A lost phone finds a new friend in Doha's Al Bidda Park

Chris Jones is in Qatar covering the men's World Cup for CBC Sports.

I finally latched on to a pickup soccer game in Doha.

We played on Thursday morning in Al Bidda Park, a sprawling complex that includes a fenced-in turf field. Our 10 a.m. kickoff was meant to avoid the worst heat of the day, but we were still the only people in that entire park. A tiny, nice man in a blue security jacket unlocked the gate for us and settled in to watch.

My game was with a group of journalists. We played good, fun, sweaty soccer. Julien Laurens, a French writer at ESPN, was particularly handy, and at one point he struck a volley that made an incredibly pure connection with both of my testicles, like Mike Tyson driving into a speedbag. It really was a cataclysmic nut shot.

Whether it was the thunderous groin ache or burgeoning heat stroke, I did something after we'd finished that I wouldn't normally: I packed up my soaking wet stuff and just assumed my phone was in backpack. I was so tired. I'd fish it out later.

I realized I did not have my phone after I'd walked back to my flat, showered, and taken a bus to the World Cup media centre. More specifically, I realized I did not have my phone when I went to go hear Louis van Gaal, the head coach for the Netherlands, hold court. FIFA has an app that provides immediate translation. I started rummaging through my backpack.

I unzipped pocket after pocket. My phone was not in my backpack.

I sat there listening to Van Gaal speak Dutch for 30 minutes, trying to work out what I'd done with my phone. (People laughed several times at what Van Gaal said. I have no idea what he said.)

My phone must have fallen out of my backpack when I went home to shower, after the game.

I took a bus back to my flat. I searched everywhere. My phone was not there, either.

Where was my phone? Did I leave it in the Uber I'd lazily taken to the pickup game? No, I had shot a photo of Doha with my phone from the turf. And then I'd put it in my backpack, right?

Or did I leave it on the bench?

Oh no.

Now, in the grand scheme of things, a lost phone is not the end of the world. In my time in Qatar, I've been reminded every minute of every day how lucky I am. I am not a million miles from home, risking my life in the heat and the sand, making a few dollars a day.

A lost phone is still not ideal. I wouldn't be able to call or text my family or my work. I wouldn't understand another press conference outside of England's. Uber, Google Maps, Twitter — not Twitter! — would all be unavailable to me, and I've relied on them a lot here.

A hero in a blue jacket

Because I couldn't call an Uber, I started running from my flat back to the park. Maybe no one had played soccer since we had, I told myself between gasps. Maybe my phone was still sitting on the bench.

By the time I got there, my chest was heaving, and it was after dark. A bunch of teenagers were playing where we had played, more sensibly, under lights. I asked through the fence if they had seen my phone. They shook their heads. I asked an Indian man sweeping nearby if the park had a lost-and-found. He couldn't understand what I meant.

Then a man in a blue security jacket came walking toward me — the same tiny, nice man who had unlocked the gate for us nearly eight hours earlier and watched us play soccer. He had a big smile on his face and held out his hand.

"Hi there," he said. "I think you are looking for your phone."

"Yes!" I said. "Yes! I am looking for my phone."

"I found it this morning," he said. He had found my phone on the bench, after we had left. He said he had walked around with it in his pocket for hours, assuming I would come back for it. When I didn't, he took it to the park office. My phone was there.

I thanked him a thousand times and asked him his name.

"I am named Victor," he said.

Victor is one of the millions of migrant labourers in Qatar and counts himself among the luckier ones. He doesn't have to clean toilets or shovel dust. His job is to mind the park. My phone would still cost Victor several months' wages. He had kept my phone safe and then taken it to the park office.

"Can I give you some money?" I said.

"I do not expect this," Victor said. 

"I would like to give you some money," I said.

Victor was very clearly torn about accepting any money. I didn't care. I was so grateful. It's a long story, but all I had in my wallet was a US$100 bill that I keep when I travel just in case. I handed it to him. 

"No, no, no," Victor said.

"I need you to take this," I said.

Victor shook his head.

"It's okay, Victor," I said. "I am a very lucky man. And you are a very good man."

Victor started to cry. I started to cry. Victor and I hugged and shook hands again under the lights, and then I ran to the park office. It closed in eight minutes.

There, another man, the man in charge, had my phone. I asked him where Victor is from.

"Victor is Kenyan," the man in charge said.

"I love Victor from Kenya," I told him.

I looked at my phone. There were messages from my parents, my friends, and my kids. I began to reply and started crying again.

I am a very lucky man, and I love Victor from Kenya in Doha so much.