Acquired tastes June 27, 2006
FOOTBALL is bad for the health. Well, sometimes, when it takes the form of the World Cup, and when the World Cup is held in a country that airs at ungodly hours in these parts.
The one held in Korea four years ago at least had me only getting soused in bright sunny afternoons, which was when the games beamed here. Today’s Cup, which is being hosted by Germany, has me spending sleepless nights, even if I no longer get soused these days, or nights, from the tempering effect of gout. A week or so ago, the games played at 9 p.m., 12 midnight and 3 a.m. The best games are naturally reserved for last, which means that if you want the best, you’ll have to pay the price of hitting the sack at 5 a.m. Now, with the round of 16, the games have gone down to two a day but still air at 11 and 3 a.m. I’ll leave the football gods to spare me the ravages of long waking hours.
I didn’t become a World Cup fan until a couple of World Cups ago. I caught a bit of the 1998 one, cheering in particular for underdog Croatia, who went on to win third place. Host France won that year -- playing at home does seem to work; Germany seems headed in that direction this year, which bodes ill for a bet I made in favor of Brazil—which sparked celebrations of exceptional abandon.
That’s what turned me into a fan. The description by various media of the post-game celebrations was mind-boggling: The French danced in the streets, drank till morning and threw themselves into fountains, an orgy of revelry not seen since D-Day. It was the first time I caught a glimpse of what they meant when they said football isn’t just a game, it is a religion. Or for the more secular, if it is a game at all, it is the game of life.
I confess I haven’t been as religious in following the football matches regularly being aired on Star Sports particularly, but I have been so at least about the last two World Cups. The World Cup is always special, which is when the real transformation takes place, which is when making a goal takes on the aspect of winning a war. No, more than that, of discovering the Fountain of Youth. Since the Word Cup started early this month, I completely forgot that Miami was battling Dallas for the NBA crown. Suddenly, the bragging rights there became just, well, bragging, the rights being more debatable. I don’t know what kind of coverage it got in the world media. I do know that some years ago, while I was in Kuala Lampur and the NBA finals were being played alongside a UEFA match, I was at pains to find news about the first while the second was splashed all over the sports pages of newspapers. And that wasn’t the World Cup.
I do know that in this country eyebrows are still raised at the seemingly inexplicable fuss about people acting as though they had no hands and frenetically kicking a ball from one side of a field to another. I do know that in this country, people still say, “What a boring game,” and “How can people be excited by a game that ends up 0-0?” (or nil-nil, as the Brits say).
What can I say? What game is really exciting from that perspective? What’s so exciting about a bunch of people trying to shoot a ball through a hoop? What’s so exciting about a bunch of people trying to hit a ball with something so ridiculous as a wooden bat? What’s so exciting about a bunch of people pushing and shoving and banging each other’s brains out with ferocious tackles? The excitement lies in people struggling to overcome adversity in as graceful and artistic a manner as possible. I leave others to argue for plunging a knife into a bull’s head as a supreme example of grace under pressure. But it’s much like life itself.
Football, like basketball, or indeed, like wine and jazz, is an acquired taste. Every game offers its own excitement, for those with the (developed) sensibility for it. Tell a Japanese that sumo wrestling and Go are boring. While at that, tell the Russians that chess is boring. I used to play chess reasonably well and followed the titanic battle between Bobby Fischer and Boris Spassky ages ago (that’s what got me into the game) with rapturous attention. There’s gripping drama that unravels on the board and on the field that isn’t captured by the score or “bottom line.” A draw, or score of 0-0, no more tells the story of a chess or football match than it does about a person’s life. The bottom line of life is death, but that isn’t quite the story. You want instant gratification, go to a video arcade, or to the john.
I had wished the United States would go farther than it did the last World Cup to generate more interest in football in that country. Can you imagine if the African-Americans (to be PC about it) in particular, who have pretty much dominated every other sport, got into it big time? But, alas, the US did even worse than last time, though I thought too that that free kick awarded to Ghana which gave them the win and booted the US out was horrendously unfair.
Meanwhile, I’ll continue to thrill to the sight of former enemies and colonial masters and slaves boringly coming together in less murderous but equally ferocious confrontations. I’ll continue to revel in the sight of people, castes and classes and races boringly calling a truce on their deadly games of wars and strife to foment this deathly silly and beautiful war and strife. I’ll continue to feel along with the players and their fans and their nations and the peoples of this planet the boringly crushing pain of those who fall in the field of battle and the boringly bursting joy of those who see all over again the miracle of their liberation at the beaches of Normandy.
The World Cup is an acquired taste. But then living itself is an acquired taste.
