Nikita Simonyan Biography: Football – Is It Just a Game? (Part Three)

Nikita Pavlovich Simonyan (1926- ) is the current vice president of the Russian Football Union, and one of the most noteworthy figures in Russian and Soviet football. Between 1949 and 1959 he became the highest scoring player ever for Spartak Moscow, with whom he won four Soviet championships, and he was also one of the stars on the Soviet national team that won the 1956 Olympics and finished fourth at the 1958 World Cup.

He later went into coaching and he won three Soviet championships with Spartak Moscow and Ararat Yerevan while also being in charge of the Soviet national team between 1975 and 1977.

After ending his coaching career in 1985, he became one of the most important figures in the Football Federation of the Soviet Union and later of Russia. He has even acted as president of the Russian Football Union, and to this day he remains an influential figure despite being 91.

In 1989, Simonyan published his memoirs in Football – Is it Just a Game? Over the next few weeks, we’ll share the book part by part, which gives an excellent insight into the life of one of Russian football’s most brilliant minds. Here is Part Three, in which he discusses playing for his first team, local pride Dinamo Sukhumi. But first, read the Introduction linked below if you haven’t had a chance yet.

READ MORE: Nikita Simonyan: Football – Is It Just a Game? (Introduction)

Part Three – Dinamo Sukhumi

In 1944, when we got used to victory fireworks when most of the Nazi-controlled territory was taken back, many great football teams came to train to the Black Sea shore: Dinamo Moscow, CDKA, Dinamo-2, trade union teams, even Dinamo Leningrad. Friendlies were played, and they attracted a lot of interest: who didn’t dream to see such stars as Grigory Fedotov, Vladimir Dyomin or Aleksei Grinin in person? Those were famous CDKA players, but the Dinamo players were equally as famous: Konstantin Beskov, Vasily Kartsev, Leonid and Sergei Soloviev…iymv

When they played in Sukhumi, it was a feast for us boys. We were usually allowed to stand behind the goals, and so we were watching the magic woven on the field. Yes, we really thought that it was magic, I’m not making this up. Everything the football masters did seemed unattainable, almost supernatural to us. I, of course, was enthralled by the duels between defenders and forwards, especially the latter. I felt that I should play as a forward, and Shota agreed with me. I’m all eyes, trying to understand how the forwards manage to crack open the opponents’ goal. A sleek move, dribbling, one-two combination, and finally a strong shot… I was taking notes on the moves and shots, but as a whole, it was extremely hard to understand. I saw that many good moments were created because forwards moved smartly off the ball. Notice a vulnerable spot on the opponents’ half, run to that spot and offer yourself to your teammate who has the ball. It’s easy to see, but to get it done yourself… I understood that in addition to pace and agility, a football player should have a good head and a good measure of cunning.

I would constantly analyze the amazing things I saw and sometimes couldn’t even sleep at night, preparing myself to try and repeat that tomorrow on the training. Would I be able too? And the imagination – it always reaches its greatest heights before you go to sleep – already pushed me further, and I saw myself on the same field with Fedotov and Bobrov. But then, after flying high, I would stop myself: who am I, compared to them? Will I ever reach their level? After sobering myself in that way, I would go to sleep, and on the next day, I still tried to repeat the masters’ tricks.

Our youth team performed well in the Abkhazian championship. We had our own stars: Volodya Margania, Gennady Bondarenko, Fanas brothers and Yuri Grammatikopulo. When we became Abkhazian youth champions, our team became the foundation for the Abkhazian youth team that prepared to play in the Georgian championship. We were joined by Niyazi Dzyapshipa, Yuri Vardimiadi, Vladimir Tarba… Now, these names are known to many, but back then, we were just boys who loved playing football.

We prepared for the tournament very seriously. The republican championship was an important event for everyone, not just us. The football fans waited for interesting football matches. Football is almost like a national sport in Georgia.

