These imposters drink the intoxicating elixir of crowd exhortation, wallow in god-like hallucinations and lose their human spirit to the peril of a peaceful society. It is your human duty to fight all evil."

Men have the capacity to turn any man into a hero or a little god. With a little following your ego expands to cover the universe. Praises and acclamation, even from ignoble people, swell up your head till you become a different being - an inhuman-being, at times.

The airs and joys that come with being raised above your fellow men can be intoxicating but usually fleeting and destructive.

As a young boy growing up in Suntreso, Kumasi, the only important game for us was football - soccer came later - and we played the game with the real football, not a soccer ball. Unlike the modern soccer ball, a football had four components; a leather (thick buffalo hide) casing, a rubber bladder (a thick-skinned balloon), a string and a lace. Preparing the ball for play was an art.

You would place the bladder meticulously in the tough casing, pump it up, tie the long neck of the rubber bladder into position and lace up the casing to smoothly contain its content.

In our neighbourhood, Gyembibi was the only one who could set up a perfect football and the only person I have met who can blow up a football with his mouth. Legend has it that he could pump up a tractor tyre with his lungs and mandibles.

He was built like T. Rex with huge jaws that cracked even palm nuts. Before Mfum tore the net, Gyembibi was tearing down goal posts with his shots. He was feared by all - young and old.

On this occasion Gyembibi had come to my house to invite me to keep the goal for our local team in a match against the fearsome Kwadaso boys (a few may have been married).

Nii Ayi, the regular goalie for our team was ill and Gyembibi, the captain, had chosen me (a regular spectator) for the job. I had never kept the goal before. I believe he selected me for the mere fact that I was the biggest and tallest boy in the area and probably figured out that my size alone could cover half of the goal area - sort of a wall in the post.

Somehow it worked out well.

During that dueling encounter, I saved about nine terrific shots. The Kwadaso strikers kept blasting the ball into my body - into my legs, into my ribs and every part of me except into the net.

The last supersonic shot hit me hard on my forehead (I still have the lump), I fell backwards into the bamboo post, bruising the back of my head as well. Whilst recovering from pain, stars in my vision and ringing in my ears, I heard loud applause and cheers from the spectators.

The heavy leather football had deflected off my large forehead, landed perfectly on the toes (no boots then) of our striker Kotoroka, who ran 50 yards with it to score our final goal, in the last minute.

We had won four-nil against the indomitable Kwadaso boys and everybody thought I had skillfully headed the ball to our striker for the final goal and erroneously thought I had saved all the best shots against our team.

Little did they know I was trying, in most cases, to dodge the heavy ball. The crowd carried me sky-high - I had won the match for Suntreso - I was the hero of the Cup Finals - I was elected to collect the cup! What a nice feeling it was, a hero by default. I started to believe I was great.

Of course, it was not sustainable. The law of probability could not support my dodging-and-winning act. We lost seven-one in our friendly match with the much weaker 'dada mma' (Lactogen-bred boys) from the middle-class Pine Avenue Estates.

A terrible disgrace. Gyembibi got furious. At the sound of the final whistle I saw him running in my direction like a locomotive. I sensed danger - this time I didn't see stars, I saw adrenalin in my eyes. Still on the run, Gyembibi threw his Rambo arm at me, I ducked (effectively this time), - he lost his balance and fell on his face.

My self-preservation instinct took over. I jumped on Gyembibi, used all my appendages to pin his two lethal arms to the pitch not knowing if that was such a bright idea. Gyembibi heaved and puffed like a wounded lion but my fear-inspired strength kept me on top of him.

Soon, the crowd came around, pulled me off Gyembibi to stop the 'fight' (whew) and they all started cheering. They raised my hands and declared me winner of the fight.

Here again the crowd declared me a hero -- by default. The news spread like wildfire all over the locality that Ekow Adabie, the unassuming fatso, had beaten up Gyembibi, the terror of Atwima District.

But I had already learnt my lesson - know thyself and don't let the people's declaration get to your head - it could mean your downfall. I wisely resisted all attempts for a re-match.

Many of our so-called heroes are just sheep in wolves' clothing. They are projected larger, stronger, wiser, braver than they really are; with a crowd they behave like tin gods; without the gullible followers, they are just like you and I.

These imposters drink the intoxicating elixir of crowd exhortation, wallow in god-like hallucinations and lose their human spirit to the peril of a peaceful society.

It is your human duty to fight all evil.