I wish sometimes that I wasn’t a fan and that I could look on with indifference and enjoy a simple sporting spectacle for the aesthetic and nothing more. No partisan cheer, no vested interest, just taking in the occasion and enjoying it. But I am cursed. I am fan.
The roots go deep and are hard to shed, try as I might. I grew up a child in inner England, surrounded by lush playing fields with good facilities. A friend of mine’s father ran the kids after school league, we trained everyday and won most our games. Football was everything when I was a kid, my first world cup - Italia ’90 - England made the semi’s and returned home heroes. One day I wanted to reach those highs, football became everything. I was more than I fan.
Little did I know what becoming an England supporter entailed. Nobody warned me. My parents didn’t follow the game, or more accurately had given up. 1990 was a false dawn and a
litany of failures followed. I feel sure that the England team fails unlike any other, running aground in the calmest of waters, surcoming to the most preventable of calamities. I wander if every nation feels what we do, if we all share the same feeling just from a different perspective. But I often feel being an England fan exposes me to a unique type of emotional torment and pain. All the past glories of our small island, we now look for in our football team. We expect so much. From 1990 – 2010, my World Cups are nightmares revisited. Each time I tell myself it will be different, each time I think of new and ingenious ways to circumnavigate the pain of just watching England, but I’m yet to find a tonic.
So tonight for example: England vs. USA. More than just an opponent, the England football team cannot loose to the ‘Yanks’ at ‘soccer’. These are the shamed thoughts of my blunted football brain, but I cannot hide them, I am an England fan. The USA are more than worthy opponents, I know this, I’ve waited for England’s World Cup in grim anticipation. So I’ve attempted to harness the positive emotion of yesterday’s opening day events and watch the game with my friends in the township of Masiphumelele, arriving with a few friends with a large steak and ale stew, as they will be eating in the pubs of England. Maybe the immediacy of the surrounds will help take the edge off the match and reinforce that this is just a game: that the World Cup is about far more than simply football.
The roots go deep and are hard to shed, try as I might. I grew up a child in inner England, surrounded by lush playing fields with good facilities. A friend of mine’s father ran the kids after school league, we trained everyday and won most our games. Football was everything when I was a kid, my first world cup - Italia ’90 - England made the semi’s and returned home heroes. One day I wanted to reach those highs, football became everything. I was more than I fan.
Little did I know what becoming an England supporter entailed. Nobody warned me. My parents didn’t follow the game, or more accurately had given up. 1990 was a false dawn and a
litany of failures followed. I feel sure that the England team fails unlike any other, running aground in the calmest of waters, surcoming to the most preventable of calamities. I wander if every nation feels what we do, if we all share the same feeling just from a different perspective. But I often feel being an England fan exposes me to a unique type of emotional torment and pain. All the past glories of our small island, we now look for in our football team. We expect so much. From 1990 – 2010, my World Cups are nightmares revisited. Each time I tell myself it will be different, each time I think of new and ingenious ways to circumnavigate the pain of just watching England, but I’m yet to find a tonic.
So tonight for example: England vs. USA. More than just an opponent, the England football team cannot loose to the ‘Yanks’ at ‘soccer’. These are the shamed thoughts of my blunted football brain, but I cannot hide them, I am an England fan. The USA are more than worthy opponents, I know this, I’ve waited for England’s World Cup in grim anticipation. So I’ve attempted to harness the positive emotion of yesterday’s opening day events and watch the game with my friends in the township of Masiphumelele, arriving with a few friends with a large steak and ale stew, as they will be eating in the pubs of England. Maybe the immediacy of the surrounds will help take the edge off the match and reinforce that this is just a game: that the World Cup is about far more than simply football.
We are 12 in the shack; one living room and two bedrooms. 7 people sleep here. The TV sits on a dresser on top of which lies a string-less guitar and several faded football trophies. To the right is the kitchen, supported by a wooden strut that obscures the view of the chef, Thera, as he stirs the rice on the twin camping burner that also provides warmth from the building rain and wind outside. The carpet under foot is stained from the various leaks from the ceiling and we sit in a semi circle around the old Sony TV, the same model we had at home when I was much younger.
Most of the township is decked in England flags, or at least showing their support in one way or another. Premiership football is huge here and is the only international football to be televised aside from the domestic ABSA Premiership. More historically, the English also abolished slavery in the Cape in the 1800’s so we have a good reputation amongst the Xhosa of the Cape, so I feel welcomed as we sit in the wooden shack eating our stew, chatting away.
As soon as the national anthems draw to a close I realise I’ve not spoken in several minutes, I’m fixated on the T.V, I’ve turned my shoulder from Hanli who sits trying to hold my hand, my feet are drawn up underneath me and Thomas, our host and friend, indicates to get my feet off the main sofa, sitting pride of place in front of the TV. I apologise. I’ve known Thomas for years, he’s laughing though, this is a new side of my usually languid personality.
Gerrard scores within minutes; it looks so easy, cue celebrations. But an English fan is a nervous fan and the commentator reels off the leads we’ve blown in the past. The team look comfortable tough, we have players used to big occasions, a coach who’s been to the very top, a team that qualified scoring freely and unbeaten. We should be confident. I should be able to sit back and join in the conversation that drifts around the shack, but I can’t.
Then another moment. Day one it was Bafana’s goal, when time stood still and a nation exploded. Today it’s calamity, and another nation implodes as Rob Green fumbles a ball that
barely trickles over the line from a tepid long-range effort to bring the USA level. It all comes crashing down. A bigger team would bounce back, a Brazil maybe, or a Germany. But not England, we are so fragile. We loose our shape, we snap at every opportunity, we scrap and scramble when our defence is pierced and we limp to the final line to collect a point. The shack is full of tuts.
As soon as the national anthems draw to a close I realise I’ve not spoken in several minutes, I’m fixated on the T.V, I’ve turned my shoulder from Hanli who sits trying to hold my hand, my feet are drawn up underneath me and Thomas, our host and friend, indicates to get my feet off the main sofa, sitting pride of place in front of the TV. I apologise. I’ve known Thomas for years, he’s laughing though, this is a new side of my usually languid personality.
Gerrard scores within minutes; it looks so easy, cue celebrations. But an English fan is a nervous fan and the commentator reels off the leads we’ve blown in the past. The team look comfortable tough, we have players used to big occasions, a coach who’s been to the very top, a team that qualified scoring freely and unbeaten. We should be confident. I should be able to sit back and join in the conversation that drifts around the shack, but I can’t.
Then another moment. Day one it was Bafana’s goal, when time stood still and a nation exploded. Today it’s calamity, and another nation implodes as Rob Green fumbles a ball that
barely trickles over the line from a tepid long-range effort to bring the USA level. It all comes crashing down. A bigger team would bounce back, a Brazil maybe, or a Germany. But not England, we are so fragile. We loose our shape, we snap at every opportunity, we scrap and scramble when our defence is pierced and we limp to the final line to collect a point. The shack is full of tuts.
‘England, they always blow it’.
It’s all too familiar and I could be anywhere, home or abroad, pub or a shack, the conversations will all be the same. There is no escaping, if you want to support England, this is your lot.
It’s all too familiar and I could be anywhere, home or abroad, pub or a shack, the conversations will all be the same. There is no escaping, if you want to support England, this is your lot.
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