Fandom

I watch and listen to a fair amount of sports. Enough to reflect on the nature of fandom every now and then; the awesome sides and the less savory facets. I'm most passionate about soccer or football. As this edition of the quadrennial Men's World Cup winds down I've been reflecting some more on what it means to be a fan.

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If you're here, it's to fill the time. Welcome. More and more life is filled with interludes, wedged between wall to wall scheduled blocks. Commitments. Productivity, progress, pay. The next few minutes don't commit you to anything. I've reflected on a topical cultural theme, but not necessarily asking you to do the same. It's just a pause in your day. They all assumed the position in their coats and ties and did the Norwegian football fan row, a simulation of Viking longboat oarsmen on a mission. A legion of Norwegian fans decked in vermilion and navy took over Times Square to do the same in broad daylight. Plenty of bystanders joined in, as have others in the stadium and wherever the traveling supporters decided to break into the Norwegian row. Little Iceland, home to fewer than five hundred thousand inhabitants, punches above its weight in football too. At the twenty eighteen World Cup, their fans taught us the Viking clap that presumably harkens an ancient call to battle. You thrust your arms out to the side, palms to the sky, then raise them to a clap above your head. It starts slow. Building, the tempo hastens to a rousing crescendo. This other Viking tradition has since been adopted by teams all over the world. Showing your fandom continues to gain prominence with each World Cup. It seems to have created good natured competition off the pitch, in the stands, but also in the host city streets. How loud and proud of your country and heritage can you be? It's not enough to wear face paint anymore. The Dutch travel in big numbers with marquee orange buses to grab your attention. Then there is the Tartan Army, yes, Scotland. The Saudis have a man screaming encouragement over a megaphone in Arabic music time. These fans are there to represent, but they're also there to revel in the moment, to enjoy themselves. It is a vacation and they treat it that way. These competing fandoms also invite each other to join in their form of merriment. A camera caught a few local teenagers wearing the blue shark mascot of Cabo Verde, a country I would be willing to bet they had never heard of until a week earlier. This is fandom at its best. The ephemeral thrill of witnessing this event that happens only every four years. Living in a live dream with others all around, getting caught up in the moment of communal ecstasy when your team scores. Goal on a football pitch, in a basketball arena, a rink, a field, even in front of the television, with others screaming so loud the neighbors at the other end of the street from the pub or sports bar can hear you all releasing pent up emotions. With your besties around the television, the largest television, whoever's house has the biggest one. We are desperate for communal rituals. It could be something as sweeping as the wave that ripples through a crowd of a hundred thousand fans at a stadium and that happens at all stadia around the world. You don't have to think about it. The stadium wave is just a basic shared experience. A simple act of unity, synchronicity, a tie that binds us in that moment. It doesn't require anything more than following a pattern. There's no verbal communication. You don't need to know anything about your neighbors. They can be an obvious enemy, the opposing fandom, or people on the opposite end of the spectrum from yourself in more ways than not, or even in all ways, and it doesn't matter. All that information is superfluous when your little section of the stadium is set to rise and fall in unison. Each one of us needs to feel part of something bigger, a collective. The more non denominational, nonpartisan, multicultural, the better. Then there's fandom at its worst. Hooliganism, on and off the pitch, made the headlines much more three decades ago than today, and probably held the game back from becoming the juggernaut it has become. Local rivalries, far from the pageantry and the somewhat neutral setting of the World Cup, still force stadium planners to cage visiting teams fans apart from the home crowd. There's no shortage of law enforcers prowling certain venues, machine guns slung over their shoulders. Brazil and Argentina fandoms don't abide each other for one. Violence is not the only ugly facet of fandom. Read the facial features of a week in, week out. I was born here and I'm going to die here supporter of a local soccer team. Look into the eyes of this fan addict, sometimes, and you'll see what I mean. I'm going to pick on a Queen's Park Rangers fan, but you can find them anywhere at a third division match like the one I watched recently, or a Primetta Division clash in Madrid. The moat between fan and field is narrow at Loftus Field in central London. The camera homed in on a red faced, eyes bulging QPR home supporter wagging his finger at a Leeds United player setting up for a throwing. Screaming I couldn't read the fan's lips, but slurred obscenities, probably. The fan's venom didn't take. It appeared to have rolled off the opposing player's back. But why should he have to endure such treatment? How is it that a fan can take the machinations of any single football match so personally and direct his displeasure to that single player? I know, a match is an allegory, us versus them, good versus evil, winners and losers, the righteous over the profane, and so the fan feels justified to call this out, to remind, to remark on an example of the superiority of the home side whenever and however he likes. I guess it kind of surprises me that there's so much bottled up in this fan that needs to spew forth on the edge of the football pitch. Envy, spite, the weight of a week's worth of getting the short end of the stick all building up the pressure in that fan's head and in his bones, waiting for the right moment or moments. With the help of liquid courage, maybe, the venom spills out into that borderland that's meant to separate the play from observation. It's a necessary catharsis, so to appear, inflicting pain without resorting to violence. The Leeds United player did nothing more than kick the ball off his counterpart's leg to earn a throw in. Hardly transgression and well within the rules of the game. But a trigger the fan was anticipating. Ugly. I have my teams, like the billions of other soccer or football fans, teams that represent my heritage but also reflect my love of the game. I am more of a fan of the game than any professional club or national side. I'm into the 70% of what you see when you watch the game. Most of the match is about passing the ball. The ball control teams like FC Barcelona and Real Madrid pass the ball hundreds of times in a match. There's an ASMR effect in play when I watch a football match, in the short, crisp passes that advance the ball in tight triangles, or the long crossfield balls. When hit right, the long ball loops and curls to the waiting foot or chest of your teammate. Sometimes the arching ball falls just ahead but well within the stride of your striker or winger, leading them ahead towards the goal. I follow the trajectory. The longer the ball is up in the air, the more awe inspiring and nerve rattling, if it's my team, I fairly hold my breath, trusting, hoping the opponent won't be able to intercept. To disrupt the fluid forward motion, to break the spell that allows two players with a common goal, even bond, to connect on that micro goal. That is the essence of the game. Connecting, advancing, retracting to help advance again, but from a different angle, or the same one with more resolve, or because the spacing has shifted in your favor. Passing keeps the match going. The ball sweeping across the grassy pitch, rolling along quick or slow. It's mesmerizing. It's the lull in the game for many anticipating the score or the foul or the save. The lull is life. Life has lived in the lull for the most part, punctuated by flashes of brilliance.