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From high in the stands of the cavernous Soccer City, the figure illuminated by an explosion of flash bulbs was difficult to distinguish.

A fur hat fending off the raw chill of a late Soweto evening, the wondrous cacophony was acknowledged with a wave that betrayed frailty.

In a quarter of a century immersed in the hyperbole and inflated drama of the game, it was the one and only time I had been in a football stadium in the presence of true ­greatness.

We had gathered to watch the 2010 World Cup Final – an event drilled into the core of the sporting consciousness.

What remains is only the cherished ­memory of humanity’s hero.

The golf buggy was an incongruous reminder of gathering mortality. But it didn’t matter.

Here was Nelson Mandela.

(Image: Getty)

At the planet’s most prestigious sporting event – in a township synonymous with the long, desperate, bloody struggle against the vilest brand of inhumanity.

It was to be his last public appearance.

An entire nation was swollen with pride, among them Lucas Radebe, a native of ­Soweto, who survived a bullet that pierced his back and exited his left leg to go on and become a Premier League and international footballer.

It was during his time at Elland Road that Radebe turned up at a ceremony to mark Mandela being given the freedom of the city of Leeds.

Spotting Radebe, Mandela turned to his company of dignitaries.

“This,” he said, opening and ­flattening his palm towards Radebe, “is my hero.”

“I felt I could burst,” recalled Radebe. “Me? A hero to HIM?”

The two struck up what Radebe calls a “special relationship”.

Mandela helped Radebe cope with heart problems and the tragic ­passing of his beautiful wife Fezi, ­championed the player’s ceaseless charitable efforts and even gave the national team pep talks ahead of significant matches. Radebe’s story clearly touched ­Mandela, who had always been ­familiar with the power and ­symbolism of sport.

The story of South Afrcia’s triumph in the 1995 Rugby World Cup – uniting a ­populace behind what was once an ­athletic symbol of white ­supremacy – crystallised his ideals for the Rainbow ­Nation.

(Image: Getty)

But Radebe’s journey – a child of the abominable apartheid era, with five sisters and six ­brothers in the slums of Soweto – struck a special chord. ­Football is the game of the townships.

Football is the game of Mandela’s people.

And, at this sad time, it is worth ­remembering that.

Worth remembering that it has the power to move people, to change lives for the better.

Fifa should remember that.

Its priorities should be in the communities that can give Mandela his own hero – ­whether that be the townships of South Africa or the favelas of Brazil … not in signing champagne deals and fattening the cash reserves in a Swiss bank account currently stuffed with over a billion dollars.

I recall Sepp Blatter following ­Mandela into Soccer City that night, smugness piercing the cold. South Africa had succeeded DESPITE FIFA’s ludicrous demands, despite its avarice, despite the impression Blatter ­believes ­himself some sort of global leader.

For Mandela, there were no heroes in shiny suits, limousines and luxury hotel rooms. His football hero – his hero – was looking on.

“It was a triumph for a community that had been oppressed,” said Radebe.

Compared to Mandela’s lifelong fight and sacrifice for the liberation of the oppressed, it was, of course, minor.

But when one footballer can inspire the most inspirational ­figure of the 20th century, it shows football can have significance.

And now is a poignant time for those who govern it to realise their responsibility is to those to whom football is a passion, a joy and a distraction from the troubles of life.

It is to those who can produce a hero for the greatest hero my generation will ever know.