Ever since I can remember I’ve absolutely loved sports. I was never the most talented athlete, but even before I could talk I would sit for hours and watch televised games. It didn’t matter what sport it was either; I could always gain some kind of enjoyment. I’d select a team, based on friends’ recommendations, team colours, or home stadium capacity, and support them wholeheartedly. No book ever talked to me the way Nick Hornby’s ‘Fever Pitch’ did. It highlighted the ups and downs of the hardcore fan; I had never related to a text so closely.
I was out on a date a few months back and I got caught checking the football results. “I don’t understand sports. What’s the point?” said the girl I was with. I almost walked out of the restaurant.
“I don’t know where to begin,” I stammered, still slightly bewildered by her question.
“Why would you bother supporting a team?” she asked. “You don’t play, you don’t coach, and you don’t select the squad; why would you give a shit about something so completely out of your control?”
I thought long and hard about her comment. I haven’t watched a game since.
I was out on a date a few months back and I got caught checking the football results. “I don’t understand sports. What’s the point?” said the girl I was with. I almost walked out of the restaurant.
“I don’t know where to begin,” I stammered, still slightly bewildered by her question.
“Why would you bother supporting a team?” she asked. “You don’t play, you don’t coach, and you don’t select the squad; why would you give a shit about something so completely out of your control?”
I thought long and hard about her comment. I haven’t watched a game since.