his Lion of Judah mane. Did the guards yell

their love for Ruud, like me, the Dutch one-nil? Did they link arms with Mr Mandela, the TV blaring, Nelson's heartbeat still?

Marvin Thompson