The final tournament was held in Tbilisi. Of course, local fans (Tbilisi was represented by the team Trudovye Rezervy) hoped that their team would win. Up to a certain point, their hopes were justified: Tbilisi players easily reached the final. Abkhazian team also reached the final, winning 6-1 against the Makharadze town team. So many years have passed, but I still remember all the matches and all goals scored: it seems that these events were really important, and I was greatly excited.

So, the game against Tbilisi.

We understood perfectly that there would be a battle, but we didn’t lose hope. The players from the republican capital showed great technique in the preliminary games, but their forwards would sometimes play prettily rather than rationally, to garner some applause. This “pretty stuff” would slow down the attacks and yield nothing. For the defenders, it’s even more dangerous to try pretty moves… But the Tbilisi players were yet to learn that lesson.

“Play quickly, close down their forwards, don’t let them receive the ball freely”, the coach told us. “Let them play in unfamiliar circumstances, and then, when they start making mistakes…”

Our opponents, of course, didn’t expect such an organized play from us, and when Gennady Bondarenko scored the game’s only goal, they became nervous.

I was personally marked by a short, stocky guy. He played very stiffly, but without unnecessary roughness. He looked very aggressive and once said to me, “I’ll meet you after the game.” “We’ll meet”, I answered.

Later I learned that his name was Volodya Eloshvili. He would play for Dinamo Tbilisi, and we would often meet on the field. We remembered that final match with a smile.

Volodya told me, “I was warned, ‘if you don’t mark Nikita well, he’ll score a goal’. So I decided to scare you a bit. But I failed…”

“Well, I didn’t score after all.”

“Yes, you didn’t. But you weren’t scared, too.”

We returned to Sukhumi as Georgian champions. People now knew us and were quite proud. Still, nobody rejoiced back at my home: nobody from the family thought of my wins as important. My father at least stopped berating me for battered shoes: now I was getting football boots from the team.

In the summer, Dinamo-2 Moscow (later, Dinamo Minsk was formed around this team’s players) came to Sukhumi and agreed to play a friendly with the local club mates.

Our entire youth team came to support our seniors. The stadium was full to the capacity – the only stand was filled, all the benches also full, many sat on the grasses or even on the running tracks. We were worried for our players, and in the first half, they managed to equal the more famous guests, both in skill and will to win. But at the very end of the first half, our forward Dikhamindzhia, Dikha for short, was injured. Who will replace him? We knew our line-up very well and couldn’t see any worthy substitution for Dikha. The game, of course, was friendly, nothing bad would happen even if we lost, but the pride… The entire Sukhumi was proud when the local team played with the Moscow guests on equal terms, there was so much talk!

In the half-time, Turkia came to the touchline and started to search for someone among the crowd. Then he saw us and waved his hand. We came to him.

“I was searching for you”, he said. “Run to the dressing room, quick!”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions. You’re replacing Dikha.”

I walked to the dressing room under the stand before I understood what’s happening. My knees were jerking when I came on the field. I can’t see anything, everything is foggy, and I’m the central forward. A nightmare!

The referee blew his whistle, the second half began, and Moscow’s central defender emerged from the “fog”, a robust man who was a head taller than me. He looked at me condescendingly from below his bushy brows: “I’ll handle this boy somehow.” I accidentally hit him and heard his grumpy voice: “Hey, careful, kid!”

“You were quick but very green”, laughed Arkady Ivanovich Chernyshev, one of the founders of Soviet ice hockey, when we remembered that Sukhumi game many years later. He was that grumpy central defender.

I can’t remember how well I played on that day. After the game, I was surrounded by other guys from the youth team: “Were you afraid? You looked well. So self-assured!”

“Good game”, Turkia told me. “Now you’re going to play for the senior team too.”

At the end of 1945, Krylya Sovetov Moscow came to Sukhumi. Their youth team came too, having won the Moscow championship that year. Of course, they didn’t rest much during their vacation. When you come to a town where even winter is warm and green, how can you just lie on the beach, totally forgetting the ball? The Moscow players immediately started active training.

