Firstly, I’d like to point out I don’t ‘do’ sportswear, or have a tendency to swill pints. My laptop’s favourites are clogged with Made in Chelsea/Great British Bakeoff, I sew and I rarely leave the house without make-up. Whilst my particular predilections aren’t generally shared by the rest of the fairer sex, there is nothing manly about my personality or habits.
Yet on match days, I’d rather be in a stadium than shopping and whilst my housemates debated the beauty of the church behind our next year’s home, I was surreptitiously checking out the local pub for a Sky Sports subscription.
My liking for sports isn’t fanatical or all-encompassing. I won’t be gripped by the World Curling Championships and I have no discernible opinion on badminton at all. But put on a football or rugby game…. And that’s a different matter.
All sports are at heart soap operas; and deeply Shakespearean dramas at that. There are heroes and villains, goodie two-shoes and anti-heroes, people you love to hate and people you can’t help but back through trial and triumph. There are characters you couldn’t invent with all the monkeys with all the typewriters in the world.
Take football’s current Mr Nasty, Luis Suarez, previously accused of racist taunts, now banned for ten games by the FA for biting another player. There’s my personal favourite, buffoonish Sky Sports reporter Chris Kamara, who has turned lovable ineptitude and just-about-facing-the-right-way into must-see television. Or Mario Balotelli whose on-and-off the pitch shenanigans (include wining £25,000 at a casino and giving £1000 to a tramp, his “Why Always Me?” shirt and having an hilarious Youtube video of him failing to put on a bib) are hilarious and verging on undiagnosed mental illness.
The reason we watch soaps such as TOWIE and Made in Chelsea is that we become engaged with the characters’ lives and are compelled to catch the next bitesize chunk, both the ones we love and the ones we hate. For nine months of the year, there is the opportunity to catch up with something outside of my own life.
The excitement that surrounds sport is both infectious and brightens up our otherwise mundane lives. My seven hour train journey home at the end of last term flew by because it was just prior to the afternoon’s Six Nations Wales v England match (I specifically selected early train in order to get home and into my shirt, glass of wine in hand to watch).
Rather than just about managing awkward family conversation that evening, I spent it in frank delirium because 15 Welsh boys gutted 15 English ones on home turf. It was a phoenix from the ashes story as, despite a glorious Six Nations campaign last year, the summer tests and autumn internationals had spelled only heartbreak for me with eight frankly pathetic defeats and over 15 international players injured. A slow start against Ireland promised the year to be another wet, heartless affair and yet we rallied, with the highs of that game and snatches of commentary permanently etched into my memory.
The bonding that surrounds sport allows a link, particularly for people who struggle with general small talk. “Oh hello, I see your face and knees are still where I left them. Hungry?” Can be turned into “Did you watch Liverpool v Chelsea? How ‘bout that Suarez?” Which is far more socially acceptable and let’s face it, knowledge is power.
On that train home were other supporters, some going to the match, some not, but all making a similar pilgrimage with decent banter flying through the carriage between complete strangers. Please do not let this sell Arriva Train journeys to you in any fashion: they are the preferred carrier of misery.
My Facebook photos of me and family bundled up at Wembley and the Liberty Stadium (football stadiums have a kind of freezing cold all of their own) both bring back great memories, and never fail to spark conversation with people who didn’t know about my newfound sporting love or sighs from fellow fans, who want to pick apart the game afterwards. It allows me to spend quality time with my dad and grandfather and is my connection to a far-flung home.
Sports promote a positive body image to women who are challenged every day with images that are photoshopped, coloured and tweaked based on unattainable goals.
Survey after survey done by women’s magazines such as Cosmopolitan and Glamour found that after the London 2012 Olympics, women preferred to look healthy and strong like the role models competing such as Victoria Pendleton and Jessica Ennis.
Women like those don’t aspire to the fragile doll figures presented in the media but use exercise and good nutrition to allow their bodies to reach their maximum natural capabilities. They don’t starve themselves or push the body beyond its limits, but nurture and challenge themselves into peak physical condition, a far more admirable example to set. Moreover these goals are far more attainable for most women to achieve than your average stick-thin model
Sport is the last meritocracy, the only place where South American favela children, African refugees and deprived working class children can rise to the top of their profession together, purely based on talent. No one ever got to the top of Premiership football because of who they knew or where they went to school, and I love that.
I’m glad I discovered sports at the age of 20; it livens my day and never fails to surprise. “I don’t know the rules!” You shout. Neither did I, but by just sitting and watching, (and a fair few sportsmen are incredibly easy on the eye) I picked them up. It ain’t rocket science, after all, the boys do it, don’t they?!