There was a time when people got behind ideas, when great minds led us forth. A time of thesis-antithesis and synthesis. It evolved us, improved us. Through this metamorphosis, civilisation progressed. Today, we pivot instead of progress, but more on that shortly.
I recently read Shoe Dog by Phil ‘Nike’ Knight; a lovely read. I especially liked the part when he described how, during Pre’s (Steve Prefontaine, duh!) races, the crowd felt like they were racing too. Knight even mentions feeling his hamstrings sore after one of Pre’s record-breaking efforts. That’s what he described as becoming one with the athlete, the moment when sports truly unites. Those were true fans, supporting their stars, in victory as also in defeat.
Today, instead, we have football fans; progress stands relegated, intelligent discussions stand by the sideline, civilisation takes a back seat for these specially-abled chaps.
I loathe few critters like footie fans. Okay, cricket ones too, but they don’t rile me up just as much. Because they follow a team not just a player, and when their team loses, they shed a tear, mope a moment, and then move on. Football fans have no more control over their emotions than their star child player has over his expense account.
This strain of the species don’t just follow a club (technically, they do), but they worship an individual player, thus starting a pseudo-religion where the player is God and the club is their only identity henceforth. Gone is the socio-familial DNA that defined them so far, now they belong to the club, the club is them and the third-person plural ‘We’ is to be exclusively deployed. ‘We are playing tonight’, ‘We’ll thrash them’... it’s as if they’ll themselves get on to the pitch and sing the pre-match anthem alongside their God, disregard the fact that they’ve never exercised in the past decade and couldn’t run the pitch-length without needing medical attention. This identity crisis is at par with the Jaikishen-Jackson call-centre employee conundrum.
But then, as if to compensate for this lack of agility, they don all authentic gear (‘merch’, because most probably can’t spell merchandise) and turn up kitted out like the team, except that it’s embarrassingly snug on them.
Fan love, however, isn’t unconditional because the minute the team loses, every jersey-clad lad has the lowdown on what should’ve been the team strategy, experienced coach be damned! The God too falls from grace and unless he scores soon, he is looking at a fatal off-field injury, if you catch my drift.
My final grouse with football is why are only male players revered? What about women? They play just as tough (although in falls and fouls, the men are admittedly the daintier daisies). Thankfully, tennis and badminton are more civilised.
Maybe now you’ll see why this sport fandom is anathema to advancement. Male footie fans may disagree, maybe hurl a few stones, and grunt incoherently. That’s fine really, it’s not like they could chase me down a track and catch me.
This column is for anyone who gives an existential toss.