But still, a training’s a training, but they wanted a sparring. And so, Krylya Sovetov agreed to play three friendlies with Dinamo Sukhumi: two games between youth teams and one between senior squads. The young Moscow players were raring to go (they were Moscow champions, after all), and their squad featured many gifted players: Sergei Korshunov, Viktor Fyodorov, Vladimir Suchkov, Sergei Mitin…

But our team had some great players too.

Strangely, our youth team ended up winning both games: 3-1 and 1-0. I scored all 4 goals.

As I already said, I played both for youth and senior teams, so I played in the seniors’ friendly too. We drew the game, 1-1. And I again scored my team’s only goal. I wasn’t an arrogant man, but still, I was very proud of what I’ve done. And the Moscow team was very surprised. It’s not often that some young boy decides the outcome of three matches in a row, even friendly matches. It’s not self-promotion or anything: these goals paved my road to big-time football.

Later, a Krylyshki footballer approached me on the street and said that the team’s coaches asked me to come to the Abkhazia hotel. Why? I didn’t even think. If they asked me to come, then they needed me for something. I found the hotel room and entered. Vladimir Ivanovich Gorokhov, one of the assistant coaches, stood at the window.

“Ah, Nikita! Come in! Do you know why we called you?” Vladimir Ivanovich looked at me intently, hiding a small smile. “You don’t? Come to Moscow with us. You’ll play for our team.”

I expected anything but that. Me – to Moscow, to play for a team that competes in the Soviet championship? Perhaps Gorokhov was joking?

“No, no, I’m not joking”, the coach seemed to read my mind. “I’ll make a new Bobrov out of you!”

I didn’t answer. I was completely baffled. A new Bobrov out of me? That Bobrov, who shone in Dinamo Moscow’s English tour just a month ago, who scored 24 goals in the last Soviet championship?

I looked at Vladimir Ivanovich. He smiled, and I smiled back and shrugged, not knowing what to say.

“Don’t be afraid. I’m serious: come to Moscow. And that “new Bobrov” thing – we’ll see. It will depend on you.”

He’s not joking indeed, I thought. He really wants me to join Krylya Sovetov. But concerning Bobrov – that was probably too much. I wasn’t even worthy to clean Bobrov’s boots.

I thought but again didn’t answer.

“Why don’t you say anything?”

“What can I say? I can’t decide on anything without talking to my parents.”

“Leave that to us. We’ll talk to your parents and convince them.”

“It wouldn’t be easy…”

They indeed talked to my parents. Gorokhov came to our home together with the Krylya’s manager, Abram Khristoforovich Dangulov – a very friendly, caring, intelligent man. My father understood people very well, and it seemed that he took a liking to Abram Khristoforovich and Vladimir Ivanovich. But before making any decisions, he would always weigh all pros and cons, and so when the coaches made their offer, he was deep in thought. On one hand, it’s flattering when your son is invited to the capital, but on the other hand…

“Only kick the ball? No”, my father frowned. “He needs to study, to get a real profession. And your football won’t go away anyway. I won’t let him go.”

They would try to convince him, but still - “I won’t let him go.”

“But he can study! Moscow has a lot of colleges and universities. It all depends on him. On him only.”

My father looked at me. I nodded: yes, everything will be all right.

To be honest, I didn’t know whether it was good or bad to leave my home city and chase my luck in the capital. One thing attracted me: I was going to play football. The coaches left, saying, “Wait. Someone will come for you.” And I waited. Wanted and dreamed how I would wear the Krylyshki shirt, go on the field and work wonders with the ball before the packed stands. Youth is so self-assured and careless.

But days passed, and nobody came for me. Gradually, I started to get more and more disappointed: why did they get me excited, and then just went away? I was starting to forget all that, but then…

Someone knocked on the door. A slender, pretty woman was standing at the doorstep.

“Are the Simonyans living here? Finally found you! I’m from Moscow, came for Nikita.”

This was a famous sportswoman, Soviet rowing champion Elena Nikolaevna Lukatina. She was on a business trip in Sukhumi and was asked to take me to Moscow.

My mother quickly gathered my belongings, I said goodbye to my family and left the house.

