The Apotheosis of Football

Every now and then someone questions my obsession with football; they wonder how it is I can stay glued to the screen for hours on end every weekend watching people kick a ball around. I’ve never really been able to articulate it to anyone the way I want to. Football is art and science, philosophy and religion, war and peace; it’s the joy of falling in love and the agony of heartbreak. In the countless hours I’ve devoted to living, breathing, consuming football, I’ve come to admire how completely it encapsulates the human experience.

Football is the most popular on the planet. No other is as ubiquitous or as exalted. No other can boast comparable influence or is as exalted. It commands the loyalty of legions upon legions of fans, billions of dollars in sponsorship and marketing, and is a vehicle to escape poverty and uplift underprivileged communities. At the same time it is rife with corruption at almost every level, through match-fixing, bribery, blackmail and embezzlement. It can bring together fans from opposite corners of the globe over their common love of the sport, and bitterly pit close friends against each other in defense of their preferred players and teams. If ever I have seen something unify and divide in one stroke, it is this sport, and only football can manifest the very best and worst of humanity in equal measure.

This sport is one of the great loves of my life; though definitely an unlikely one, for what it represents. As a kid I enjoyed playing it, but the wider trappings and intricacies of the game were of little interest. I didn’t enjoy watching or discussing it, the history and the hysteria both puzzling and amusing. My first real exposure to football beyond kickabouts in the street came in 2006, during that summer’s FIFA World Cup. My mother had brought me an Italian national team jersey prior to our vacation back home in Sudan, so I decided that if I was going to be drawn in to the madness, then that was the team I would support. My entire family favored the French, so you can imagine the schadenfreude after the red mist consumed Zinedine Zidane, gifting the Italians with 5kg of 18K gold and eternal glory.

From there, I became a casual fan, watching the odd game and assenting to a periodic ass-kicking by my cousins in the video games. I favored FC Barcelona due to my obsession with Carles Puyol’s shaggy Tarzan-like hair. In 2010, my favorite player, along with a clutch from my favorite club, led their national team to victory in that summer’s World Cup. The media duly obliged the victory of a team considered perennial underachievers with pages upon pages of adulation and the recognition of their underdog story come full circle. With a flick of Andres Iniesta’s right boot, one goal brought joy and eternal glory to a nation still deep in the throes of the recession. The healing effect was inspiring to witness.

Many children grow up with a love of football, they are born and bred into it, but I needed until I was a bit older and wiser to appreciate its finer aspects: how it acts as a vehicle to build, empower and uplift communities, the instant camaraderie and fraternity amongst fans, the raw purity of the emotions, both positive and negative, on display in the stands and on the pitch. The casual observer may wonder how what is at the end of the day just a game, can cause such volatile eruptions in the hearts of men and women the world over, but as with most things, it’s never that simple.

Football is the people’s game for a reason. It’s easily accessible — no fancy equipment required; it’s simple and it has something for every one. The stats nerds, the casual fans, the armchair philosophers, kids looking for something to do at the park, an escape for those in troubled times, whether individuals or nations. It does not know rich or poor, black or white, man or woman, straight or gay (I realise these dualities are simplified, but bear with me for the sake of the story). To be sure there are those who would taint it, on the pitch, in the boardrooms and on the sidelines. Immersing too deeply in a partisan affair could put you at risk of losing yourself, but with the right perspective, few things are more beautiful.

It’s not just about 22 men on the pitch, hell most games are dreadfully boring and a waste of 90 minutes, but the culture is unparalleled in sports. Pele may be senile and a bit over-rated in my opinion (Romario quipped that he is a poet when he doesn’t speak), but if anything, he hit the nail on the head when he coined the term ‘The Beautiful Game’.