From Peter Martinez
Once, Malaysian football was a national pulse, a theatre of raw joy and pride.
Today, it is a cautionary tale. Seven foreign-born players—naturalised in the hope of quick glory—have been banned for a year after FIFA uncovered falsified documents, a web of misrepresented grandparents and doctored papers.
The Football Association of Malaysia faces a hefty fine; the players themselves, humiliation and suspension. What was meant to be a story of ambition has become one of disrepute.
Dreams of international triumph now lie in tatters, leaving fans to mourn not just a defeat on the pitch, but the slow corrosion of integrity in the sport they love.
It was a different time, once. A time when Malaysia’s footballers—Abdul Ghani Minhat, M Chandran, Soh Chin Ann, R Arumugam, Wong Choon Wah, Chow Chee Keong, Arthur Koh, N Thanabalan, Mokhtar Dahari—played with belief that transcended paperwork, that made the nation believe with them.
That is the story that remains, the golden echo of what football once was, and the backdrop against which the fall is now most sharply felt.
The 1970s and early 1980s were the golden years. This was a time when the Merdeka Tournament lit up Stadium Merdeka with an electricity that didn’t need imported stars to feel real. Malaysia was not just a participant in Asian football; it was a force.
A time when the Chandran-Chin Ann defensive combination was as “safe as the Bank of Scotland”!
You could draw a line-up from memory. Arumugam, the “Spiderman” in goal, arms wide like a crossbar. Chin Ann, unflappable in defence, a general without theatrics. His able lieutenant Santokh Singh.
Wong Choon Wah, the midfield conductor whose passes sliced open games with silky elegance.
Hassan Sani and James Wong breaking through defences like ocean waves on rock. And the beloved Mokhtar —“Supermokh”—who could have played anywhere, but chose to stay home.
They didn’t just play for the badge. They played because they believed in it.
Malaysia qualified for the 1972 Munich Olympics. In 1980, they did it again— to book a place in the Moscow Olympics. But they never went. The boycott, a political decision made on moral grounds, robbed a generation of its defining moment.
The descent was slow, then sudden. As the 80s faded, so too did the national team. The infrastructure stagnated. Politics seeped into the administration.
The game, long the heartbeat of school fields and kampung pitches, was now beholden to bureaucracy and ego.
A generation raised on radio commentaries and black-and-white triumphs grew into adults who watched their team lose to the likes of Laos, Philippines and the Maldives.
By the 1990s, the rot was plain to see. Talents still emerged—but they were flickers, not flames. Professionalism came, but not the professional attitude.
Money flowed, but not merit. Fans returned to Manchester, Liverpool, Barcelona—not Bukit Jalil.
The 2010 AFF Suzuki Cup win offered a brief taste of what could have been. But that team, too, was never built upon. There was no long-term plan. No coherent footballing philosophy. Just slogans and rebrands.
Today, Malaysian football is a mirror. It reflects a nation torn between nostalgia and possibility. The ghosts of the past remain—names like Chow Chee Keong, Namat Abdullah, M Chandran, Ghani Minhat, Arthur Koh, N Thanabalan, and Mokhtar Dahari still whispered with reverence.
But the question persists: can Malaysia find its way back?
It will take more than memories. It will take reform, honesty, and a return to the simplicity that once made football a game of the people.
Until then, we watch. We remember. And we wait.
Peter Martinez was a renowned sportswriter with NST, Star, All Sports, and a member of the New Zealand press association from 1977 to 2011, and is an FMT reader.
The views expressed are those of the writer and do not necessarily reflect those of FMT.