It won’t have escaped your notice that some football has been played this week. Some 20+ million people in the UK alone tuned into the BBC to watch England beat old rivals Germany in the last 16 of the Euro 2020 tournament which, unless you have had your head shoved where the sun won’t shine for the last few weeks, you would have seen dominating general TV viewing. That and now Wimbledon. Love sport or hate it – it is hard to deny the impact all that dopamine and endorphins released on Tuesday night did to a country that has spent months being drip fed doom, doubt and fear. Thank you, Stirling and Kane – after the rollercoaster of emotions you and your team have put us through, you are responsible for the collective feel-good factor here. And thank you, Andy Murray for putting us through hell but giving us hope. Well, at least for a few more days until we are put through it all again.
I am not a huge sports fan. I dip in and out of various football, rugby, and cricket games. I don’t have a particular football team I am loyal to but enjoy watching good matches be that European or Premier League. Yet every two years (or so!) I get swirled up in the hype of a giant international football tournament – be it the Euros or the World Cup. The ritual is the same here at home – we create a sweepstake, charge a fiver, and pick teams out of a hat - and as there is real money to win, we each have a vested interest in seeing our own teams win. And although we are willing our individual sweepstakes on (‘come on North Macedonia!’) all of us -including my Welsh husband - support England. Caught up in the hysteria, the tabloid headlines, the coverage on the airwaves – I find myself whipped up into a frenzy even the hardened football fans would be proud of. I yell ‘kick it’ (much to my boys’ embarrassment) and scream when a ball hits the back of the net; hold my head in despair when a ball hits the post and - although I still cannot fathom out what is deemed as offside - shout expletives at decisions made by VAR. However, it isn’t necessarily about football. The Beautiful Game is more than watching overpaid athletes (many with bad haircuts) diving and kicking a ball about. It’s the sense of camaraderie watching it all together brings. The feeling of belonging - of communal spirit. The fact that we are all experiencing something at the same time. And the fact for those 90 minutes or so we aren’t thinking about COVID-19 or lost teenage years, bills that need paying or cancelled trips. We are in the football flow.
In a year where we are still reeling from the impact of COVID-19 restrictions enforced over 15 months ago now, I completely understand how we all feel we want to hold onto something communal. As social creatures, us humans like to feel part of a team, or at least feel we are partaking in something bigger than ourselves. During the first Lockdown last Spring, every Thursday at 8pm we loyally stood in our gardens and on doorsteps, banging pans and clapping the NHS – not because we necessary thought it would do anything to help the underfunded, understaffed already struggling NHS which we were eternally thankful for – but because we felt we were part of a bigger picture. There were some evenings the hairs on the back of my neck would stand up as the first trickle of applause started. Cooped up all week, for some, that distant handclap was the only evidence there were other humans left on this planet. And you knew those other humans were all feeling it too. Doing something in sync with so many other people is quite humbling. Cheering your head off knowing at least 20 million people are cheering too also gave me tingles. And a slight headache the next morning.
It did get me thinking though. As we all march through this life of ours, becoming more and more insular; buying everything online; watching TV on demand; holding work meetings and even school classes via zoom – we have less and less chance to interact with that bigger picture and feel part of something collective all at the same time. I am of an age where we did not have catch up TV or anything on demand. If you wanted to watch Dallas at 8pm on a Tuesday (or was it a Thursday!?) in the 1980s you made damn sure you were slumped in front of the box in time, as unless you had a video, you would miss those cringy crucial cliff-hangers. There wasn’t any need for spoiler alerts back then as you couldn’t binge watch box sets. You sat week in week out, as plot lines thickened and stories became even more far-fetched. Dallas was particularly memorable as the plot ‘Who Killed JR?’ dominated conversations for months. Yes, wasn’t the 80s exciting. With just a few channels and not much on – it was normal to go into school next day and discuss last night’s viewing as you knew that everyone else was viewing the same thing. That must sound quite alien to the ‘have it now, watch it later’ generation my children are part of. But although plot lines were cheesy and watersheds were adhered to - it gave us more of those communal moments that humans bask in. Perhaps that is why now when something like Strictly or The Eurovision Song Contest come onto our screens once a year, we all resort to the old-fashioned way of watching TV. There’s something comforting about settling down together - all at the same time, connecting with complete strangers.
So, to those of you who cannot understand the hype or the rules surrounding football. To those of you who hate sport and to those who groan inwards as you switch on the TV to watch Holby City or EastEnders and find football and tennis on instead- I plead. Please bear with us and be patient. This year of all years, we need to yell, scream, and cheer and feel part of something positive. It is good for us to feel a little bit of hope.
And although I am writing this article before Saturday’s Quarter Final and maybe eating humble pie on Sunday – this may be the year that our hope is fulfilled, and we can bring it home and finally change the lyrics ‘Thirty Years of Hurt’ on that damn earworm song.
Come On, Eng-er-land!
© The Real Tilly Fairfax
