I am not a fan of sport. I have many traumatic memories of those hours at school when I was forced into a gym that stank of scuffed leather, dirty plastic and teenager sweat. I did not care about the intricate rules of baseball, or what zones to stay in during a volleyball game. I did not care who had the puck, or who made the basket. And I really hated being yelled at by the jocks, as I called them. The ones who had a meltdown because I didn't catch the ball or make the goal. I longed to tell them just where they could stick their cricket bat, but I never did. After all, they were armed. And, inevitably, twice my size.
Right now, the World Cup is in full swing, and people are living and breathing football. By the time you read this, the whole thing should be long over, but as I'm writing this, two teams are still in the game who did not expect to be: England and Canada. Two countries dear to my heart.
Their surprising success is making me understand something about sport. Some people love sport not for the chance it provides to torture their classmates, but because fulfills a deep need in them to belong, to cheer, to celebrate, to commiserate. Perhaps those jocks who yelled at me were not just jerks: they were passionate about the game we were playing. Maybe the rules mattered to them. Maybe the ball mattered. Maybe it made a difference in their day whether or not they won. Unlike me, they weren't just waiting until the hour was over and they could change out of their slouchy sweats and get back to work.
So, I officially forgive you, jocks. Seeing the joy on the faces of footfall fans here in England makes me realize that something I thought utterly useless has a place in society after all. So, play on. Just please keep it down after 10 pm, if you don't mind.
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