* * *
Correction: I meant Norberto Gonzales in yesterday’s column but somehow wrote Raul Gonzalez. Not much difference but for accuracy’s sake.
http://opinion.inq7.net/inquireropinion/columns/view_article.php?article_id=6766
The one held in Korea four years ago at least had me only getting soused in bright sunny afternoons, which was when the games beamed here. Today’s Cup, which is being hosted by Germany, has me spending sleepless nights, even if I no longer get soused these days, or nights, from the tempering effect of gout. A week or so ago, the games played at 9 p.m., 12 midnight and 3 a.m. The best games are naturally reserved for last, which means that if you want the best, you’ll have to pay the price of hitting the sack at 5 a.m. Now, with the round of 16, the games have gone down to two a day but still air at 11 and 3 a.m. I’ll leave the football gods to spare me the ravages of long waking hours.
I didn’t become a World Cup fan until a couple of World Cups ago. I caught a bit of the 1998 one, cheering in particular for underdog Croatia, who went on to win third place. Host France won that year -- playing at home does seem to work; Germany seems headed in that direction this year, which bodes ill for a bet I made in favor of Brazil—which sparked celebrations of exceptional abandon.
That’s what turned me into a fan. The description by various media of the post-game celebrations was mind-boggling: The French danced in the streets, drank till morning and threw themselves into fountains, an orgy of revelry not seen since D-Day. It was the first time I caught a glimpse of what they meant when they said football isn’t just a game, it is a religion. Or for the more secular, if it is a game at all, it is the game of life.
I confess I haven’t been as religious in following the football matches regularly being aired on Star Sports particularly, but I have been so at least about the last two World Cups. The World Cup is always special, which is when the real transformation takes place, which is when making a goal takes on the aspect of winning a war. No, more than that, of discovering the Fountain of Youth. Since the Word Cup started early this month, I completely forgot that Miami was battling Dallas for the NBA crown. Suddenly, the bragging rights there became just, well, bragging, the rights being more debatable. I don’t know what kind of coverage it got in the world media. I do know that some years ago, while I was in Kuala Lampur and the NBA finals were being played alongside a UEFA match, I was at pains to find news about the first while the second was splashed all over the sports pages of newspapers. And that wasn’t the World Cup.
I do know that in this country eyebrows are still raised at the seemingly inexplicable fuss about people acting as though they had no hands and frenetically kicking a ball from one side of a field to another. I do know that in this country, people still say, “What a boring game,” and “How can people be excited by a game that ends up 0-0?” (or nil-nil, as the Brits say).
What can I say? What game is really exciting from that perspective? What’s so exciting about a bunch of people trying to shoot a ball through a hoop? What’s so exciting about a bunch of people trying to hit a ball with something so ridiculous as a wooden bat? What’s so exciting about a bunch of people pushing and shoving and banging each other’s brains out with ferocious tackles? The excitement lies in people struggling to overcome adversity in as graceful and artistic a manner as possible. I leave others to argue for plunging a knife into a bull’s head as a supreme example of grace under pressure. But it’s much like life itself.
Football, like basketball, or indeed, like wine and jazz, is an acquired taste. Every game offers its own excitement, for those with the (developed) sensibility for it. Tell a Japanese that sumo wrestling and Go are boring. While at that, tell the Russians that chess is boring. I used to play chess reasonably well and followed the titanic battle between Bobby Fischer and Boris Spassky ages ago (that’s what got me into the game) with rapturous attention. There’s gripping drama that unravels on the board and on the field that isn’t captured by the score or “bottom line.” A draw, or score of 0-0, no more tells the story of a chess or football match than it does about a person’s life. The bottom line of life is death, but that isn’t quite the story. You want instant gratification, go to a video arcade, or to the john.
I had wished the United States would go farther than it did the last World Cup to generate more interest in football in that country. Can you imagine if the African-Americans (to be PC about it) in particular, who have pretty much dominated every other sport, got into it big time? But, alas, the US did even worse than last time, though I thought too that that free kick awarded to Ghana which gave them the win and booted the US out was horrendously unfair.
Meanwhile, I’ll continue to thrill to the sight of former enemies and colonial masters and slaves boringly coming together in less murderous but equally ferocious confrontations. I’ll continue to revel in the sight of people, castes and classes and races boringly calling a truce on their deadly games of wars and strife to foment this deathly silly and beautiful war and strife. I’ll continue to feel along with the players and their fans and their nations and the peoples of this planet the boringly crushing pain of those who fall in the field of battle and the boringly bursting joy of those who see all over again the miracle of their liberation at the beaches of Normandy.
The World Cup is an acquired taste. But then living itself is an acquired taste.
* * *
Correction: I meant Norberto Gonzales in yesterday’s column but somehow wrote Raul Gonzalez. Not much difference but for accuracy’s sake.
http://opinion.inq7.net/inquireropinion/columns/view_article.php?article_id=6766
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