The train moved quite slowly. Gradually, kilometre after kilometre, we entered the real winter. I was somewhat scared: I wasn’t used to freezing weather, so I feared the cold even before truly experiencing it.

I was also anxious about another thing: will I adjust to life in Moscow, will the team accept me? Being a strong hometown player is one thing, but this… What if I’d have to come home empty-handed? This thought unsettled me. A young man’s self-esteem is hurt easily, and considering my Caucasian background…

I understood that football would become my life now. If I do enrol in an institute, games and training sessions will still take up the bulk of my time: everything will be subordinate to the football schedule.

Still: did I choose football, or did football choose me? Perhaps it was only a lucky chance? What if Krylya Sovetov didn’t come to Sukhumi? What if I didn’t score in all games? What if Dangulov and Gorokhov didn’t take notice? How would I live then?

I must say that this lucky chance came at the most fortunate time: I’d just finished school and been thinking what to do next. My father already stopped trying to get me to follow in his steps – he probably understands that this was futile. But his younger brother, Angin, was very persistent in trying to convince me that his job was the most stable and profitable. He had a workshop and some patents for various models of chunky and shoes from recycled car tires. Canvas top, rubber soles. These shoes got their own nickname, “Sukhum-Sochi”: they were so sturdy that you could walk 170 kilometres to Sochi in them.

Many Sukhumi boys wore these shoes during and after the war. In the summer, feet got very hot and sweaty with them, but in autumn and winter, they were a blessing. They even got a shout-out in literature: Fazil Iskander’s characters wore them. He renamed them “Mukhus-Sochi” in his short stories, but by all indication, they were made by uncle Angin.

As soon as I walked into his workshop, he would offer: “Sit down, try to work. You won’t regret it if you learn.” People who really love their job probably deserve much respect. But my uncle was just a few years older than me, so I wasn’t too respectful to him and didn’t listen to his advice.

I paid most respect to my other uncle, Ivan Pavlovich, mom’s brother. He was a lawyer. I remember being amazed how respectfully would people always greet him in town. He told me at length about his profession, answering my puzzling questions: how can you sympathize with a criminal, even defend him, if he’s proven guilty? Uncle Vanya explained to me why the right for defence is so important. Understanding the person, finding some circumstances that would mitigate the guilt – sometimes their very future depended on that, it could be life-changing. How many times I had to act as an advocate later when I became a coach…

Uncle Vanya helped me to understand myself. I agreed that my inclinations were clearly humanitarian. I loved literature and history, read a lot. I wasn’t the best student of my class, but during the dictation quizzes, even the honours students would sit closer to me: somehow I always wrote without mistakes, even though I didn’t know all the rules. Perhaps, uncle, Vanya was right when he advised me to become a lawyer and go to Tbilisi for studies. At least I liked the idea.

I also loved music. I could sit at the black radio dish for hours. If I knew that there would be Tchaikovsky’s 5^th or 6^th symphonies, or Beethoven’s symphonies and sonatas on the radio, I would always try and catch the broadcast. Uncle Karlusha said that I had a good ear and memory for music. I think I could’ve become a musician if someone’s hand would direct me. Sadly, there was no-one to direct me: uncle Karlusha died too soon, and his funeral was the last ever time our orchestra played together. After that, we never touched our instruments.

If only… if only…

Back then, I knew one thing clearly: no matter what job I get, I would still play football. I want to play! Not just put on the form and boots and train occasionally, but play in a team, together with masters.

Almost all boys kick the ball in their youth, scoring goals or stopping shots, experience that excitement and exhilaration. And then they grow up and become turners, scientists, engineers, musicians, and they stay in football only as fans. I wasn’t satisfied with that role. Football was a tool of self-expression for me. I believe that people are just born footballers, and the role of coaches is to recognize the talents of their pupils and help them realize their full potential. I was naturally a quick, fast, well-coordinated boy, many things came easily to me, so I would challenge myself constantly. Perhaps I achieved more than many of my street game partners, and football wasn’t just entertainment for me. I stepped up, to the level where I could see all the complexity of the game, its tactics, technique and limitless possibilities of perfection.