My disdain for professional sports is no secret. When I try to locate the source of the bile, I end up in Lake Psychobabble. On top of that, my inconsistency on the subject – I make an exception for cricket, but only Indian cricket, not Twenty20; I follow Packers’ game results, but think it’s a barbaric game which has sold its soul (if it ever had any) to television commercials- although I have no such compunctions about Rugby, which I don’t watch, or follow, or have any interest in - is exasperating (to say the least), even to me. All of this is most unsatisfactory. In general, though, I’ve managed to sort out a couple of reasons why I don’t like watching sports, or following them to any great extent.
Reason Number One is the disproportionate bigness of the deal, a.k.a. the all-too-familiar “it’s only a game”. 18 years ago, as I watched Boris Becker cry and howl his way to a five set defeat, I decided (admittedly unconsciously) that there was literally no reason to watch a grown man in tiny white knickers act like a complete prat ever again.
(A variation on the theme is the calling down of the Divine Hand in favor of your team/play. What? So god watches football, and favors the frikkin Bengals (or not)? Does he also drink PBR whilst doing so?)
Reason Number Two is the entanglement of nationalist or regionalist claptrap with sport. And I think this is a big reason why I follow Indian cricket: because I can’t watch it, I can’t see the idiots in their tricolor facepaint pretending that every sixer hit by Tendulkar adds another inch to the national pizzle. Also the reason why all this talk of Minnesota or Chicago Vs Green Bay is so off-putting to me. I read relatively dispassionate accounts of cricket games on Wisden, which is just fine with me.
And those are really the reasons – I should say the absence of them- that made the match on Sunday so charming. These two excellent players, fighting as hard as they could, at the tops of their games, in excellent spirits. There seemed to be no fear of making an audacious shot at championship point; no fear of defeat, in the sense that defeat was an acceptable outcome as long as the game had been thoroughly played. No shouting and moaning at the umpires and linesmen, seared into my brain by the whiniest ninny of all, John McEnroe. There seemed to be an understanding by both players that good and bad calls are part of the game. There were challenges, sure, but all done with good grace. There was no evidence that god had favored Nadal (and/or Spain) that day, even though, the previous five years, he had seen fit to favor Federer (and/or Switzerland- but not, obviously, the people of Iraq). At the end, there were words that were genuinely gracious on part of the loser, and touching in their humility by the winner. Both seemed to understand that (and maybe I’m beginning to project here), however important this was to them, they were still having to do it wearing tiny white knickers: how important could it possibly be? Spandex (and pajamas), I’m looking at you.
