I’m not much of a sportswoman. In fact, I probably shouldn’t even put that word in the same sentence as any personal pronouns because I bring disgrace upon the entire subset of participants. I’ve just never cared much about team sports, especially at the professional level.
At Superbowl parties or World Cup gatherings, you need look no further than the snack table to find me; I’ll be hogging the guacamole and faintly echoing the cheers and groans of whoever I like the most in the room. I simply can’t relate to impassioned sports fandom.
But I have recently found myself emerging from years of uninformed condescension where soccer (or “football” for all you die-hards) is concerned. I had spent the last couple of decades mercilessly criticizing footballers for being pansies on the pitch, writhing around and whimpering pathetically like knocked-over toddlers who can’t really walk yet but just started cruising the living room furniture.
And how, I queried aloud, could anyone possibly be entertained by 90 minutes that result in a piddly total of one or two points? In a tie, for crying out loud? Real competitors don’t tie, they fight it out to the bloody end, brain swelling and all, until a victor is declared.
Then one day, my boyfriend forced me to watch a particular match with him. I don’t want to imply that he actually coerced me into anything because, like, I’m a strong and independent woman who won’t be told what to do and I have plenty of my own interests and he’s not the boss of me and feminism. But I’m pretty sure my mobile network was down and everyone else I knew was dead and I had already done all the dishes. Did I prefer dishes over watching live soccer? Yes.
So, yeah, my boyfriend got me to watch an English Premier League match with him between Arsenal and Tottenham Hotspur. He has worked hard over the past few years to convince me that my presence is the vital good luck charm on which Arsenal’s victory hinges. This strategy is very clever on his part; he gets to watch his match, and I get to feel special despite being completely ignored for over an hour and a half.
I unlocked the secret to finding it within yourself to care for something.
Now, if you know anything about the English Premier League (which I didn’t), you know that Arsenal and Tottenham Hotspur both hail from North London and are therefore sworn arch-nemeses. When two teams from the same city play each other, it’s called a derby, and this nomenclature refers to the synchronization of fans’ hormonal cycles, resulting in wide-scale emotional outbursts, proclivity for swearing, unprovoked aggression, and many other undesirable side effects that can last up to several days.
I know what you’re thinking—what a fearless and supportive girlfriend for joining a South American to watch a football derby! Those things are true. But in the end, I learned something very important from this match. As far as I’m concerned, I unlocked the secret to not just football, but to finding it within yourself to care for something you don’t give two shits about, and now I am sharing this secret with you so that you don’t have to put yourself through a derby or date a South American to find them out. (But seriously, date a South American. You might end up marrying him like I did.)
Sometimes the commentary on the matches we (he) watch (watches) is not in English. Sometimes it is in English, which, for all intents and purposes, has the same effect on me as if it were not. This particular match enjoyed the benefit of a charming British commentator who, I’m told, is known for his enthusiasm. Couldn’t tell you his name. But at some point during the second half, just as my level of interest was speeding well past “waning” and on towards “would I want a slideshow at my funeral?” territory, he made a very interesting remark. He referred to the players as heroes and villains.
This commentator was wise enough not to indicate which team might fall into which category; he knew he didn’t need to. Listening fans had decided that before they tuned into the match. They were already cheering on their heroes and loudly calling for the (unnecessarily violent) downfall of their enemies. He was merely appealing to a universal emotion by making a statement that any viewer would interpret favorably.
This commentator, I surmised, was brilliant. After all, from the earliest days of childhood, we’re infatuated with superheroes and quick to condemn the simplistically malevolent Disney villains. We’re hardwired to latch onto the good guys versus bad guys dichotomy and reduce contention to black and white, until the school of life (or a slew of “origin” prequel films) forces us to unravel the true complexity of conflict. And that’s a lot of emotional work for a Sunday afternoon soccer game.
We’re hardwired to latch onto the good guys versus bad guys dichotomy & reduce contention to black and white.
In fact, the moment I began to frame the game according to this universal concept — Arsenal: true heroes with heart and rightful victors! Tottenham: arrogant and undeserving cheats! — the North London Derby became a lot more watchable. I wasn’t just a bored viewer inspecting my cuticles anymore; I was part of something bigger, something fervent and unifying, a global movement in support of the Gunners.
To be clear, the heroes and villains template is superficial. It’s merely a handy shortcut to caring about something, to being interested or able to cultivate an emotional reaction. There is no shortcut for grasping the essence of a thing, which takes time, patience, research, commitment – what my then-boyfriend had long exercised, and continues to exercise towards his beloved team.
“Don’t become an Arsenal fan,” he says to me, with the seasoned bitterness of one who knows what it is to take up his cross. “It will ruin your life.”
And while I still don’t care quite enough about soccer or professional sports to be at risk of ruining my life, for the first time at the end of the match I felt something other than relief; I felt disappointment.
The final score was a tie.
