I sat in the back of a cab in Singapore discussing English football with the Taxi driver. He was up to date on the latest transfer speculation and even knew which player was doing immoral acts with grannies or farm yard animals. He asked me who I supported and I told him “Arsenal” which at the time was not the subject of ridicule that it is now.
He nodded sagely and left a gap in the conversation for me to return the question. “And who do you support?” I asked. “Goalkeepers” was his response. “I watch games and I want to see the keepers do well. Best game for me is one that finishes 0-0”. I thought he might have been extracting the urine, but Singaporean taxi drivers are not known for their humour.
I thought about his comments afterwards and while his support is unusual, it’s no dafter than attaching your fanaticism to a bunch of sulky millionaires who play for the same team in a league at the other side of the world.
Being a sports fan is crazy when you think about it. You will inhale the occasional whiff of high octane when your team does well but given the odds, you are far more likely to experience heartbreak. Leagues tend to be made up of 16 or more teams. Only one can win and the rest must wallow in the sport’s fans biggest fanciful dream, which is that next year will be better.
Last weekend, Ireland beat Australia for the first time at a World Cup. One headline I read said “One night in paradise makes up for 24 years of pain”. But is that true? Perhaps it is appropriate to a sailor on shore leave after a long stint at sea, but it doesn’t really apply to the rest of us. I could have switched teams for example and barracked for the All Blacks if I wanted success (or maybe not, given their World Cup record). I could have given up following Rugby completely, which in Melbourne at least would make me the same as everyone else.
The other complication is that for every team I like, I tend to passionately despise another. You might think that evens out my chances of being happy. But actually it tends to double the pain. I’m naturally drawn to underdogs and as a result I tend to dislike cocky favourites. The problem is that the cocky ones are usually favourites for a reason, as are the underdogs.
In AFL for example, I follow Carlton, a team that hasn’t won anything in sixteen years and were bottom of the league when I arrived in Australia. I am just as happy to see them win as I am to see Collingwood lose. They are the self appointed giants of AFL and strut around like peacocks in heat. I’ve put up with four years of disappointment, watching Carlton stumble at a crucial stage of the season and at the same time seeing Collingwood rise to the top.
This year I made the mistake of getting my hopes up. We finally found some form and made a late run for the title. That dream ended last Saturday night when they went down by 3 points in Perth. What was worse for me (apart from the fact that Collingwood still look odds on to win again this year) is that the Carlton game was on TV immediately after Ireland’s historic win against Australia in the Rugby world cup. Nothing highlighted the swings and arrows of outrageous fortune more than those few hours. I went from being ecstatic to been downright grumpy, with the beer I’d drunk being a catalyst to swing my mood.
At least now that Carlton are out of the running in the AFL and Arsenal never even got into a running stride, I can devote my attention to the Rugby. I have a chequered past in that respect. Despite my size and obsession with sports, I never actually played the game. In my hometown, Rugby was the preserve of the Doctor and Solicitor community with the occasional social climber from my working class end of the street. I followed games on TV and became fascinated with the complicated rules of the sport. But to the outside world, I maintained a well nourished chip on my shoulder about the middle class roots of the game.
Then of course I met a nice middle class girl whose Father happened to be President of the Munster Rugby Union. And so it came to pass that the first ever live game of Rugby I attended was the World Cup Final in 1991. We obtained 11 tickets from her Father and distributed them among the few people we knew in London at the time who had a passing interest in the game. That only amounted to 7 and so we watched the sell out final from the West Stand at Twickenham with 4 empty seats beside us.
After that nice middle class girl turned out to be not so nice after all, I rebelled a little against Rugby and mocked the pretensions of its yuppy supporters. But like Michael in the Godfather, I tried to get out but they pulled me back in again. I started going on away trips to Rome and following club matches and before I knew where I was, I was back in the warm embrace of those with money and manners.
Alas, I won’t make it to any games at this World Cup. Upcoming fatherhood brings other priorities. But I am at least in the right time zone to enjoy the matches and I find that I don’t dislike any of the teams with the sort of venom I reserve for the likes of Manchester United and Collingwood. So if Ireland doesn’t win, I won’t be too distressed about the team that does.
If Ireland does win of course, that will be a different matter. My cries of joy will be heard as far away as the taxi ranks of Singapore.
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