“You don’t really care much about sport, do you?”
The question, nay statement of fact, came from a friend this past weekend while we were discussing the start of the English Premier League 2015-16 season. Now I know a little about football — certainly enough to stop calling it “soccer”, except when I’m in Australia or the US — and I do often join my friends on licensed premises to watch the game. But I don’t care about it.
I also don’t care much about cricket — it’s hard to when my home team, Australia, is doing so badly. Or rugby, even though the Wallabies have just had a surprise win over the All Blacks in the Bledisloe Cup*. I have, however, been known to become a little aroused about rugby league, especially at State of Origin time, when Queensland takes on (and usually beats) New South Wales. And I have had occasion to yell at slow racehorses when I have money invested in their performance. But, again, I really don’t care.
I didn’t play a lot of sport when I was a child, which probably helps explains both my extra girth and nonchalance about televised events. I did help train a couple of greyhounds when I was a teenager, but I could never really say I was enamoured with that industry. As recent news reports about live baiting and euthanasia levels have underscored, it doesn’t exactly bring out the best in humankind.
What intrigues me about top-level sport, though, is the impact it has on the fans who really do care. The passion among the spectators at the field, and in front of the television, is extraordinary. Whether it’s football or hockey or horse racing, there’s something magical about the moment when the crowd reacts as one to an achievement on the field of play. If only we could bottle it and put it to good use.
* A rugby enthisast tells me this is not strictly true. But I don’t care.
