Match report
A colleague of mine one mentioned the surprising fact that she was a season ticket holder for Watford Football Club. Presumably, that means she has a designated seat that she always sits it, just like the others who sit around her and presumably that means that the chap who sits in front of her must be getting fairly fed up with hearing her favourite phrase to employ when Watford are underperforming: ‘Oi, Watford, it’s a good lot the other lot are shit too!’.
When, though, does our enthusiasm for sport take on that abusive edge? I’ve just come from my nephew’s little league game, where his team won three two after extra time. Now, I’ve been to little league games before but this was a cup final and, if it was decided on decibels, I would have been impossible to call between our coach and theirs – although I award extra points to their coach for the aggressive way he managed to scream ‘get up!’ every breath. This could refer to keeping the ball in the air, moving up the field or stop rolling on the floor blubbing and wanting your mum to stop the bleeding after a particularly nasty tackle.
I’ve attended various little league matches over the years, watching my nephews progress from basically bumbling tots chasing after a ball to morose teens who, on a Saturday morning, stop: growing, sprouting hair, producing acne or thinking about girls and divert all that energy (and that’s a LOT) into sprinting around a football pitch for ninety minutes like a ball-seeking missile made of elbows, knees and aggression. When the kids are young, every action is met with applause, even when the opposition score a goal. Because we ant them to learn sportsmanship.
Tonight was different, tonight when the opposition scored there was, from our side of the pitch (oh yes, it was like the Sharks and the Jets out there), polite applause. There’s a difference.
So I’m used to shouty coaches and screaming fathers trying to live out their dreams of footballing glory through their sons (or daughters), but tonight as a special treat we had a footie mum. A footie mum is just like a pushy mum, but louder. Think of the sort of woman with scary hair and glittery eyes who breeds show dogs, cross her with somebody who lives in a caravan with a satellite dish attached and who breeds dogs for illegal fights and you’re getting the picture.
Looking at the kids charging round that pitch and listening to a coach screaming ‘fame and glory!’, one does wonder if the kids are doing it for their benefit or our entertainment. It was certainly thrilling, if only because I know that there is no child so inconsolable as one who feels he has let down his team, himself and his coach and the fallout from defeat would be grim, but there was a little bit of guilt, like you always get when you see a kid performing, when you think ‘is this worth it? Look at them, there’s fear and anxiety and desperation but is there enjoyment…is this exploitation?’
Then the final whistle went and I thought ‘fuck it, we won, who cares?’. Then the kids sprayed lemonade like it was champagne. Which is ironic, because when I have the opportunity I drink champagne like it’s lemonade.
When, though, does our enthusiasm for sport take on that abusive edge? I’ve just come from my nephew’s little league game, where his team won three two after extra time. Now, I’ve been to little league games before but this was a cup final and, if it was decided on decibels, I would have been impossible to call between our coach and theirs – although I award extra points to their coach for the aggressive way he managed to scream ‘get up!’ every breath. This could refer to keeping the ball in the air, moving up the field or stop rolling on the floor blubbing and wanting your mum to stop the bleeding after a particularly nasty tackle.
I’ve attended various little league matches over the years, watching my nephews progress from basically bumbling tots chasing after a ball to morose teens who, on a Saturday morning, stop: growing, sprouting hair, producing acne or thinking about girls and divert all that energy (and that’s a LOT) into sprinting around a football pitch for ninety minutes like a ball-seeking missile made of elbows, knees and aggression. When the kids are young, every action is met with applause, even when the opposition score a goal. Because we ant them to learn sportsmanship.
Tonight was different, tonight when the opposition scored there was, from our side of the pitch (oh yes, it was like the Sharks and the Jets out there), polite applause. There’s a difference.
So I’m used to shouty coaches and screaming fathers trying to live out their dreams of footballing glory through their sons (or daughters), but tonight as a special treat we had a footie mum. A footie mum is just like a pushy mum, but louder. Think of the sort of woman with scary hair and glittery eyes who breeds show dogs, cross her with somebody who lives in a caravan with a satellite dish attached and who breeds dogs for illegal fights and you’re getting the picture.
Looking at the kids charging round that pitch and listening to a coach screaming ‘fame and glory!’, one does wonder if the kids are doing it for their benefit or our entertainment. It was certainly thrilling, if only because I know that there is no child so inconsolable as one who feels he has let down his team, himself and his coach and the fallout from defeat would be grim, but there was a little bit of guilt, like you always get when you see a kid performing, when you think ‘is this worth it? Look at them, there’s fear and anxiety and desperation but is there enjoyment…is this exploitation?’
Then the final whistle went and I thought ‘fuck it, we won, who cares?’. Then the kids sprayed lemonade like it was champagne. Which is ironic, because when I have the opportunity I drink champagne like it’s lemonade.
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