By Rizal Abdullah
Malaysian hockey recently lost one of its rarest souls. On Nov 1, Cikgu Shahabudin Royani, affectionately known as Cikgu Budin, passed away after a battle with aggressive Stage 4 cancer. He was only 62.
The headlines will say he was a retired teacher, a hockey coach, a former secretary of the Johor Hockey Association. They would all be true.
But they would not come close to explaining who he really was. Because Cikgu Budin belonged to that increasingly endangered species of Malaysian educator who believed teaching did not end when the school bell rang, and that sport was never merely about winning matches.
It was about improving lives. For decades, hockey was not simply a game to him. It was a calling. When schools lacked facilities, he built them. When players lacked money, he found it.
When children lacked direction, he gave them purpose. And when the odds said it could not be done, he simply rolled up his sleeves and got to work.
After graduating from Temenggong Ibrahim Teachers College in Johor Bahru, Cikgu Budin was posted to SMK Jengka 2 in Pahang (Jan 5, 1987 – Nov 30, 1991). The next posting was to SMK Sri Tanjung in Pontian (Dec 1, 1991 – Jan 5, 2013), followed by a final posting to SMK Dato Bentara Luar, Batu Pahat (Jan 6, 2013 – July 1, 2018).
At SMK Jengka 2, the school had 100 hockey sticks, but no hockey players. The students were all into football. Undeterred, Cikgu Budin coaxed three or four players to take up the stick-and-ball game, and more followed.
The joy was immense when three players from Jengka 2 were eventually selected to represent Maran district in the Pahang Schools Championships. Cikgu Budin was named coach. For him, the real victory was seeing children discover confidence they never knew they possessed. His steely dedication even led him to be named as the Pahang Schools hockey coach.
When Cikgu Budin was posted to SMK Sri Tanjung in Pontian, he was greeted by lalang grass taller than himself. Cikgu Budin stood at 5 feet 7 inches, and the weed towered over him. Most would have seen abandonment. But Cikgu Budin saw possibility
Cikgu Budin cleared the lalang with the help of a friend. Instead of wild bushes, two hockey pitches were created. Once again, he sparked interest in hockey among the students. Three players from the school made it to the Pontian district schools team.
Where others saw obstacles, he saw children waiting for an opportunity. That was his gift. He could see what things could become. His sacrifices were often invisible.
During school holidays, he drove a taxi to supplement his income. Sometimes the journeys took him as far as Penang. He sold cars on the side.
He took on whatever honest work he could find. Not for luxury. Not for himself. But so that his boys would have jerseys, sticks, tournament fees, meals and transport.
Many coaches fundraise. Cikgu Budin was fundraising before fundraising became fashionable.
On more than one occasion, he quietly reached into his own pocket to ensure a child would not miss out simply because the family could not afford the cost. His philosophy was simple. No youngster should be denied a chance because of money.
Those who knew him understood that he was never chasing trophies. He was chasing possibilities.
He often said his mission was to keep young people away from unhealthy lifestyles and steer them toward something better. Hockey was merely the vehicle.
Character was always the destination. Perhaps no story illustrates the man better than what happened in Germany in 2012. Managing Malaysia’s Under-16 team at an international tournament there, he watched his young charges suffer consecutive defeats to Holland and Germany. Confidence was low.
Then, before a crucial match against Belgium, he overheard Belgian players mocking the Malaysians during the warm-up. Many managers would have ignored it. Others might have reacted with anger.
Cikgu Budin chose inspiration.
Inside the dressing room, he reminded the players who they were. He reminded them what the Malaysian jersey represented. He reminded them of the sacrifices made under the unforgiving Malaysian sun.
Most importantly, he reminded them that dignity could never be given by an opponent and never taken away by one. The response was immediate. He cajoled them into having the right spirit, or semangat. Malaysia defeated Belgium 4-3.
Years later, Cikgu Budin would still recount that victory with pride. Not because of tactics. Not because of strategy. But because he had witnessed young men discover their own courage.
That was always the teacher in him. Long before becoming a hockey administrator. Long before becoming a coach. Long before becoming an official. An admirable teacher he was.
His years as secretary of the Johor Hockey Association demanded a different kind of endurance. The position involved endless meetings, development programmes, funding concerns, Majlis Sukan Sekolah-Sekolah Malaysia commitments, Sukma preparations and club affairs.
It was often thankless work. Eventually he stepped away. Officially, health reasons were cited.
Yet anyone who knew him also knew that the politics of sport can wound far more deeply than defeat on the field. But even when he left administration, he never truly left hockey.
How could he? Hockey was not something he did. It was who he was. Back in Batu Pahat, he returned to the grassroots and the children. To the beginning. To the reason he started.
And then there was Warong Cikgu Budin in Senggarang. To customers, it was a restaurant. To those who knew him, it was simply another version of a dressing room.
Parents, former players, officials and friends gathered there over nasi ayam penyet, mee goreng, asam pedas, lontong and endless glasses of teh tarik.
The conversations were familiar. Advice. Encouragement. Stories. Motivation. The same lessons that once echoed across hockey fields now flowed across dining tables.
Many never realised that he was also an accomplished cook, rising as early as 3 a.m. to buy ingredients before preparing meals for customers. Even away from hockey, he remained a servant to others. That was the essence of the man.
Builder of fields. Builder of teams. Builder of lives. The hockey fraternity has lost a coach. Johor has lost a stalwart.
Malaysia has lost a true cikgu in the noblest sense of the word. Yet legacies are not measured by titles held or positions occupied. They are measured by lives touched.
And in that respect, Cikgu Budin leaves behind a legacy most can only dream of. The lalang grass he cleared has long disappeared. The fields remain. The children remain. The values remain.
And somewhere, on hockey pitches across Johor, echoes of his voice still linger. Encouraging. Guiding. Believing.
Thank you, Cikgu Budin. Your final whistle may have sounded, but the game you devoted your life to will continue because of what you built. Rest well, Cikgu. Your work here is done. Al-Fatihah.
WE