Handball

All free time was for handball! And our team was so close-knit that even if we did give a game to the opponent, our reaction to the loss was a calm analysis in Dimentiy’s room and even more intense training. And to celebrate the won cup… on the test range there were no equals to us.

Valera Belov and Lev Kostiuk.

From it one must drink a good beverage, not vulgar “khmyz”. Bring cognac with champagne!

I’m attacking. In the goal, all-seeing Lev is visible. Number 5: Shershen.

Immediately after shower, naturally, a group of two or three sturdy men—“aestets”—with suitcases was sent to Tyuratam-Tam station for the nearest train, to board and raid the dining car. At the test range there was prohibition, and the shops sold no alcoholic drinks. And it was not only the players who wanted to celebrate the victory, but also the loyal supporters.

The trains at our station, in order to minimize contact between passers-by and the locals, stopped for at most five minutes, and some for only two minutes. Boarding and disembarking from the cars always happened at a frantic pace, under the conductors’ encouraging shouts. So in those seconds you had to burst into the dining car, fill suitcases with bottles, pay up, and jump off onto the ground while the train was already moving at speed.

Of course, the restaurant staff, for their part, prepared to repel the raid—on the free tables they had already set out everything they had, and they did not need to push us; the goods disappeared from the tables in an instant.

Of course, during such rushes I saw the faces of restaurant passengers. They all stopped chewing and stared at us, pressing up to the windows, either fearing us or so as not to obstruct us. Ten to twenty Archarovists flew into the car. Only the leaders managed to stock up. And then running to the exit while the train had not yet gained full speed. And to ride to the nearest station and back was not possible, the whole team was waiting! Once, because of a serious wrist injury, I had to jump at full speed with a huge suitcase full of loot, backwards, in a white shirt and pressed black trousers. I somersaulted like in a movie. Two bottles of wine broke; that was a pity, not like torn trousers and shirt. But if time allowed, procurement was done more thoughtfully. You sat calmly in the dining car, had lunch, and stocked up. You didn’t grab everything your wide-eyed self at whatever the waiter’s quick little hands pushed at you. You rode to Kzyl-Orda or Jusalov and back in the same kind of dining car, as a white guy. To Orda it was four hours, to Jusalov two.

Through handball is indirectly linked my first meeting after finishing school with my classmate Yura Shakhvorostov. It happened during the break of one of the games. We were sitting on the bench, cooling down, wiping off, surrounded by true supporters confidently giving advice. Suddenly in this excited crowd I saw something clearly familiar but long forgotten, a wide, broadly smiling face. It was Yurka “Kikh.” My old school friend, former classmate. What joy! After the game we went together to me. It turned out Yura had already been working for a long time at Academician Reshetnev’s company, based in Krasnoyarsk-26. This is all about communication satellites, “Molniya,” “Screens,” “Horizons,” and others. He had come on a business trip and found me. Much later, when I was already serving at the northern test range, Yura found me there too.

We started playing handball 7x7 on the test range in 1962 on an empty lot at the edge of the central park. The dust was so thick you could not breathe. On the goals were volleyball nets. The markings were just scratched grooves. If the wind blew, everything was hidden in clouds of dust, and teams and referees froze in place, eyes shut. Then they spent a long time searching for the ball blown away by the wind. We endured this, endured it. But one fine day we arrived at another match and there was neither opponent nor referee. Some planning failure. We moved from words of outrage to action. With a huge log, like a battering ram, we smashed the goalposts and returned to our own field. The command all understood correctly, and soon the sports staff sat at a meeting in the Officers’ Club. The general, deputy for drill, listened to our complaints and appointed me to oversee building a new handball court in the most convenient spot in the park, with a small budget and construction equipment.

In the lower photo, Lev, Vova Chernushenko, and Zhenya Lebedev.

In two weeks, the court with protective nets and benches for supporters was almost ready. Players from all teams came out for a weekend cleanup and brought the court up to the required condition. The final matches still had to be played on the hastily marked dance floor.

During the break. We play on the marked dance floor. From left to right: Zhenya Lebedev, Vitaly Morozov, Koly Chernyshov, me, and Farid Mukhametov.

We loved handball, but it also gave us a chance to shake ourselves up, to step away for a while from everyday life, and to see new cities. Over the years of service at the test range, we managed as part of the team to visit Novosibirsk, Kharkov, Termez, Kirov, and Almaty, and repeatedly Tashkent.

Excellent plov was cooked in such “cauldrons” on the streets of Tashkent. Farid, Lev, and Koly Shuvaev were licking their lips.

Four test range officers, including Lev Kostiuk, Koly Chernyshyev, and me (I don’t remember the fourth), were issued civilian passports in made-up names in Kzyl-Orda, with all the required stamps and registrations. I was Rafail Galeev, no patronymic, a Tatar, a teacher, member of the sports society “Enbek”. The others had less exotic cover stories. The passports were so we could compete for the region in republican competitions, which we did. I remember during the half-time after the first half of the first game in Almaty, a Kzyl-Orda representative came running and started shouting that he would lose his Party card if we used our real names while playing. It was not simple, but we understood and together switched to an unlawful status. Later, for a long time at the test range they kept calling me “Rafkad” or “Rafka.”

I repeatedly mention the splendid city of Kzyl-Orda, our “Kzyl-Paris.” The point is that it is our regional center. Low and green, the most memorable thing about it is a pharmacy with a huge jar of black leeches. At night, the foulest smell from huge amounts of waste drained into the city ditches. Ambre!

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